Moonlight
Monday, November 8, 2010
By: Jayson Patalinghug
I remember the weight first.
It pinned my hand to the mattress, heavy and cold as stone. My body would not obey me; every breath I took felt stolen, as if invisible fingers were pressing against my lungs. My mind, however, was fully awake—painfully awake.
From beyond my room, I heard the sounds of chaos: the sharp
shatter of plates, the piercing cries of someone breaking apart, the furious
pounding of fists against doors. Walls trembled. Shadows roared.
I fought to open my eyes, to move even a finger, but the
unseen weight grew heavier, as though an iron hand was holding me down. Panic
welled up, and I whispered hoarsely, my words tripping over one another:
“Please… let me go.”
Nothing.
Then I remembered Him.
“I rebuke you, demon,” I gasped, “in the name of Jesus—my
Lord, my Savior—leave me!”
The words cracked in the silence. And just like that—the
force loosened its grip. My eyes flew open. I lay drenched in sweat, my chest
heaving, my throat parched as though I had been drowning in a dream.
I stumbled out of bed, my legs trembling. The hallway
stretched before me, dim and hollow. The front door hung open, swaying
slightly, as if someone had just stepped out. I glanced at the clock—3:00 a.m.
The hour when night feels older than death.
The moonlight spilled through the cracked window, silvering
the veranda. It was strangely beautiful, almost tender, softening the
brokenness around me. For a moment, it soothed me. Perhaps, I thought, the
moon is God’s lantern, reminding me not all darkness is merciless.
But then—
Huhuhu…
A cry. Soft, mournful, and distant, yet so near it seemed to
seep into my very bones.
I froze. My breath hitched. The sound grew clearer as I
stepped through the sala, where only the pale glow of the moon lit my way. I
reached for the switch but stumbled over something unseen.
That’s when I saw her.
She sat at the dining table, shoulders trembling, her head
buried in her arms. Long strands of hair veiled her face. A white gown clung to
her figure and shimmered faintly in the moonlight, as though it had been
stitched from the light itself.
“Who… who are you?” I whispered, though my throat felt
sealed shut.
Her sobbing slowed. She lifted her head just enough for her
voice to escape, fragile and broken:
“Why did he leave us?”
The sound pierced me. My knees weakened. My sweat ran like
rain down my face.
She stood then, slowly, her gown trailing like mist. Step by
step, she moved toward me. My body screamed to run, but I could not. She knelt
in front of me, her face finally revealed.
Her eyes—oh God, her eyes—were oceans of grief. They pulled
me in, drowning me in her sorrow.
“My son,” she whispered, “your father has left us. He broke
me when he went to her last night.”
Her words struck like lightning, illuminating everything I
feared but dared not name. Tears blurred my sight.
“Mother?” I choked out, though I was not sure if it was
truly her or a specter conjured by the moonlight.
She touched my cheek, her fingers cold but tender.
“Be strong,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must be
strong, even when the world falls apart.”
And then—she was gone. The room stood empty, the moonlight
cold and silent once more.
I remained there, tears dripping freely, unsure if I had
dreamed her into being or if the moon itself had given her back to me for just
one fleeting moment.
