9 Iron Boy

The naked boy looks so small he seems only a toddler of about five. He is bald saved by a few strands of frizzy hair brushing his temple and forehead. Below it, two small, beady eyes gaze up at me, the irises insanely too large that no whites can be seen at all.

The boy is as pallid white as a dimestore mannequin. As pale as a corpse.

And the face! He seems like wearing a mask: a flesh-like mask that covers his entire forehead to the upper jaws. No, not a mask. A cleft. The boy has a facial cleft. Bulging jaw and cheek bones all the way to the upper face, making him look like he's smiling.

Facial cleft. Uncle Ezra used to show me photos of his patients' disfigured faces. Before he finally succumbed to the cancer that was eating his flesh we have been calling him the great Iron Man. How he struggle, how he fought, how hopeful and positive he had been that he will survive the greatest ordeal of his life. He was wrong.

Iron Man.

Iron Boy!

This boy is Iron Boy. Does he have cancer, too? My foot step on something round, and the world turns upside down. The ceiling greets me with the jack-o-lanterns gazing down at me, their eyes unseeing and their zigzagging mouth grinning devilishly. My back is screaming. A vision of a lampshade with its plug pulled off from an electrical socket crosses my mind. It's me. I'm finally unplugged and drained, not from hunger but from terror. I can't even scream.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the pain in my back already subsiding a little.

A red mug lies by my side, above my left shoulder. It has a small crack on its rim. Quickly but weakly, I reach and grab it by its holder, meaning to throw it at Iron Boy if he comes any closer.

The boy is gone. The entire floor is empty. The window on the far side glows bright blue, casting twisted and bizarre shadows on the floor.

You just imagined it, Fyodor.

Did I? But it seemed so real.

Hallucination. You're starving. Starving people are prone to hallucinations. That's a proven fact.

The task of bringing myself up proves to be a lot tiring than getting myself down. After all, this mug is being useless this time. Curseful mug!

The bear stares passively at me.

Hallucination, Fyodor. Leave the bear alone. Get a grip!

Was it also my imagination? The bear? But it moved a while ago. I'm sure about that. I'm–

Sure you did. You saw the bear moving. Hallucination can make you see things. And an innocent Teddy bear is no exception, Fyodor. It moved, sure, but it really didn't move. Get a grip!

The missing peanut brittles. How can they be explained? Where did they go? How-

Ever heard about rats, Fyodor? They also dwell in houses, especially old houses like this one. They're not that picky, you know.

I comb my hair with my hands. My head still throbs. I need to take an aspirin. I have none.

Get some from Sharon, Fyodor. And tell her that you're not feeling well. That you're starving. Damn, tell her that you're dying and that you want to go home now. But first, ask for your salary and go buy yourself something to eat!

I stride my way to the far right corner, away from my station, away from Teddy bear, leaving them all behind me like bad memories and dreams. They were all just my imaginations: Iron Boy and the moving Teddy bear. And I'm also sure that the bear is watching me and marking me for later consuming. It's not finish with me.

Outside the window, swirling mass of clouds blot the moon. Trees sway back and fort; even the cyclone fence surrounding the house sways. If the wind can manage to move a thing as heavy as that it means the approaching storm is some thing to be reckoned with.

Sharon sits behind her desk, a phone pressed against her left ear. Upon the table, a small signage says SHARON DAGUMBOY: OPERATIONAL MANAGER written in bold black letters. Her face is grave and almost grim as she speaks with a person on the other line. She curtly nods at me. I am about to nod back when Sharon shifts her gaze to her PC and begin typing on the keyboard while still talking over the phone.

Mountains of papers and folders riddle Sharon's table; crumpled pieces of cartolina and glossy papers litters the floor, and the storm's not even here.

On the far corner in my left, a girl is sitting still on her seat, her cheek pressed against the keyboard. Bright red hijab partially covers half of her face with her headset still wrapped around her neck. Her eyes are squeezed shut. She is snoring. A large black sheet of fabric decorated with golden crescent moons is huddled around her shoulder to her waist. The monitor before her glows brightly, and even at this distance I can make out those words plastered on the screen: Lolita Outbreak.

A door creaks open on my right, revealing Helga holding a container of peanut brittle in one hand. Our eyes meet. Her face darkens.

"A tropical storm named Helga is expected to landfall on Northen Luzon by the morning. Storm signal is raised to one in Batangas, Laguna, and Quezon Province..."

