She lives in a nice, tidy house painted
in white. She loves everything white. She loves her morning cereals
with a snowy glass of milk. She drinks it out of her little, white
bowl and then carefully wipes her lips with a napkin. Her pet cat,
Pristine, patiently waits for her under the table every time. They go
out of the house every morning to play just outside the door, on the
porch. But not before she washes her hands by the sink. She drags one
of the stools by her arms and climbs onto it to turn the faucet on.
She never fails to sprinkle her face and washes away any smudge left
by her breakfast meal. That's what her mommy and daddy taught her.
Today, she is sitting with Pristine by
the white swing at the garden. She enjoys watching the butterflies
flutter by. She sees a single lustrous orchid by the branch of the
tree beside the swing and snaps a photo. She shows it to the cat who
meows in admiration. Later, they go for a walk and take pictures of
the clean village street that Mrs. Christian sweeps everyday, the
beautiful, spotless houses that lined the sidewalks, Mr. Chaste
bathing his dog Spick and many other pleasant scenes. She will show
them to her mommy and daddy tonight when they get back from work. Her
mommy runs a laundry shop and her daddy is a dedicated police
officer.
Every evening, after supper, her mommy
and daddy always ask her how her day was. She then recites the events
of the day. She even acts out the things that happened to her. She
does this with so much passion, her well-ironed silvery dress dances
with her every move. She is their precious, innocent angel. She
shines every time the light from the fireplace in the living room
hits her tiny bodice. She prances around barefoot; the rugs have been
vacuumed earlier by their Spanish maid Imaculada. She entertains her
mommy and daddy with her stories. What she doesn't tell them is what
she did earlier that day that she knows her mommy and daddy will
never approve.
She is perched on the bench across the
village park browsing through the images she caught on her camera,
when she hears the laughter of someone she knows not who. She stands
up and strains her ears to follow where the sound comes from. She
crosses the street and approaches the monkey bars where a couple of
kids are swinging happily. She turns right towards the seesaw that
one seemed to mind because it was empty. She can already hear the
giggles are closer to her now. Just behind the old carousel, she sees
a boy who is just about to stand.
He has been playing with dirt a moment
before. He looks like he enjoyed it. His arms are muddy brown. He
smells foul with grime on his former-white shirt. His trousers are
stained entirely; he appears to have sat on the dark pool for a
while. He turns and sees the pretty girl from the white house. He
turns a tad red in the face although she can not see. He bows his
head so she won't notice. He stares at his feet that are besmirched
like the rest of his exposed body. He glances at the other pair
before him neatly covered in pretty, white doll shoes. He realizes
that she is still there. So he slowly looks up to see the owner and
is pleasantly surprised.
She is smiling from ear to ear. It's
all she could do while staring at the sullied face of the little boy
in front of her. She doesn't mind the mud that has dried up across
his dimpled cheeks and broad forehead and divided chin. When he
reaches out his dirty hand, she takes it without hesitation. The soil
is not wet anymore; tiny grains fall every now and then between their
entwined fingers. They walk back together to the bench.
It was wondrous to behold.
