EVANESCENCE
Savior
by Gab Padilla
Spiky, dark-haired, and hazel-eyed, the lean-muscled young man stood clad in steel-colored armor, raising a shimmering diamond sword triumphantly amidst the roaring cheers of the warriors who had fought beside him. He was on the brink of completing his speech about triumph and reclaiming his birthright as the promised prince of the Empire, after years of banishment by his malevolent mother.
Atop the stone ruins of the Capital, the great prince surveyed the smoldering remnants of his homeland. Stone houses gradually collapsed around him, weakened by days of relentless fire that had consumed their wooden frames. Debris filled the many avenues leading to his stronghold, and bodies of foes and comrades alike lay strewn across the city. After weeks of battling wave after wave of enslaved monsters and enemy nations, he had triumphed against all odds and now basked in his greatest moment.
But the war was far from over. He directed his sword eastward,
towards his evil mother's lair, vowing retribution and the dawn of his thousand-year dynasty. The crowd erupted, battle-hardened and thirsting for vengeance for their ravaged city and fallen comrades. A larger, bloodier confrontation loomed on the horizon—a final battle between good and evil, the righteous and the damned.
That is, until my pen ran dry, leaving my drawing of the great prince an incomplete mess, much to my chagrin. I was just finishing the artwork for the main character of my new fantasy saga. Another Tolkien-inspired story that I had been working on for months, fueled by my passion, ignited after witnessing the greatest film of all time three years ago. Who would’ve thought a boring set of pirated movies my mother found in the dark corners of Calinan Public Market would lead me to a new hobby: writing fantasy stories?
This is the fourth installment of my saga—yes, saga, because it sounds cooler than a novel, which feels too dramatic and romantic, like what my mother reads in her spare time. I want my characters to fight to the death, win with the powers and coincidences I bestow upon them, crush nations of people I don’t like, and create worlds as bloody and glorious as the others I’ve imagined. Spectacle after spectacle, but this time I want to document all their experiences and travels so I will never forget them.
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But I can’t finish it yet because my mother refuses to give me another pen. She just bought one last week, the same pen I used to waste the intermediate paper she also bought last week, writing and drawing my stories. My hands tremble with excitement; you see, this is the first time I’ve incorporated myself into the story. The great prince is me, something I’ve always planned to do. I want to save these people I created, to be the king and savior that was promised.
As I imagine more of what this princely self can do in my future installments, I am drawn to the idea of what this great prince represents: a savior. In life, we encounter saviors in many forms. They may not be the knights in shining armor we envision, but saviors are everywhere, from Christ himself to a stranger who helps when you're lost in Gaisano. We're surrounded by the concept of saviors, but unlike others who merely meet them, I get to create them. And this savior is going to be me.
I've always prided myself on my writing skills. Crafting and delivering my own commencement speech, being invited to school journalism workshops, representing the school in writing and reading competitions—all at a young age—were achievements others envied. Yet, amidst it all, I never truly enjoyed them. Creating worlds and heroes in my notebooks was far more fulfilling than any award or praise. Ironically, I was prouder of the saviors I conjured from my imagination than of the accolades I received for my natural abilities.
I get to control the narrative, something I've always desired. As a scrawny, small kid with mediocre looks, I felt insignificant in a world ruled by brute strength and beauty, despite my gifted mind. I may be smart, but after school, I was often mocked for my appearance and unusual hobbies. I was picked on and used as a pawn to bolster others' grades. Perhaps I started writing because it allowed me to create a world that actually cherishes me. That's why I find joy in this craft—because I'm in control. In this chaotic world, I am the one who is promised to save it, just as my real-life fantasies propel me.
I searched the entire house for a pen, desperate to continue my fantasy story. I looked in every dusty corner of the cupboards, in the narrow spaces between the sofa, and even on the floor for anything that resembled a pen. Asking my mother for one would only lead to another lecture, which I wanted to avoid. Despite my exhaustive search, I found nothing.
