He of the headlines, She of the deadlines

The glimmer of five-star hotel fluorescence was symbolic. In a hazy world of everything virtual, Brent considered this classic crystal-clear: prestige is power. For most of society. Of the world, really. Fame was so preconceived and predictable that way, he knew. He was tired of it. All around him, cameras of assorted kinds were taken out of bags and satchels.

“Is he a charm or an omen?” Overhearing this question from the mouths of his industry peers exasperated Brent terribly, but he still tried his best not to take offense. Acquiring intrigue and mystery had been his strength for so long anyways.

“Why are we all suddenly forgetting we’re at a science competition qualifying preliminaries?” one of the undeniably well-renowned journalist veterans of the country straightforwardly scowled. Several minutes of silence for professional courtesy dimmed the atmosphere.

“Is it so wrong to gaze at the diligence – no, academic excellence of good people with gifts of inventions to humanity – with the stardom they’ve been denied of getting, tale as old as time, sir maestro?” Brent unapologetically asked out loud from his corner at the crowded pavilion conference hall. No applause happened but he knew they saw the intensity of his determination nevertheless.

“Ah, Brent Xavier, of course. Are any of us here shocked that your priority would always be popularity instead of purpose?” A notorious media entertainment reporter giggled as she twirled fringes of her hair.

Brent just sighed and turned away to get a glass of lemon juice. He knew it was pointless to answer back because that lady’s stratagem was scandals. She—along with everyone else this day—was undeniably there to interview the son of a viral drama actress married to a politician strongly esteemed to run higher next elections. Poking fun at that would fire back at Brent since he was guilty for sharing the same intention. It was a trap to gatekeep and block him from earning the cliché goal. So when the doors finally opened where the ones who submitted their applications finally exited, holding folder-width envelopes containing their corresponding results, the media journalists raced hungrily to snatch their targets for the sake of clout. The entire country was guilty of this subtle crime of ignorance; they were all so tempted to chuckle at the blatant realization. Of how everyone had time to cheer for sport championships and beauty pageants but never for the honor of science events, it seemed like. Brent was torn whether it was horrific or hilarious. He nearly choked sneering as he drank the lemon juice in a single gulp. Why would he settle for things always being bittersweet? The fluorescent glow shrouding everyone’s faces incidentally mirrored the lemon liquid which quenched his thirst. And his dilemma. Now forsaken and isolated many feet away from the crowd where everyone now wallowed in an ocean of gifted or shoved interviews, Brent observed. Faces. Features. Families. Feelings.

It wasn’t at all shocking to him. In comparison to the stark extravagance of typical competitions broadcasted for a nationwide audience, this contest invited scientists and technological enthusiasts across the entire country to pitch their pursuits, inventions or discoveries, and ten would be handpicked for a gallery fair exhibition, then conclude with the prize awarding the top invention of the year. The demographic wasn’t as mainstream, surely as majority would assume. The attention had always been a dichotomy of bittersweet yet again. Brent saw the bespectacled girl wearing khaki pants and chocolate flannel shirt nonchalantly walking away from the chaos, her result folder just tugged in her right arm. Her face was so downcast and she additionally pulled her brown bonnet lower, cloaking her auburn hair and majority of her face away from anyone’s glance. Brent wondered whether it was premature for him to assume that it was not superficially shying away but a legitimate need for privacy. His perspective as a journalist was caged differently, he’s aware, and would not dare venture to make sense of scientific perplexities. Or perhaps everything had time. And the time might be now. He followed her eager chase towards a crowded elevator all the way till she descended at the eleventh floor. He quietly trudged the path she took towards a terrace overlooking the rest of the metro sunset. Brent took his camera from the case container, not as a tool but an alibi.

“Sunsets also inspire science, huh?” were his first words to her. Not compelling as he wanted, but convenient.

“My science ain’t as groundbreaking nor as glorious, apparently, sorry,” the girl declared nonchalantly, though her quiet inhaling betrayed her nasal tone. She was about to tear up. If Brent would be honest, this was the golden pinnacle he could capitalize on: someone’s despair over something gravely important yet forbidden of them.

“Well perhaps they have poor, blurry view. Not as high-definition as yours,” was lame but it was the closest thing he could manage In order to comfort and console her. “I’m Brent Xavier,” he introduced himself.

“Don’t worry, I’m just really here to take pictures of the venue’s landscape. Sorry in case I’ve interrupted –“ he apologized, to assure her he was not meaning to invade her moment.

“Don’t worry,” she meaningfully mirrored his preface communication, “I’m nothing special – nobody special to take pictures of, anyway” her snicker was adorable. “I’m Ynna Chavez, I’m rejected. Ineligible. Sorry, can’t give you anything. No likes for the losers,” she declared point-blank, no longer feigning care nor concern. Brent was immediately convinced this was one of those rare moments where honesty begets honesty.

