a different variant of doubt

I have a confession. Though I am not entirely sure. I am 99% positive I murdered my aunt.

For some days now I have been looking at some pictures I downloaded online. The pictures are new to me despite the pictures being taken probably two decades ago. At the top of one of the pictures I observed something was written with a typewriter and age has faded it almost to nothing. I click the + in Preview and read despite the pixelation “Cousin Beth Tira Guwamna and Family”. Of course. But I knew that already. The moment I saw her smiling face, I knew that I know her already. Or so I convince myself.

I think I was five when I first realize that my family was divided into two. There’s my father’s family. All Bible bearing, Sunday service attending folks. Then there’s my mother’s family. Who are Catholics. Even though they are not traditional Catholics they’re Catholics enough to look at my mother with pity whenever her father-in-law would pull out a Bible and prompt for prayer before meals.

It was in one of my grandfather’s prayers that I first heard her name. Beth. And the place she is in. Nigeria. I looked up Nigeria under letter “N” in the Compton’s Encyclopedia my father bought for us to encourage us to study and have high marks in school. Reading about that place I was so surprised she was that far. At first I thought she was a missionary. It was a logical assumption when two of my father’s brothers are pastors, my grandfather use to pastor churches too I think. I was pretty convinced that my Tita Beth then is a missionary in far away Nigeria which made me proud. But inside I cringe because being a missionary is hard. Later on I found out why she was there was the opposite of all my assumptions.

The Colonel didn’t really talked about her much. Just we have two cousins who are her children from a Nigerian man. After more prayers, I heard from my grandfather that Tita Beth ran away from God. That became an enigma for me. I never thought that one person can be capable of running away or being able to assert one’s self in the father side of my family. It seemed that to defy my grandfather and my aunt’s siblings is something quite unfathomable. Curiosity crept in my mind and I wanted to meet the woman who defied the Word. But life and the business of growing up caught up with me. Games, homework, tests, fighting with my sister and brother, cute boys, moving, and change has placed curiosity in the back of my mind until I finally forgot about her and her family. I know they exist. But all they are are names of relatives who I wasn’t able to really relate. Besides, Nigeria is so far and they aren’t really rich. She wouldn’t possibly spend so much money to travel so far and visit her family in the Philippines. Life has a way of laughing at your face when you think you’re sure of something.

It has something to do with her health (though I’m not certain now what it is) that made her come back to the Philippines. For sure it has something to do with her heart. Looking back now, I honestly can’t remember the first time I met her. I think if I really allowed myself to, I would be able to remember the good times with her. But the truth is, I can’t. I can’t get past the last time I saw her to be able to remember the first, second, or third time I spent with her.

I want to assure you that the last time I met her is a memorable one. But, not a good one. It’s one of those experiences one goes through that you wish never happened. Like shoplifting and being caught. Like killing your own best friend when you drove drunk. Making you mother cry when you became too much to handle. Embarrassing does not even cut the emotions one feels. It’s way too traumatic that even remembering it a decade or probably even a millennia after (if you’re still alive) you’d still cringe inside when the memories haunt. The last time I met my aunt I wish never happened.

She came visiting in our farm. I remembered then how much I disliked it when she came over. She was just like the Colonel always asking me to do one thing or get something for them. Grown ups! Always using the young ones as their slaves. I remember being pissed that night too. There was a black out in our area and because there was no electricity there would be no fan, having no fan means it will take me so long to sleep and in the process would be hot and sticky from the heat. That night when the grown ups were shooing us to bed my aunt told me to get her medicine in the room I share with her. Ugh! I didn’t want to poke around in the room when there is no light. I went to the room, did a bit of poking without making an effort and went back to tell her I couldn’t find it. I felt really annoyed that she kept on bugging me to do stuff for her when she can do it. I went to bed asking myself why do grown ups pick on younger folks who cannot order them. 

It was probably two in the morning. I wasn’t sure. But I was sure there was a cold hand grasping my ankle. I didn’t know if I was going to scream because I was pretty positive this is a ghost. I tried to act brave and kicked the hand with my other foot. The hand let go but the another touched my other leg. Shit! I don’t have to be afraid, I told myself. There is a logical explanation for this cold hand gripping me. I lay still for a moment and listened. I heard a moan. Like someone confused or in pain. And the sound was from my aunt. Immediately I got up and flipped the switch. The light turned on and I was actually taken aback that it did because it just struck me that there was a black out up to the time I went to bed. I looked at my aunt. She looked lost. Dazed. She did not even recognize me when I called her name. She only called my father’s name over and over. 

I went to my parents room to tell them that I think there is something wrong with her. They went to our room and they kept on talking to her. It was strange that she could not recognize anybody but her brother, the Colonel. They called for an ambulance and a couple of days after she died of sepsis. She died without her children beside her. It was when the Colonel said she died that I remembered that last night she was asking me for her medicine but I lied and told her I couldn’t find it. It was that same time when the question “what if I gave her her medicine, would that save her life?” dawned on me. Maybe, she had that attack because I was stubborn, selfish, and self-absorbed. All I had to do was give her her medicine, I chose not to do it.

These all happened when I was in high school. Close to 15 years ago. The mind is a funny place. Over time the memory dims. We become unsure if things really transpired. Even as I try to remember that night the edges are a bit blurry. But despite parts fading, I keep on wanting to turn back time and do things differently. I want to be happy for her visit. I want to be happy she even is alive to boss me around. I want to make an effort to find her medicine. I want to be able to hug her one more time. Maybe if I did all these things, if I did this version she would still be alive.

Guilt is a relative term. But no matter if it has different degrees guilt is, at its very essence, self-inflicted. As my remorse is brought upon myself by me alone, I have the ability let go of this guilt. But I won’t. Because if I did, I’m might be that nasty girl and then I’d end up killing more people in the process.