As a last resort, I headed to my mother's room, but before I could get there, I heard the familiar sound of a motorcycle approaching the house. I rushed to the front door and saw my grandparents, Gil and Emelia, arriving on the porch. They often visited us in Talomo if they had spare time, usually bringing Milk Bars that my grandfather delivered throughout Davao and the surrounding areas.
My grandfather, wearing his usual denim jacket, is a hardworking and consistent man, dedicated to his job as a deliveryman with few absences except for illness. He buys Milk Bars from the plant and sells them to different buyers he's met over the years. If my life were like The Lord of the Rings, he would be Gandalf, and I would be Frodo. He was the only grandfather in my immediate family and always present at my birthdays and special eventsAlthough stern, he was a great grandfather to me—an accomplished man with a loving family, devoted wife, and fulfilling work. I always aspired to be like him when I grew up. Whenever he came to our home, he was always willing to take me back to Malagos, making my weekends there truly special.
A new adventure awaited in Malagos, but more importantly, it was a chance to finish my fantasy story. My grandparents owned a store there, stocked with a box full of pens I could use and take home. Apart from being spoiled with sweets and being tucked into bed, the excitement of completing my story was overwhelming. I could start the next installment, draw new scenes, and write about them. The possibilities were endless.
But that was fifteen years ago. Now, in my mid-20s, I find myself wasting this hot summer day buried in assignments and deadlines. When months like this should be spent refreshing on the white sand beaches of Samal or Mati, I'm stuck at home, haunted by a question: "Why do I write?"
From a young age, I discovered my identity as a writer. Over the years, I have crafted hundreds, perhaps thousands, of works ranging from fantasy stories and essays to poems and other literary pieces. While the quality is sometimes questionable and many remain unfinished, the fact remains that I can write efficiently and with merit. Yet, I have never seriously pondered why I write.
If writing once gave me a sense of control, that feeling is long gone. Papers have consumed me, and endless school tasks have taken a toll on my daily life. I've abandoned most of the hobbies I once enjoyed, especially writing fantasy stories. I've outgrown the early motivations behind my writing and have forgotten the lore I once promised myself to revisit. Stacks of drawings and writings lie hidden beneath my bed, waiting for me to unfold them and rekindle old memories. But every time I try, all I see are doodles—characters and places that once had stories. I don't remember any of them, yet one figure, the spiky-haired savior, piqued my interest.
Like looking at a picture of an old friend, I now recognize him only as the eyes of a world I once created. He was supposed to be me, but looking at myself now—fat, tired, uncharismatic, a slacker—I understand why I wrote: to escape my reality. The idea of a place where I could be a savior was appealing to someone who couldn't save himself from his predicaments. A place where people acknowledged me, comrades fought for me, and a lover devoted to me. But this is also why I outgrew them in the first place. These were blinding fantasies, serving only as a coping mechanism for the harshness of reality.
The idea of being a savior has never left me. Although I may have outgrown writing about them, I still embody that essence. In everything I do, there’s always a hint that I’m here to save something. Initially, I wrote fantasy stories to preserve the lore in my drawings, which then evolved into creating savior characters. Creating main characters with savior archetypes has not only shaped my writing but has also profoundly influenced my life. I find myself embodying the essence of a savior, striving to protect and preserve. This drive to save permeates everything I do, motivating me to assist others whenever possible. Whether through my stories or actions, I am committed to making a positive impact and offering support to those in need. My writing and life are intertwined with this mission, reflecting a deep-seated desire to be a force for good. It's a sentiment I wish I had captured last March, a moment that could have been my keepsake.