“Sorry, Ynna. Sometimes the system is wrecked. Want to tell me about its splinters?” Brent pointed the camera at Ynna, wordlessly informing her it was an invitation to speak up if there’d been injustice. “Shame on them for not acknowledging your vision,” he further told her, bracing himself for a confessional, but he wasn’t ready for what she gifted him as a response. Ynna’s boisterous laughter was a good mix of satire and sincerity. She was hurting, and it bewitched and humbled Brent.

“You nailed it, jeez, your accuracy! Your precision is topnotch, Brent!” Ynna proclaimed, meaning every compliment truthfully while continuing to laugh. He found so many things to be grateful for in those couple of minutes – to witness her mirth despite her disappointment, and to feel warmly appreciated despite not understanding what action or word of his had provoked it. Ynna kicked the confusion with urgency. She couldn’t hold back her cackle because of Brent’s final sentence – word, really. She’d yield the destruction of her walls if it was for the sake of someone welcoming comprehension of her goal. She opened her leather handbag and took out a glass jar brimming with transparent pills. Brent’s curiosity immediately accelerated but he just waited for her to go proceed at a pace of her choice.

“My vision…is to kill visions of those who do not deserve the light,” Ynna declared. “It’s illegal to kill, to hurt those who harm us. I’ve swallowed that poisonous reality all the years of my life that my mother had habitually wounded my father. By leisure! Oh no, sorry, wait, let me correct my pathetic ignorance– by her passion! Her art overpowers us all, Brent! We must respect her art!” Ynna walked closer to the balcony ledge and rested her arms on the handrail, undeniably shivering.

“I’m sorry, I hope – I wish for healing –” Brent was speechless and he knew none of what he could say could redeem any pain. Ynna laughed again, which confirmed right away that the anguish was still fresh.

“Healing – my mom empowers my dad with that magic, Brent. Wow. Healing – she praised it as a skill – a superpower of my dad!” Ynna’s volume was the least of what overwhelmed Brent. Ynna slapped her own face with her right hand. A second hit using her left. The severity of how she’s now reenacting what she witnessed as a child unquestionably traumatized her.

“Ynna! Please – no! Please don’t!” Brent grabbed Ynna’s wrists and cuffed them in his grasp to stop her from further hurting herself. Ynna calmed down so swiftly then sat down again, submissive. As if this too had been part of a performance. She didn’t break eye contact. Brent’s gaze wavered, surprised as well that he kept being intimated. Were they a replica of the parenthood she was cursed of enduring? Ynna softly brought her finger to touch on Brent’s lips and delicately shushed him with a serene face even if he wasn’t saying anything. When Ynna followed through by wiping his cheeks, it was the first time Brent realized he’d been crying too. He was about to speak up to defend himself, but Ynna continued to motion for his mouth to close.

“Language – compatibility, mom said, begins here – shut up, Brent,” she unapologetically dismissed his will to complain. “Very good, thank you,” Ynna rubbed his forehead as if petting him like a dog. He couldn’t decide where to draw the boundaries for his bewilderment. The easiest assumption to make was sadomasochism being romanticized yet again. Nothing new, and that made it even more scarring, he thought. If it came at the expense of a daughter being a spectator regardless of consent or none – was that still a love language?

“The books she read, movies she watched, songs she listened to – all spoke of this, according to her. That’s the principle, prophecy we must adhere to.” Ynna elaborated, as if she’s been waiting to reveal this all her life. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to insult your art, if you’re a creative –” she looked down for the first time since the beginning of her revelation.

“I can only wish I was, but I’m a journalist, Ynna. We couldn’t create – craft, color the truths we need to tell the world,” he told her, not as a cheap way to gain her trust but as an admission he himself had also been burdened to hold on to. “And I’m tired,” he sighed, an early disclaimer to his turn for revelation. Ynna waited patiently.

“We’re always demanded and expected to become storytellers of the repeatedly recycled tragedies,” he laughed so honestly, he had to close his eyes in remorse that he might’ve come off as a psychopath. He was aware his humor can be harrowing. “I’m sick of the suspects and victims forever only interchanging protagonists and antagonists’ roles. There are no plot twists on the tales of reality, haven’t we all known that none of us were blessed with trigger warnings?” He couldn’t help but be immaturely satisfied that he surprised Ynna, it seemed like. Neither of them were proclaiming anything spectacular, both of them knew, but if faking their resignation to reality was the lesser evil, do either of them have a choice?

