THE RED MILK Crunch, wipe, and fold.

By Princess Castillo
And the radio said, "There's another shot dead on the
The foggy dew of a December morning hung heavily in street corners of Batangas. Initial reports claim he died
the air. with a gun in his hand."
The rhythmic march of a platoon of Batangas Lancers
could be heard through the single-pane window, muffled Crunch, wipe, and fold.
as it was. The tread of their hefty boots complemented the
beautiful tinkling of their bells. They went unnoticed in the Numerous added problems, the humdrum of politicians,
fog. the spike in fuel costs, the reporter rambled on. Another
The familiar sound of sirens rang down the street, as it morning in Batangas, same old routine.
had since early dawn, but none of us paid attention.
Nothing out of the ordinary for a Batangueño morning. Crunch, wipe, and fold.
While my Mom put the cereal into the bowl in front of
me, I sat stiff at the table, uncomfortable in the starched The tap on the door, three loud raps, broke the
school uniform that was too small but "would take me monotony. My mother's eyes were as wide as mine when I
through to the end of the year." The tinkling of their bells looked at her.
clashed charmingly with the intimidating chorus outside. I was the man in charge when my father was making
As she filled the bowl, a little milk spilled down the the rounds. I began to rise, but Mom's firm grip pulled me
table, oozing its way down the table grains before such a back into my seat.
cloth could be found.
"Hurry up, otherwise you'll be late," she exclaimed as "Stay," she said, and I obliged.
she dragged the hairbrush through my tattered hairdo, the
absurdity of it lost on her—though her irritation was I saw her walk out of the kitchen, wiping a washcloth in
evident when I ran my fingers through it, ruining her hard her hands.
work. As she opened the door, I could hear her gasp from the
The little radio spit and snapped forward to music my corridor. I already knew what that meant.
mother liked, and she sang to herself while she I was overwhelmed by the cold of the foggy mist that
leapfrogged from mother-job to mother-job, polishing and poured across the open door.
scrubbing, hanging wet clothes and folding the dry ones.
I shoved a mouthful in. The crunching sounds immerse
everything around me. The officer remained in the kitchen the entire time,
"Ma, sugar please," I said, still full, blasting cereal shells practically just in front of me. The bowl rested unfinished
into the air. between us on the table, fragments of orange flakes
She handed the sugar to me and cleaned down the table floating on a calm sea of white.
again, singing the song's final notes. She and I didn't even The radio had gone silent, clearing the way for the
notice my father's absence. Because in the mornings, he solemn tick-tock of the clock.
was never there. He just stood there. His uniform was clean, and his
He was always the milkman, driving around the deep green coat was well buttoned. He didn't take off his
neighborhood streets before the chickens could clear their cap, which was embroidered with a harp adorned with a
throats, exchanging empty bottles for full ones, often with crown.
only the rising sun for company.
He'd sigh and grumble as he strolled through Batangas' "I'm very sorry," he said without any emotion. "I'm deeply
burnt-out cars and wrecked bars. As he made his rounds, sorry for your loss."
he'd nod to soldiers and gunmen alike, because few folks
were out on the streets that early. Tick-tock.
He was like that: friendly, kind, and gentle.
He'd add, "We're all born the same, we all die the same, He cleared his throat and glanced at my Mom and me.
and we're all the same everywhere in between." She was still sobbing, yet it was already quiet. Her swollen
He raised me in this manner, free of anger and division. eyes bore the pain that was flowing across her reddish
I chewed another mouthful, this time considerably more cheeks.
to my liking, the flakes not providing as much resistance. I was numb.
"Will you please fix your tie? You look like you've been I fixed my gaze on his tie. It was tailored to his neck,
raised in a field, and that's no way to go to school." Mom's right up to the collar. He wasn't raised in the countryside, I
typical scolding on a school morning. thought.
The music finished, and the radio chimed nine times.
We were greeted by a familiar voice. "How-" Mom began but was cut off by a sob.
"Good morning—the press release." The officer cleared his throat yet again.
We went about our business, me munching and Mom
cleaning.
"He was spotted heading along Valentino Street with a So, here I am, lying in the morning fog with my gun,
handgun, according to witnesses. The army opened fire on waiting for the jingle of an approaching squad.
him, and he... Well, he..." I'm looking forward to hearing what the radio will
announce.
He blinked twice and cleared his throat. Again. -Fin-

Tick-tock.

"I'm terribly sorry," he just repeated.

The silence that had fallen had decayed into unbearable
discomfort, putrefying the room, and another throat
clearing had done little to change it.

Tick-tock.

"No," I answered, despite the fact that my throat was

dry. "My father couldn't have done it since he had no
weapon. He was uninvolved."
The officer nodded to reassure me, but his eyes
revealed his doubt.
"Of course, we will conduct a thorough investigation once
the force has done their review."
Meaningless words, I thought.

Tick-tock.

The officer walked himself out, leaving the true

absence of my father in his wake.
The cereal was already soggy in the bowl.
*****
Twelve years.
It took twelve years. It took twelve painful years and an
independent committee to bring the truth to light.

“Corruption.”

“Complicity.”

“Cover up.”

Call it anything you want. There wasn't any gun. The

officer had confused a bottle of milk for a handgun and
opened fire without provocation.
My father, dead. Over a bottle of milk.
People claim that there’s no point in crying over spilt
milk.
I hate that phrase.
Mom never recovered, passed to her grave without
knowing the truth, and currently rests beside my father’s,
just as they did in their bedroom.
Born the same. Died the same. 
I enlisted as soon as I was able. Neither to free my country,
nor to right a wrong. Just for vengeance.
I've done some terrible things. Terrible, terrible things.
And I'm not complaining. I make no apologies for it, to
man or to any god.
We are all born the same. We all die the same.
However, we are not the same.
I'm not the same person I used to be. That December
morning, at eight o'clock, I changed.