Cold winds brushed against my face as I gazed up at the moonlit sky. Despite the loud karaoke sounds from my grandparents' rented system, where my cousin’s classmates sang energetically, I found peace sitting on the concrete guardrail of the bridge near my grandparents’ house. It was my cousin Jellianne’s debut, and after eating and socializing with relatives and cousins in Malagos, I took a breather on the small concrete bridge, perched on its rails. Her classmates monopolized the karaoke since they arrived, and although I wanted to sing, the long list of reserved songs meant I wouldn’t get a turn until the next morning. So, there I was, enjoying the cold breeze of late March.
Holy Week had begun, offering a two-week break from classes. My professors suggested using this time to recuperate and prepare for the upcoming activities after the break. I intended to rest and earn some money from my part-time work assisting my mother. This was a rare moment of peace for me, a solitary retreat amidst the surrounding revelry.
My solitude was interrupted by my grandfather. He looked different from the man who visited on my birthday in February. Once lean and energetic, he now appeared sickly and frail. He had always looked younger than his peers, but now it seemed age had caught up with him. As he approached, he coughed repeatedly, something that had been a topic of concern at home. He had been coughing for a year, and while we initially thought it was due to his work as a delivery man, my grandmother feared it was something worse. His deteriorating physique prompted her to take him to a hospital, but with Holy Week starting, hospitals in Calinan wouldn’t be accommodating new patients.
My grandfather sat near me on the concrete rail, sharing the peace and calm I was enjoying. Together, we watched the road and the vehicles passing by, amidst the stillness of the night. I stole glances at him, afraid to start any awkward conversations that might break this serene moment. We were never as close as my other cousins were to him. Our interactions were limited to small talks about the weather, the cats, or if we had eaten—conversations that always ended quickly.
It wasn’t like the times when I could ride on his back and he would take me anywhere, or when we would talk freely. Yet, in that moment of peace, I wanted to talk to him, to ask if he was okay, or at least take a picture together under the moonlit sky. But my shyness and respect for his space prevailed, and we ended up silently staring at the road until I left to get some ice cream.
When my love for fantasy stories failed to reignite my passion for writing, it was my fantasies themselves that carried me through. I believed that if I wrote an essay or a story unparalleled by my classmates, I would be recognized by my teachers or peers. I crafted essays and stories with a serious tone, often cynical and edgy in nature, genres typically attributed to mature students capable of handling such topics. Once, I wrote a short story about a girl who was sexually harassed by her father. The story was narrated by her friend, who discovered her plight through letters she sent, reading them throughout a flight back to his childhood home. The friend arrived too late; she had died by suicide two days after sending the letter. This story earned praise from my female English teacher, with whom I had a crush.
I also wrote stories that I shared with my classmates, often incorporating names suggested by my female peers to involve them in my creations. This approach worked in my favor—I represented my school in various writing competitions, led writing efforts in school, and received praises and favors from my teachers. However, these moments of recognition never truly satisfied me. The praises were fleeting, and the euphoria vanished quickly, leaving me back in my comfort zone—alone. I remembered the time when writing fantasy stories made me feel connected and never alone. That sense of fulfillment kept me pursuing writing, but as elementary and high school came to an end, I couldn't recapture that feeling of contentment and happiness. Writing became a chore, akin to washing dishes, and a responsibility I gradually came to resent. I felt like a pawn, a frontline soldier, someone expected to perform for others.
I guess I did save them from having to act, submitting entries for competitions and being their saving face when all else failed. Yet another of my fantasies, the savior archetype I aspired to embody, kept me agreeing to their demands and expectations. I convinced myself that by fulfilling their requests, I was doing them a favor, rescuing them from predicaments they wished to avoid. In my mind, what I was doing wasn’t a chore but a noble duty, something that a savior should do.
It wasn't until I befriended Shaira. She was my classmate back in Grade 11 at Holy Cross College of Calinan, and although we were aware of each other, it took a year for our friendship to blossom. Shaira was a cute, petite girl with slanted eyes that hid her dark brown irises. Her popularity wasn't just due to her cuteness and beauty but her charisma and friendliness—traits I admired and wished I possessed as she effortlessly connected with everyone.