A general laughter issues from inside the room. Helga throws a reproachful glance over her shoulder.

The laughter abruptly stops. Or was it just also my hallucination? But wait, did I hear it right? The name of the storm is Helga?

"In other news, police authority has envisioned an all-out manhunt for a male patient who have brutally murdered six women in San Pablo City area. Authority says that the man, a patient at San Pablo Institute of Criminally Insane, has escaped earlier this evening and should be considered extremely dangerous. Official confirms that the suspect is a heavy-set man in his late forties, and is reported to be wearing a Creepy Clown suit stolen from the home of one of his victims. All residence of San Pablo City are adviced to remain in their homes until further notice throughout this emergency alert situation."

Seemingly satisfied, Helga snorts. She shuts the door behind her with a loud bang. The signage Training Room swings on its hinge. Helga throws her gaze at me again, rolls her eyes, and starts walking away, her chin up and her neck erect.

"I just called PLDT, Helga." Sharon drops the receiver upon the cradle. She looks solemnly at Helga, almost apologetically as if she hates being the bringer of bad news. "Unfortunately, they need to put down their lines starting this midnight. The bad storm is really coming our way."

Helga sits on the chair in front of Sharon's table, as silent as a cat, not saying anything. She just keeps on munching and gnawing, her face dark and grave, her unseeing eyes nailed upon Maggie's side of the station.

"As for those missing agents, I don't know why they didn't even bother to notify us through text. It's weird. They must have heard about that storm and–"

"Fire those morons."

"What? I don't–"

"Dig the wax out of your ears, Sharon. I said fire those morons. And also Jarvis. I want that dickhead out of the team."

"Jarvis? But why?"

"He just left us, Sharon. What a pussy."

"But, Helga, we can't really blame Jarvis. You were possessed a while ago–"

Helga glares at Sharon.

"Shut your pie-hole. I was just pranking, silly."

"Sure," Sharon mutters under her breath, dropping her eyes on her desk, leafing through the papers, pretending to read them. "Whatever you say, Helga."

"Good." Helga slides another peanut brittle in her already oily mouth. "Anyway, where on earth is Rohit? He's not in the Training room."

Sharon shrugs, not leaving her eyes on the papers. "Maybe he's in the bathroom, or in the pantry, smoking."

"Fix him, Sharon. I hate his guts."

"Noted, Helga. I'll talk to him after the shift."

"You better." Helga scoffs. "Now, as I've said, fire those missing agents including Jarvis. They're no longer part of the team. Effective as of tonight."

Sharon lifts her head.

"Helga, we can't do that."

"Why not?"

"I mean, we can but it would be so impractical. We need them in our team. Besides, we can't really blame them, can we? A storm is heading our way and–"

"It's not a valid reason! They must adapt. Remember the versatility and flexibility that they proudly claimed so in their interviews? Huh! What a joke! They just proved themselves wrong!"

"Helga, a storm is coming and–"

Helga slams her fist against the table. "Our clients will never accept that excuse and you know it, Sharon! Can't even find it acceptable myself. Inappropriate!"

"Well, our clients in the US have no choice but to accept it." Sharon sighs. "Even if our agents show up tonight, all twenty of them, we still have no choice but to postpone our shift. The lead generation has stopped. PLDT's going to shut down their line in a few moments. And who knows, perhaps even the light–" Sharon gasps as some thing hits her on the chest.

It is a piece of peanut brittle. Unbelievable!

"Don't you contradict me, Sharon!"

"Helga, I–"

"I'm not even asking for your opinion. Just because we're cousins doesn't mean you can say whatever you want. Huh! Know your place, girl."

"Very mature, Helga." Sharon grabs a tissue from her purse and begins to wipe her chest.

Helga crosses her arms on her chest and throws a rather disinterested glance at the large aquarium situated by the window. Three red-bellied piranhas are swimming inside, their teeth as sharp as prinpicks protruding from their gaping mouths.

"You should learn to control your temper, Helga. It's not helping you and the company at all."

"And you should learn to control your mouth, Sharon." Helga shifts her gaze back at Sharon, her voice cold and firm. "For your own sake. If you know what's good for you."

"Helga, stop it." Sharon glances at me. Her face seems to stiffen a little. She doesn't look angry but rather startled and sad. I feel so sorry for her. She doesn't deserve to be bullied. No one does. My heart goes out to her. And to me, as well.

We both share the same room, after all.