Let me tell you about them.
After my birth, my younger sister was aborted. Two miscarriages followed afterwards. Then suddenly I had a twelve-year old sibling popping out of thin air.
I was glad the two died because they were my stepfather’s. My sadness was only for Samantha who was 5 month-old and had to be aborted. She was my biological father’s only daughter whose flesh was already rotten while she was being incubated. She was toxic to my mother’s womb. She was going to destroy my life. I wouldn’t allow a petty sister to take away my mother from me. You know I felt a bit sad when she faded from this world even without crying, but that was only because my mother was screaming like giving birth to a tiyanak, which was probably the right word to describe Samantha because she looked like a deformed bunch of prunes, the color included, on a white blanket in St. James Hospital. The nurse gave my father the plastic Samantha was wrapped in; she looked like a waitress handing over the customer his take-out order of lomi contained in a see-through plastic from Hai-Long.
The Chinese community in Vigan hummed like a swarm of flies long enough to help my God-forsaken family alleviate its suffering. The madams, old maids and mistresses, all clad in red chong-sams, whispered about my mother’s (so-called) miscarriage. Let them fool themselves but me. I was nine year-old then and knew, and probably only I could accept, and scientifically knew, that it was an abortion. Samantha was aborted alright. Why were they so dense to admit it? Why were they so WEAK so as to soften the impact of truth? Of course she had to be aborted or she stays there though she was already dead. The decision my parents chose was obviously predictable. Technically, and unluckily, you just don’t call that miscarriage. Though abortion or not, I couldn’t care less as long as she was ejected. Wishful thinking persisted and indeed, it was called miscarriage. What a beautiful way to cushion their pain.
After my father died from car crash, my mother re-married to a black sheep of a rich but silent and spendthrift clan in Vigan. His penis was crooked and withered. I saw this from the hole below the doorknob thinking that Mickey Mouse was nibbling at the bedsprings, clarifying my thought that a man with a straight thumb does not necessarily have a straight ‘kuwan’. I witnessed two elephants test the unyielding foundation of the Sheraton bed, as the commercial on TV would show (but could only afford one endorser). His cum would gush in a sickle-shaped direction, unlike my father whose rocket-launching would go straightforward to heaven.
One hot afternoon, I noticed that my mother’s pawnshop was closed. I went to the warehouse of my Chinese grandparents’ hardware store to watch things I could not in the presence of anybody when, from the hole below the doorknob, I saw the deficiency of aesthetics in porn done outside the boob-tube. I watched how my sexless sibling was manufactured by two worn-out machines (both of them were widowed).
Back to St. James. My mother had a true miscarriage, for what can be expected from a demented second husband? Have the baby been born, he or she would look like—what?—a corned beef.
Now this was great, because when my mother had ANOTHER miscarriage, I knew it looked like pork and beans mixed with sardines. I should have suggested that we must build a single epitaph containing the list we had so far in the menu.
I was the only normal child of my mother. Samantha wasn’t. The others weren’t. And it follows that the two husbands’ sperm cells clearly were not. But I am whole and functioning properly. My mom must have been conceived not from my “father”‘s sperm. I must be God’s second son. No more Trinity but Quatrity. I am at par with God the Father and the others now. Name me God the Bastardo.
But then I remembered a girl named Claire. I don’t even know if I spelled her name right. She is my stepsister. I have nothing to say. I haven’t seen her yet nor heard her voice. Nothing. You can imagine her hips gyrating onstage. And since she was a stranger whom I already hated because of her origin, I always pictured her getting raped by her dad. The poor thing’s suffering from incest.
I am alone. I have 1 lost and 3 dead siblings. Do you envy me?
Written by hugo, edited by amplifier and first appeared on www.peyups.com on 7th August 2005.