Our friendship began when we were seated next to each other and started collaborating on assignments. Initially, our relationship was transactional, but it eventually grew into something more intimate and unconditional, where we could be vulnerable and trust each other with our deepest secrets. Beneath her popular persona was a troubled girl, still reeling from past breakups and the death of her father. She would confide in me about her exhaustion, her struggle to hold onto hope, and how her Christianity prevented her from contemplating suicide.
Learning this about her shocked me, and often all I could do was listen and empathize. Wanting to do more for her, despite having no money to spare, I wrote her a poem on a small piece of paper and slipped it into her notebook. Her eyes shimmered when she confronted me about the poem, and her shy look and blushing cheeks as she gazed at me were enough to keep me writing more. Poem after poem, I craved her adorable expression, as if her face glowed after a day of hardships.
Her innate beauty had already captivated me, but it was her cute smile and blushing cheeks that made me fall deeply in love with her. Although we were both in love, she was in a relationship, a fact I always kept in mind during our intimate moments. People saw me as either a snake prowling for prey or a hopeless romantic, but it was her happiness that kept me grounded in our fantasies. Her smile was something I wanted to preserve, and if saving that smile and her life meant writing to make her happy, then I was willing to stay unconditionally by her side.
I continued writing for her with a reignited passion, finally fulfilling my long-held desire to be someone’s savior. A damsel in distress, with only my words as my sword. In the realm of romance, it seems the pen truly is mightier than the sword.
The cold winds surrounded me once again, this time inside an enclosed space at Brokenshire, produced by the nearby air conditioner. Holy Week had just ended a day ago, and after failing to find a hospital near Calinan that could diagnose my grandfather’s ‘unknown’ sickness, we came here. I sat near the edge of the second bed in our room, with my siblings and cousin hogging most of the space. I tried to find joy in this somber place, and as most of the people in the room had either slept or gone outside, I was left trying to sate my boredom. I searched among the cups and plates for food, pressed the remote to change the perpetual NBA channel on the TV, or played with my phone.
As I sought anything to pique my interest, a thin stack of papers across the shelf near my grandfather’s bed caught my attention. Curious, I wondered if these papers were medical documents, necessary papers for securing donations, or a medical diagnosis. I took the papers and hurriedly read through them. Amidst the medical jargon unfamiliar to me, one word struck me: metastasis. Immediately, I froze and shivered, not from the cold air of the conditioner, but from the realization of what I held. Metastasis: the spread of cancer cells from the place where they first formed to another part of the body. Stage 4, the most severe stage, a point of no return, a death sentence with only months or weeks to live.
I thought of videos and stories of those who recovered from Stage 4 cancer, trying to downplay the situation and negate this imminent, scary fate my grandfather faced, and our family along with him. I read more of the papers, hoping to find some good news, but all I found were medical bills. 120,000 pesos for an entire stay, a sum my family could only earn annually, something my grandparents didn’t have. I put the papers neatly back in their place and left the room, trying to find comfort from the harsh truth. I can’t accept this, I told myself. Why did my grandfather have to be struck by such a disease? Men like him worked to the bone to survive, to support their families, and yet they are the ones taken from us. Why couldn’t those corrupt old politicians past their prime be afflicted and die instead? It’s unfair. Witnessing my grandfather helplessly succumb to cancer, living his last days amidst wires and machines that tried to extend his life, and the insurmountable medical bills for his survival, made me feel utterly helpless.
I tried to pull myself together, not to shed any tears, and walked straight to the corridor down to the main hall of the hospital. As I continued through the white narrow halls, I heard familiar voices. It was my father, his two older siblings, and my grandmother, discussing something. I eavesdropped, hoping to hear any plans or solutions from them, anything they could do. But all I heard was one word that finally weakened me: *dawaton na lang*.
