1 Chapter One - How I Conjured Nimbus Clouds

He was gone.

I tried to visit him again at the bar. His manager told me he hasn't been to work for days now.

His apartment was padlocked, again.

"Where are you? Please. I need your help." I sent probably my hundredth message for just this week. All without a response. Ambon was nowhere to be found.

The sound reverberated again in every part of my skull, seething thunderclaps of pain after wretched pain into my brain.

"Can't stand the noise inside too, huh?" I could almost answer the memory of his question out loud as if he were really here. It was the first thing he said when we first met.

Even the smell lingered in my recollection—of sweat, alcohol, piss, and vomit. It was not only the noise of the loud music I couldn't stand inside the Neo Bar.

I stepped out of the glass doors, where the neon lights OPEN would hang, to escape all those horrid smell as well.

Outside, all I could hear was the soft dripping of the rain, the loud music inside felt hundreds of miles away. All I could smell was the earthy dew of the wet road releasing the last heat of the summer.

I couldn't help but smile at the thought of the first rain of May.

He then asked me that question, "Can't stand the noise inside too?" And I looked to my right to see him hiding under the shadows of the narrow alley.

The flickering streetlights were enough, however, for me to see a drop of rain slithering from his chin to the curves of his neck.

"Do you have a light?" He walked nearer and the scent of bark and moss from his perfume covered the earthy smell.

I could immediately feel the clashing of his cold, husky voice against the small fire from my lighter.

I had to tip my toes. He leaned in lower, catching the small fire with his cigarette. He was too tall. Tall enough for me not to see what stories he had been hiding behind his eyes.

Now that he was nearer, though, I could make out some of the details in spite of the secrets of his eyes—ripped jeans, a plain black sweater, and long hanging hair that he constantly brushed up with his fingertips.

On his right hand, he held the cigarette between his index and thumb.

There was a puff of smoke, then a calming sound of inhalation.

"Do you want one?" he asked. I shook my head. I already took five that day.

It had been a stressful rehearsal and two of my friends invited me to try something I never even attempted before: swimming through a sea of drunk people and release the pressures of the entire week.

Clearly it wasn't for me. So, instead of having another stick, all I did was to extend my arms and let the wisps of rain slide through my fingers.

He blew out the smoke and at that time, I wasn't sure whether it was just my imagination or that the smoke really became the night clouds.

"You are a quiet creature, aren't you?" I could only answer with a puff of a laughter. "What's your name?" again, he brushed his hair with his fingertips.

Grandma Sol used to tell me when I was just a girl, when we were still in the province, never to give my name away to strangers.

She would say that knowing someone's name would mean dominance. You call out a name and you'd have power over the being.

"You can never be so sure, hija," she would say while assembling her dried seeds to make different kinds of agimat and other charms. "Anybody could be a maligno nowadays, a monster."

She would then tell me stories of cafres, giant hairy monsters that would hide in old trees.

She said that once one knew a name, he'd be able to control all of the person's movement.

The victim would just then realize that she's going around in circles no matter how hard she tries to escape.

But I was just a little girl back then. Now, I was finally all grown up.

Cafres and other malignos only hide in trees, right?

All I could see around me were rainforests of buildings and fast-driving cars.

I was about to tell him my name when France pushed the glass doors, his arms wrapped around Sid as he was trying to keep his balance.

Sid wiped the corner of his lips and started crying.

"We have to go. This guy's all kinds of drunk now," France would then laugh with his low voice, while Sid was trying to push him away, saying that he's fine and that he didn't need any help.

I glanced back at him, but he was gone.

All that remained was the cloud of smoke swirling around me.

Even the rain was fading away, although I didn't know anything about him and the rain back then.

So I left.

And that night, or whatever was left of it, when I was all alone in my room, I took off all of my clothes, attempting to remove and forget the smell of sweat and piss and vomit that clung to me.

I unbuttoned my skirt and pulled off my grey top.

I kicked away my heels and finally felt that my feet could breathe.

I unhooked my bra and removed the rest of my underwear.

I imagined him, still nameless but face all too familiar now, recalling our conversation over and over again, until I could memorize all his words and the way he spoke with a raspy voice.

I closed my eyes and pictured every slight movement of his full ashen lips.

My body was tired but every part of my soul was awake; and it took every thrust of my fingers against my chasm for me to suddenly fall asleep.

"Answer the call please." I cancelled the dial when it went to voicemail again, and threw my head over my pillow to stop the sounds of thunder from throbbing against my head.

At first I thought it was just from outside, that it was from the skies. But the clouds were too clear when I pulled the curtains to check.

Then, perhaps, a migraine.

But I'd been drinking too many mefenamic acids and paracetamols to take my headache away since then.

Nothing.

I removed the pillow from my head when I felt something dripping at the corner of my lips.

At first glance I thought it came from a busted pipe from the apartment upstairs.

There it was, however. Over my head, just below the ceiling of my bedroom was a puff of a nimbus cloud the size of my fist.

Then the thunders rolled again.