Love and Limbs
They called out to her, like an unbearable siren. She first found her head, stowed away in a black bag thrown into a small tributary under a bridge. Chamie crawled helplessly across the ravine, hoping against all hope that she won’t tumble into the murky water. Navigating toward her head with just a sense of where it is was literally groping in the dark. But she couldn’t even grope at the mud properly — her two arms are nowhere to be found. Someone had undone the bag, giving Chamie a small opening — enough for her head to creep out slowly until it was able to fuse with what remained of her neck and shoulders. Her first breath, or what passed for it, was harsh, feral, and sounded nothing like her. Her attacker had chopped off bits of her voice box and part of her right ear, so she had a hard time hearing from that side, too. She felt the wind escaping from the slash and she felt chilled with every exhalation. Chamie was also cut down to her left thigh and below her right knee. She only wanted to find the rest of her, and finally, come home. She had little time left, she could feel it before the void claimed her completely.
“What are you called?”
“I am Nothing.”
“What do you mean, you are something.”
“Not to anyone of consequence.”
“Can you help me? I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Are you sure Nothing can help you?”
“I am looking for my heart.”
“I think I know where, but I can’t make any promises.”
Nothing wagged its tail and looked morosely at Chamie.
“Who did this to you, anyway?”
“My lover.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds bad if you end up like this. I can smell what’s inside you. That couldn’t be good. Is love losing your limbs?”
“No, not really. Can you guide me to my heart?”
“Follow me.”
Chamie found herself crawling at an intersection, about half a block from the largest wet market in the city. She was horrified at the thought of being dragged by people, but no one seems to be noticing a botched body crawling at a snail’s pace, leaving a trail of bile and blood in its wake.
“Nothing! Slow down. Wait for me!”
The brown mutt stopped and turned its head slightly.
“You just wait here. You need to rest.”
“Please, help me.”
“I will.”
Chamie found a small nook in the street and tried to regain her composure. She looked at the dried blood across the gap in her chest, and the multitude of incisions made on her belly. A portion of her colon protruded from the right side. If she only had her fingers, she would push back those tissues where they’re supposed to be.
She saw her new friend returning — carrying a clear plastic containing what looked like dinuguan — a blood stew.
“I had to steal this. And I’m sorry if there are stray bits of other things in there.”
The chop-chop lady stared in horror at the bag before her.
“Is this really… my heart?”
“Among other things, yes. Some of it was still in the pot, but you know how they are. They’d probably kill me if I took the entire thing.”
“Can you help me?”
“How?”
“Just, put it back where it was.”
Nothing looked puzzled for a few seconds before it noticed the gaping hole in Chamie’s chest. It pushed its nose into the bag and gripped the plastic gingerly so it can lift it by the loose tie at the top.
Chamie felt the warmth of the dinuguan pulsing in her chest. The smell of garlic and vinegar invigorated her. It was her heart alright. But somehow, it found its way to people’s midday meals. Just thinking of how her heart got there made her want to puke. She then remembered what she must look now, gashed and chopped up like sisig. Chamie burst into tears.
“There, there.”
Nothing wagged its tail at Chamie and went away for a few seconds. While Chamie was bawling her eyes out, the dog returned with a hat that seemed to have been recovered from a dumpster and then stomped on for good measure. The dog did its best to put the cap on Chamie’s head.
“You look a little better, I think.”
Chamie found her legs and arms strewn across the city, and each time, Nothing helped her retrieve them, in whatever fashion they happened to be.
A witch doctor had already peeled half of her left arm before. Nothing growled at him, fangs bared, so he would hand it over.
A wild man born with no anus cradled her right arm like a baby, calling it Esmeralda. He was the easiest to convince — he gave the limb willingly to the dog. He had been a dog trainer in his other life.
Chamie’s two legs were in the possession of a serial killer (unrelated) who had a fetish for unevenly cut body parts. Nothing had to kill him because he tried to crush the dog’s skull with a rusty hammer.
Now complete, Chamie crossed several kilometers and two large gates to her final destination.
“Mom, I’m here. Mom I am so tired. I told you, I’ll always come back in one piece.”
Chamie collapsed on her mother’s grave, in tears.
Delicate, green tendrils emerged from the black soil, caressing the girl’s graying skin, claiming her for the earth.
Marius Carlos, Jr. is a storyteller, essayist, and journalist. He is the Creative Director at Vox Populi PH. He is also the English editor of Rebo Press Book Publishing. He is an independent researcher focused on transnational capitalism, neocolonialism, empire, and pop culture. Contact him for writing projects. Visit Marius’ profile on Minds, MeWe, and Twitter. Email Marius: marius@voxpopuliph.com.