I leaned my back against the wall helplessly, and as they continued their conversation, instead of finding something to ease their resolution, all I could hear were negative comments about my grandfather. I was always aware my grandfather was a stern man, one you should be careful not to mess with, but from the stories of my father’s siblings and my grandmother, he was more than that. He was a strict and harsh man, known by his moniker ‘Saddam,’ after the brutal Iraqi dictator who terrorized the 90s with his wars and brutality. He believed violence was the key to discipline, vehemently opposed to today’s means of discipline, which he felt weakened or spoiled children. My father had bad experiences with my grandfather, who would immediately punish them severely when they did wrong. He was also a selfish and avid gambler, squandering all his money from leasing his land and leaving nothing even for my grandmother. Every negative comment poured down on the conversation, every negative experience they had with my grandfather. My uncle even added that he heard from contacts that my grandfather had been cheating on my grandmother, secretly meeting someone with his money.
I understood their trauma dumping, and part of me wanted to agree and say we shouldn’t let him live. But the harsh, selfish man they painted was overshadowed by the grandfather who was always present at every special event in my life. The same man who would give me what I needed, who would offer to give me a ride back home without question, the man I wished I could be as an adult. I wanted to accept their negative comments just to cope with my helplessness, but every memory of him stopped me. When their negative comments failed, they turned to enforce a unanimous decision. No one wanted to shoulder the burden of paying and keeping an old man alive, especially when most of my cousins were in college. To gamble the money necessary for our future on my grandfather was suicide, my uncle said. You can never really call yourself rich if you can’t face cancer and win. I went back to the room, feeling more helpless than before. I searched for my wallet, and as I looked at the measly 8,000 pesos neatly placed inside, I finally accepted their decision.
But the angelic smile that once anchored me is gone now. After our high school graduation, we drifted apart, each walking our own paths and meeting new people along the way. Though we remained friends, the intimate moments we shared became stories we tend to forget. Seeing her stories on Messenger, I remember the same joyful expressions she gave me after every poem I wrote for her. She smiles on her own now, and I’m genuinely happy for her, hoping those dark days of suicidal thoughts are firmly behind her.
Five years have passed since then. While she has found happiness in her job and life, I find myself struggling with the same battles she once faced. I lost my passion for writing when she no longer wanted my poems. Entering college, I hoped to reignite that passion by writing about people and cultures. My five years pursuing a BS in Anthropology taught me that our role in contemporary society is unparalleled, equipping us with the tools and strategies to become important contributors to our exploited world. Through our writing, we can be the voice of the oppressed, advocates for those endangered by our capitalistic society, and explorers of human cultures. I envisioned myself as a savior, ready to make a real difference.
However, my journey has not been as rosy as I had hoped. Instead, it has been a literal hell: endless papers, daily schedules, and a constant grind. It wasn’t the responsibility that pained me but the realization of my inadequacy compared to my peers. Their travels, their joys, their happiness—these I observed with envy. More crushingly, I watched in awe as my classmates crafted subtle, beautiful, mature, and professional writing, making my once-proud work seem subpar.
In my early years, I believed I was unique, but my complacency blinded me. When reality finally struck, it revealed the truth I had long ignored. My heroes in fantasy stories would rise again and face their challenges, but all I could do was kneel before my harsh reality, moving on and accepting my shortcomings. I lived with my toxicity, drowning in my failures and pessimism. I grew to hate everything: my course, my appearance, my capabilities, my life, everyone I knew, and the world itself.
I never found what I wanted during my five years of college. As I sank deeper into obscurity, my passion for writing burned out, leaving only the responsibilities that kept me moving. I miss the days when I loved writing—when I eagerly filled notebooks with fantasy stories, when I was excited to give Shaira another poem to brighten her day, when I felt alive pondering my unparalleled works. Now, I am just a husk, moving through life for food and curiosity—a living dead.
