Home I tried to warn them. But they wouldnt listen. It was the first of October when it happened.

I can still hear the layers of screamssopranos and tenorsblended with eerie overtones of sputtering engines and screeching tires. A requiem dedicated to the final chapter of their lives. I was looking at my feet while I was walking alone along Sucat Road as I had been doing every night at the hour when this part of the city grew peaceful and quiet, dark and empty. Usually, I would walk all the way from the highway to that one bridge that I call home. See, I dont have a house. I once did but I was reduced to homelessness. While some fortunate people live in houses, I live under a bridge. Along a sharply curved part of Sucat Road is where my bridge sturdily stands. A haven of cream and orange with four steep stairways linking one world to another. One stairway leads to a jeepney terminal while the other stairway leads to a mall. One moment a heavily polluted pit of heat and smog and the next, a sanctuary of mechanically modified air. My bridge is my refuge. I have watched the seasons pass in this home of mine. I spend hot summer days under my bridge, deeply hidden from the blistering rays of the sun. I spend cold, rainy days without fear of being drenched in grimy rainwater for my bridge has offered to be my umbrella. My bridge protects me and I swore on its cracked cement and rusty roof that I would protect it as well. I was crying. I cant remember why but I was crying while I was walking. Something must have happened to me that day that I couldnt stop the tears from trickling down my cheeks. My sobs were uncontrollable. I noticed people staring at me like I was crazy. Some people chose to ignore me and honestly, I liked it better that way. Why was I crying? It must be one of those visions I keep having from time to time. Every time I have those visions, I know there is something about to threaten my bridge. Yes! It has to be the visions! I vividly remember riding a jeepney to get to my bridge as quickly as possible. I was seated on the part of the jeep that was closest to the door so I could jump out quickly as soon as the jeep reached my stop. I was still crying when I rode the jeepney. There were 6 passengers then, excluding me a good turnout for the jeepney driver at this ungodly hourand I didnt want them to notice that I was crying so I tried to control my sobs. Instead, I observed the people onboard the jeepney to busy myself. I remember a man, maybe in his early forties, with a stack of plywood and a black Tuscany backpack that had holes on its front pocket where he had been keeping his nails. A young mother was trying to keep her eyes wide open for she needed to stay awake to fan and watch over her son who had been sleeping on her lap. An old woman who had just finished shopping in the market carried with her a bayong made of abaca dyed in pink. She had fresh, vibrant strings of beans and swamp cabbage held together by rubber bands hanging from her bayong. A teenage boy dressed in white long sleeves, straight cut jeans, and Chuck

Taylor shoes plugged the earphones of his iPod into his ears and rhythmically nodded his head. And finally, a plump middle-aged woman clad in jewelry sat beside the jeepney driver and noticed that I was crying. She glanced at me once in a while using the wide rearview mirror and I couldnt help but notice, even behind her black-rimmed oval eyeglasses, that there was a judgmental look in her eyes. We had just sped past Lianas Supermarket when I noticed the jeepney swerving to the right but immediately recovered after a second or two. I became scared. I started to be wary of my surroundings. I saw a sign in the jeepney that said, God knows HUDAS not pay. I giggled for a split second. I didnt have money and I hope God also knows who cannot pay. But my laughter immediately died when I noticed something odd about the sign. Its like Ive been there before. There was something haunting about that sign that made me feel that there was something wrong. I looked at the jeepney drivers eyes through the rearview mirror and noticed that they were bloodshot. He must have been tired from all the driving and his eyes were ready to retire at this hour. I cried once again. The uncontrollable sobs were harder to hide this time. I fixed my gaze upon one of the names painted on the ceiling of the jeepney. Xenia. There was something familiar about that name that made me feel uneasy. Finally, I noticed a Santo Nino stuck to the dashboard and then it hit methese things were all in my visions! The jeepney that I was riding was the threat to my bridge! We had just passed a chain of night clubs when I realized that I was given these visions for a reason. I said in a deep tone, Get out of the jeepney. Now. but no one minded me. The jeep started to slant a little to the left. I tried to warn them once more. This jeep will crash and, I screamed, interrupted by a car who blew his horn at the jeepney driver who placed his jeepney in between two lanes. I was given no attention aside from the stare that the lady in the front seat had been giving me from time to time. The lady in front asked for the driver to halt the jeepney. She got off in a dark area and fixed her stare upon me. The jeepney sped up once again and even from a distance, I could feel her eyes transfixed on me. She slowly merged with the shadows of the dark road and disappeared from my sight. I wanted to save everyone from the accident. I was so preoccupied with trying to save everyone that I almost forgot about my bridgethe bridge that I call home. I could already see my bridge from where the jeepney driver was over-speeding at. I was angry. My bridge was in danger and so were all the people in the jeepney. Once again, I tried. With an outburst of tears, I shouted, Get out of the jeepney! Now!

The driver completely fell asleep and pressed on the gas pedal too hard. From 60 to 120, I immediately jumped out of the jeepney. Everything happened so quickly. In an instant, I found myself standing beside the stairway to the right side of my bridge and screamed once more. Stop! I said as I closed my eyes in fear and cried. It was too late when the jeepney driver woke up and finally noticed me. He sped right through me and steered the wheel too much to the left that the jeepney lost control and toppled over twice. I heard a harmony of shriekssopranos and tenorsblended with eerie overtones of the sputtering engine and screeching tires of an automobile. It was the requiem of freak accidents on the roadthe obra de arte musical of death. I retreated to my home under the bridge, sat on the floor, placed my chin on my knees, hugged my shins and cried. Im tired. Im tired of seeing the same things all the time under my bridge. Every single time, I tried to warn them. I tried to warn them because Ive been there before. I heard the same music that they heard on that final trip to nothingness. Now, its their turn to listen to the same requiem I have been hearing since the time I first lived here. Its their turn to look for a place they could call their home. As for me, this is my bridge. This is my home.