August 18, 2014 - Karma

Karma, real question mark?

That's what I asked my friends in the middle of school break. And yes, I actually said "question mark" out loud.

I was serious, but I didn't want to sound like the kind of guy who sits under a tree thinking about the universe while sipping milk tea.

Half said yes, half said no, and another half said, "Who the fuck asks that first thing in the morning?"

Everyone agreed on one thing though - "Who really freaking knows, fuckwit?"

Fair enough.

It was the last day of grade eleven. Exams were done a week ago. I was one of the top in our batch, which didn't mean much since all my friends were too. Hard to brag when you're the bottom of the smart group.

It was a fun, chaotic day. One of my best friends, Kyle, had finally asked out Minnie - the girl he'd been pining for since forever. It was a sight to behold. Kyle's six foot two, built like a linebacker, while Minnie barely reached his chest. And yet somehow, it was Minnie who looked like she could fold him in half with one raised eyebrow.

She said yes, but with conditions. They weren't together yet. Kyle had to "earn it."

I wished him luck before heading home. Minnie was terrifying.

As always at the end of the school year, I was excited. Days of sleep, games, and more sleep. Maybe some food in between if I remembered to eat.

The street on my way home felt lighter somehow, like it was finally letting us go. Even the usual chaos - cab horns, gossiping mothers, stray dogs barking at nothing - sounded softer, like the world itself was exhaling after a long exam week.

My shoulder bag clinked softly when I moved. Inside was my pack of dog kibble.

I'd started feeding strays recently. I'd always loved dogs - always said that if I ever had to choose between hitting a man or a dog while biking, I'd do a 360 no-scope front flip into the man. That line always made my friends laugh, but I kind of meant it.

One random afternoon, I'd walked into a pet shop just to look around and realized how cheap dog food actually was. I bought two pounds right there and started carrying half a pound with me every day. Feeding strays turned out to be cheap, easy, and weirdly fulfilling.

I never told anyone about it. If someone saw me, fine. But if I said it out loud, it would sound fake - like I was doing it to brag about being "the nice guy."

So that day, on my way home, I scanned the alleys for the usual mutts. I knew their spots by now - the brown one by the bakery, the one-eyed one near the basketball court, the sleepy white one under the jeepney terminal bench.

Then I saw her.

An old woman standing by the bridge ahead.

The bridge wasn't long - barely ten meters - made of old steel that groaned whenever trucks passed. The river below gurgled faintly, brown and sluggish, carrying candy wrappers and dead leaves like secrets.

I'd crossed that bridge countless times before, but something about her stopped me. She stood perfectly still in the afternoon heat, the kind of stillness that doesn't belong to living people.

When I got closer, I realized her eyes were fixed on me.

I smiled out of habit and nodded politely, ready to walk past, but she didn't move.

She just kept staring.

Then she stepped forward, and before I could sidestep, she reached out and caught my wrist.

Her hand was surprisingly strong - bony fingers wrapping tight around my skin, pulling my arm up between us.

I froze.

Her eyes were red - not irritated, but swollen from crying too long. Her lips trembled like she wanted to speak but had already practiced the words too many times.

I wanted to pull away, but I couldn't - not without hurting her. She looked like someone's grandmother, the kind who makes rice porridge for sick neighbors. I had a weakness for women like that. I could ignore vendors or beggars, but an old, kind-faced mother asking for something? I'd hand her whatever I had in my pocket just so I wouldn't feel guilty for the next month.

"Are you Allen?" she asked, voice thin but steady.

I swallowed. "Yeah."

"I'm Paulie's mother."

"Oh," I said automatically, smiling. "Hello, how's-"

"He's transferring out."

My grin died instantly. "What? Why?"

"Because of you."

The words hit like ice water down my spine. The noise of the street faded until all I could hear was my heartbeat.

I thought about the last time I'd talked to Paulie. I remembered the exact words - the tone, the laughter, the look on his face.

It was funny, I'd thought. Everyone else laughed.

Paulie didn't.

"He's been hiding in his room," she said, voice cracking as tears welled up again. "He doesn't talk to me anymore."

Her hand still gripped mine, trembling. No ring. Faded clothes. Thin slippers. Eyes hollow - like she'd spent every tear before finding me.

"I'll talk to him," I said - too fast, too automatic. It didn't sound real. It sounded like I just wanted her to let go. And maybe I did. People were starting to look.

She didn't seem to notice.

"We're leaving the city," she said softly. "But please... apologize to him, if you can. I don't like seeing him like this."

I nodded. It was the only thing I could do.

Then she let go. Just like that. Her hand slipped from mine and she walked away - small, hunched, disappearing into the crowd until all that was left was the sound of her slippers scraping against the pavement.

I stood there long after she was gone.

That night, guilt sat in my stomach like a stone.

I tried to message Paulie. No reply.

Tried calling. Blocked.

Sent a text anyway. Still nothing.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the electric fan rattling above me, replaying the memory.

It had been after exams. We were all in the hallway, half-hyper, half-dead, laughing about random stuff. Paulie walked up, sweat on his collar, smelling like he'd lost a fight with a garbage truck.

Without thinking, I said, "Good lord, man, did you bathe in the sewers or something?"