I lived these recent years slacking and struggling, forever hoping to save myself from the bottomless pit I had dug. The heroes I created and mirrored myself after have now become delusions that either lift me from my predicaments or complicate my situation. I longed to finally be like those heroes, but as my shortcomings and depressive conditions strangled me, I desperately wished for someone to show me the way out. Time and time again, no one came, but if there’s one thing my heroes had that I manifested, it was their stubbornness. I waited and struggled every day to find my purpose and savior, no matter what it took.
Looking at photos of Shaira and me smiling, intimately close for a picture, I was mesmerized by how we found ourselves with each other. All this time, it was not only me who was saving her; we were both saving each other from our predicaments, bringing us back into each other's embrace. But now, all I can do is reminisce about the past as I wait for a sign and purpose, trying to satisfy my delusions of saving myself and being saved. Time will tell, but all I can do is wait and suffocate, hoping to avoid any new shortcomings. I’m willing to live my life that way if it means keeping me sane. And my writing? It’s simply a means to an end that keeps me going, a sliver of hope or a lantern guiding me through this dark forest I’ve found myself in.
Seeing my grandfather one last time, I thought I was prepared to be the man I’d chosen to be. But witnessing his final days broke the core of who I was becoming. A week after starting his treatment in the hospital, my grandparents decided to send him back to Malagos to live his final moments. I never visited him after they decided to let him die, trying to escape the helpless and somber reality of his condition. The circumstances were depressing, and all I could do was distract myself with university tasks or games. Then my father called, saying my grandfather needed to see me. I left Talomo immediately, hoping to find him conscious and living, but all I found was a near-dead body.
He had suffered a stroke an hour earlier, one of the final blows as cancer shut down every function of his vital organs. He lay on a modified bed, his upper body propped up by pillows. The entire left side of his body was paralyzed, with only a few motor functions left, clinging to life with heavy, labored breathing. I tried greeting him, telling him I was there, but all I received were grunts. I wanted to talk to him one last time, to do something for him, to save him from his predicaments, yet all this time, I had escaped from it. In his final moments, the only thing I could give him was a kiss on the forehead as I caressed his head, hoping he could still feel it. That in the end, I did enough for him.
He died that very night, and while everyone in the family cried from his immediate passing, I was left in anger—at myself and at what I had become. I left the room, trying to shed a tear for my grandfather, anything to sate this pain, but nothing ever came. I clenched my fists, hoping to punch the man inside me. Guilt drowned me, knowing that in his greatest need, all I could do was strengthen his resolve. When I was about to drown myself again in my predicaments and shortcomings, my grandfather’s dead yet peaceful body reminded me of the person I had always wanted to be. Of the stories that had made me happy, of the characters I embodied, of their failures that made them who they are.
What had happened to me? What had I allowed myself to become? For so long, I had allowed myself to destroy me, waiting for the end. My grandfather’s passing reignited something I had been trying to hide: the desire to be a savior. Immediately, I returned to his room, looking at his somber body, and made a promise to myself: I will never allow any of my family to suffer the same fate as he did. In their greatest need, I will be there to save them with all my power. His death reminded me of the past I wanted to be and failed, of the present helplessness I embodied, and the future that awaited me if I kept the same pace.
If this were my fantasy story, this would be the death of the main character’s comrade, where the main character finally rises from his depression and awakens his hidden power. I have no time to drown myself again in my failures. This time, instead of being crushed by them, they will be my stepping stone to the world I wish to save. So why do I write? It was always to save. To save myself, people, or anything that needs saving. Through my writing, I can do what saviors do. I am grateful to my grandfather for everything he did, especially for this newfound reason he embedded in me. His final gift, something I never expected. I may have failed to share his final conversations with him, but it was his predicament that saved me from the predicaments I allowed myself to fall into. He was the embodiment of the capable man I always wished to be. I may not be the hero I wrote or tried to embody, but in any way I can, I want to save. He saved me, and in gratitude, I want to start anew. This time, I want to do it starting with this memoir.