» Menthol-Guy

Okay, I don’t really know how to start this post.

My blockmate Joyce, 18, died in a car accident. I only knew about it after one of our fellow blockmates passed the text message last Friday, days after the burial, I was told. I asked her first if this is true–though I know it would be preposterously harsh for someone to joke about somebody’s death, but just to assure that the sad news is true–that Joyce had died. Maybe it was hesitance for my part, or denial, for she was stunningly beautiful, and admittingly one of my crushes in the block. Maybe I tried to insist that she was the wrong person, that it was a mistaken identity, that the accident wouldn’t happen to her! But the burial had ended days before. Joyce had died.

The burial was held somewhere in Mindoro, Joyce’s home province.

When the message had gradually sank in, my eyes started to well with tears - shallow tears, but remorseful ones. Why Joyce, for chrissake, would die in a car accident? I have no details of whether Joyce was drunk-driving or not; she knows how to drive, yes, but she isn’t the type who would drink and drive. She is a friend who somewhat knows her limits, or probably I’m saying this again to insist that she’s someone good. People always say good things to a dead person–they always remember the flawless, the almost-perfect, the things worth mentioning.

But Joyce, of all people, wouldn’t do that.

The information was still incomplete. She shifted to Diliman to take Business Administration, and since then, we didn’t have any connection whatsoever. The last time I saw her was during her birthday celebration, around September of last year. I was at Iziz Bar with her close friend (also our blockmate) and their guy friend from their Botany class. The three of them were drinking so I decided to join and drink too. I treated her a Tequila Sunrise, if I’m not mistaken, and I bought myself a Black Russian.

When we did the cheers and the glass-clinking, all three of us made our wishes for her.

“I just really, really hope you’ll enjoy your college life–no matter where you want to shift.”

That’s the almost-exact words I’ve told her. Until now, whenever I play it on my mind and remember her face, I shiver. I bitterly shrug myself and tell me, “why gone so young?” I don’t know. I don’t know why or how it happened, but it did–it irreversibly did.

It is depressing to know that at a young age, Joyce had died. I’m no good at handling grief: my Tito died way back 2006 after some guy had shot him to his head and my brother ran him to the hospital with brains sticking out of his head, and afterwards it was declared a dead-on-arrival. He was a good man, but I didn’t really cried at his burial. Those tears weren’t fake, either. Those tears were moved to come out of my eyes just because everybody’s crying. Maybe the degree of intimacy or closeness we have had wasn’t really that much. But when it comes to Joyce, I can’t help but feel… lonely and everything.

Had I known about the news earlier, I would have rushed to the hospital. I would have gone to Mindoro for her burial (and probably visit Puerto Galera, too, to unwind with my fellow blockmates) but it seemed impossible now.

It’s time to move on. It’s sad to know that Joyce couldn’t do things I can do at the moment, but it also uplifts me to strive for more, to do something life-changing, to “pluck the day,” as how the Latin phrase “carpe diem” puts it.

That blockmate who informed me about the death said that Joyce was with her orgmate/sis by the time the car accident happened. Unfortunately, they both died.

The taste of Black Russian would always make me remember of Joyce and that birthday celebration last year and her smile that wouldn’t wane for a while, that certain smile which would stay there, unintentionally poised. These things are inevitable to remember now, knowing that once in my life I have met Joyce, and the memories would never wane.

Until then.