“I wish my mom has also accepted that reality somehow too, but – do artists truly crucify themselves with the need to be special?” Ynna was straightforwardly saying this with such organic annoyance. “She wouldn’t settle for water color, acrylic nor oil! She needed my dad’s blood to paint her masterpiece!” Her wrath startled and scared him, but he still tried to be calm. “That was her testament to her originality, and my dad collaborated – condoned that delusion! Do they deserve an award?”

Brent not knowing this terrified him harder – because this implied that their tragedy had been undisclosed to the country, to the world. He was apprehensive to interrogate because even he himself wasn’t ready to hear what happened next.

“So when she scraped dad’s chest again for more of her needed paint choice, then scooped his eyeballs out and left him there to bleed and die – she finally found the inspiration she’s been yearning to find for years,” Ynna’s exhaustion was pure and prevailing. “And the defense to shield her, because her mental whatever stupefied her from knowing what’s right and wrong – they want that to be the happy ending!” Brent was likewise silenced by the dark sorrow Ynna had been through. “So tell me, was this the first and foremost sin I’ve committed? Have I overshadowed her, Brent, when I plagiarized her by studying years and years of medicine to invent this drug which can blind someone – the evil ones! They pity her fake vulnerability but disqualified me for being vengeful?” Ynna cried. Brent wanted to hug this girl rendered even more helpless by the system who couldn’t listen to her, couldn’t trust her ambitions.

“It’s always so easy for them to decide what’s right and proper, to shut down what they think is wrong. They’re so good, Brent! That’s some talent, isn’t? Always justifying pity for those who’d been cruelest!” Ynna wailed on her knees, crying out loud.

No matter how countless it may seem, Brent was still twistedly tickled by the repetition of his life patterns. The industry considering him as hybrid of plague and posterity. The coincidences, circumstances and cliches of him always being luckily there on the spot wherever a significant event was about to happen. A summoner of headlines, king of breaking news. Would it be conceding defeat, would it be mocked as betrayal if he honestly reveals all of it was his orchestration after all? Because he wasn’t welcomed in either worlds, was it criminal to arrange the marriage of both according to his terms? He gently cradled Ynna in his arms as she cried. His predicaments had never been easy, he wished society knew. But despite their cluelessness, he knew some people’s envy predictably made them skeptical that the supposedly brutal sincerity of his journalism was just grotesquely sensationalized storytelling. Brent decided if his candor would be the compassion he could give Ynna, then he would give her that.

“You stopped being picture-perfect pretty, when you desired to stop being powerless, Ynna,” he whispered, slightly hoping she’d take it as a dark joke somehow. She did and cackled with eerie amusement.

“Indeed!” Ynna acknowledged. “We girls were always supposed to be victims, never victors, aren’t we? Self-esteem, no, Self-sufficiency ain’t sexy, huh?”

Brent was ironically hot - hooked line and sinker at her quick read of his agenda. They were on the same page. Has he finally found the one person who would understand why he had to stage the suicide of that predator rockstar by writing his supposed goodbye letter in that drunk fiasco after a concert, admitting all of the young fangirls he preyed on? Or will she be the one recognizing the importance of his effort to maneuver the supposed lethal tryst accident of the Tiktok couple normalizing bullying and shaming of poor, impoverished youth on coutries around the world, calling it comedy?

“Boring. You should always set the stage for me,” he unapologetically remarked to Ynna as he inched his face, his lips to hers. “What does the calculation or the context always say? Prophesy? Predict?” his solemn eyes stared at Ynna in sheer lust. Her euphoric smile was all the consent he needed and proceeded to lick her neck, planting kisses and maneuvering her attention away from his search.

“Simplicity has no science, yes? And isn’t that stubbornness more delectable when complexities make you…barf?” he timed this with the violence of the kiss they started. Utterly carnal, their hands were primitively ravaging their clothes apart. Though last but not the least, the nakedness, sacredness really, of the promise they’ve forsaken faith in so long ago.

Ynna heard the sound with such embedded familiarity in his ears. Brent directly held high her glass jar in his hands then swiveled it a few turns, making the transparent pills within it crinkle.

“You know how men like me were always meant to say farewell at the end, right?” Brent put the jar down and surprisingly picked one pill with such swiftness. “We’re demonized aren’t we?” He swallowed the pill, making Ynna scream a scarring cry.“Or we die,” he concluded with a piercing cry of his own. “But you’re not a criminal, Ynna, so I’m sentenced to a life sentence of darkness.”

Their fearless frank dare to the world to romanticize their remorse, they’d always regret. And replay. Rehearse all over. And rewrite sometimes. Because that theatrical moment of their lives was when they’ve been the most stripped of pretention. Because themselves were the only audience they sought applause from, after all the lights go out.