Everyone laughed. Loud.

Paulie smiled too - at first. But halfway through, I saw it. The drop. Like someone pulled the plug on him.

"I hope you get karma," he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, and walked away.

I laughed again, louder, pretending I hadn't heard him.

Later that day, Kyle told me Paulie had been crying in the bathroom.

I didn't go check. I didn't even slow down. I shrugged and kept chatting with my friends.

That was my thing - talking. Always talking.

I was funny. People laughed. I liked being the center of attention. I wasn't hurting anyone, right? Just teasing. No harm done. I got teased too. Paulie was just being overdramatic. I never punched or pushed anyone around. That's what bulli–

No.

I stopped mid-thought. "You're a bully, Allen," I whispered to the ceiling.

The words tasted like vinegar.

I tried to argue with myself - tried to summon an excuse. Stress, jokes, teenage crap. Anything. But the memory of her hand stopped me cold. That trembling grip. That voice. "Because of you."

There wasn't an argument strong enough to stand against that.

I thought about the last thing Paulie told me. Karma. People only mention it when bad things happen to bad people, but never when good things happen to good ones.

Was I a good person?

Can someone who feeds stray dogs but drives someone else away still call himself good?

No. Probably not.

The thought stuck. It burrowed deep, twisting, chewing through my chest. I wondered what my friends actually thought of me. Maybe they just laughed to avoid being next.

For the first time ever, I fell asleep at the end of the school year disturbed, unhappy, and completely quiet.

The next day, I was at a café with my friends, half-listening while they argued about who'd win in a fight between Captain America and Batman. The air smelled like burnt coffee and fried eggs. The fan buzzed lazily above us.

My mind wasn't there. It was still stuck in that hallway with Paulie.

"Yo, Al," Joseph said, snapping me out of it. "What's with your face? You look like you just saw your report card."

I shrugged.

"This the first time you had nothing to say," he said, grinning. "Keep it up. It's nice."

They laughed. I didn't. But I smiled, just barely.

Maybe that was the fix.

Shutting the hell up.

Keep the jokes for people who can take them - which meant Kyle, Mike, and Joseph.

So I tried it. Bit my tongue ninety percent of the time. The first week felt like swallowing glass. But after a while, it got easier. Whenever a sarcastic remark popped into my head, I'd count to three. Comedy is mostly timing, I told myself. If I waited long enough, the joke wouldn't sound funny anymore. And most of them failed this test.

Maybe they never were funny.

The silence felt weird at first. Heavy. But also peaceful.

I waited the whole break for Paulie to text back. Checked my phone every morning. Nothing.

The guilt dulled with time - not because I forgave myself, but because time buries everything under noise until it's faint enough to ignore.

By the time senior high started, I'd almost forgotten about Paulie and his mom. Almost.

Morning of the first day of school, I crossed the same bridge again. The same cracked pavement, the same murky water below, the same spot where she'd grabbed my wrist. My bag was heavy with kibble, just like before.

I stopped where she'd stood. I could almost see her again - small, patient, sniffling under the sun. Waiting for her son's tormentor. To beg him to help her son. She hadn't been angry - just helpless.

And I hadn't helped. No matter what I said.

The memory hit sharp and cold.

I wanted to walk faster, just leave, but then a black stray limped toward me. Mangy fur, patches of skin raw and pink. Its ribs pressed hard against its sides. One ear was torn, and flies hovered near a crusted wound on its leg. It wagged its tail anyway - slow, tired, hopeful.

It sat, mouth open, staring right at me. Then it closed its mouth and gave a weak growl that came out more like a cough.

I sighed, crouched, and poured a handful of kibble onto the ground.

"Here," I said softly. "For both of us."

The dog's tail twitched but it didn't come closer. Just stared. Growling low, uncertain. I took a step back to give it space.

With distance between us, the dog finally bent down to eat. Its teeth clicked softly as it chewed. I crouched lower, almost whispering.

"I know," I said. "I get it. You don't trust me."

The dog didn't look up. Just kept eating.

"Can't blame you," I added. "I don't trust me either."

For some reason, I reached out, palm open. Half-expecting it to bite me. Maybe I even wanted it to. A clean punishment. Something visible.

It didn't bite. It just sniffed my fingers once, then went back to eating.

Up close, I saw it better - its body trembling slightly with each breath, skin thin and stretched like old paper. And yet, under the grime, its eyes were clear. Tired, but clear.

I smiled, bitterly. "Guess that's too easy, huh?"

Then I chuckled. "Your punishment must be more severe," I muttered - quoting a dumb line from a good but dumb movie.

And honestly, I agreed.

A dog bite wouldn't fix anything. It'd just give me an excuse to say I'd been punished - a neat, boxed-up version of guilt I could carry around. But deep down, I knew better. I'd only ever done the bare minimum - one message, one sorry, one weak attempt.

I stood up, brushed my knees, and looked toward the school gates in the distance.

"Be a good person," I muttered to myself. A silent promise.

Maybe karma wasn't done yet. Maybe it was waiting inside that school - wearing a uniform, sitting somewhere I didn't know yet - waiting for the perfect moment to remind me who I really was.

Or who I was about to become.