Had I known how to save a life.
Okay, I don’t really know how to start this post.
My blockmate Joyce, 18, died in a car accident. I only knew about it after one of our fellow blockmates passed the text message last Friday, days after the burial, I was told. I asked her first if this is true–though I know it would be preposterously harsh for someone to joke about somebody’s death, but just to assure that the sad news is true–that Joyce had died. Maybe it was hesitance for my part, or denial, for she was stunningly beautiful, and admittingly one of my crushes in the block. Maybe I tried to insist that she was the wrong person, that it was a mistaken identity, that the accident wouldn’t happen to her! But the burial had ended days before. Joyce had died.
The burial was held somewhere in Mindoro, Joyce’s home province.
When the message had gradually sank in, my eyes started to well with tears - shallow tears, but remorseful ones. Why Joyce, for chrissake, would die in a car accident? I have no details of whether Joyce was drunk-driving or not; she knows how to drive, yes, but she isn’t the type who would drink and drive. She is a friend who somewhat knows her limits, or probably I’m saying this again to insist that she’s someone good. People always say good things to a dead person–they always remember the flawless, the almost-perfect, the things worth mentioning.
But Joyce, of all people, wouldn’t do that.
The information was still incomplete. She shifted to Diliman to take Business Administration, and since then, we didn’t have any connection whatsoever. The last time I saw her was during her birthday celebration, around September of last year. I was at Iziz Bar with her close friend (also our blockmate) and their guy friend from their Botany class. The three of them were drinking so I decided to join and drink too. I treated her a Tequila Sunrise, if I’m not mistaken, and I bought myself a Black Russian.
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