[✭] Who Destroyed the Pancake House?

[shinn]

have some composure
where is your posture
oh no no
you're pulling the trigger
pulling the trigger
all wrong

come on
this is screaming
photo op

I rode train when it arrived five or so minutes after I entered the station. There wasn’t anyone with me since everyone else was drinking and I couldn’t bear to drink any more this week. I mean, I’ve been coming back to the apartment in the wee hours of the morning after being crazy people with my friends. It was an awesome week, but I really had to go home.

My mom misses me, and so does my dog.

Or at least, I hope they do.

The first train ride was normal. As usual, there were a bunch of people taking the train since it was just 6 in the evening and all the little working people were on their merry way home as well. I couldn’t get a seat and I had to stand by one of the poles and lean on it for support. It was like I was seated, only not really. I put my duffel bag on the floor and made the volume of my iPod louder. Despite the song playing being quite loud, I could still hear the chattering of the girls who were seated behind me. I didn’t eavesdrop, they just happened to talk very loudly.

“Next station, Doroteo Jose,” said the conductor. He continued on with the safety reminder that I didn’t pay any attention to since I’ve heard it so many times already.

When I got down my station, I sighed as I heaved up my duffel bag and slung it on my shoulder. It was heavy, and in it were all the clothes I used for the week. Fully equipped, I sighed yet again since wow, this was going to be one horrible, long walk to the other station.

Nobody really paid any heed to me since I was minding my own business. My business though, was pretending to mind my own business by drowning myself in music while walking to the other station through the overpass connecting the two lines of the transits. That day, there were two girls in front of me giggling about the recent news about some doctor who had sex with an actress. But anyway, it was just the usual gossip about the usual mediocre life of people who are popular for reasons unjustified to the public.

Of course, I had to go through the usual procedures before actually taking a step into the actual big station. I put my bag down on the table and had the lady guard inspect my things. (Sometimes I get frightened when guards at the station inspect my bag since they look so strict and angry once they stick in their… stick into my stuff. It’s like they would find something horrible there and I didn’t even know that I had something like that.) Once that was over, I just headed straight up the waiting area for the train. No more gossip, no more anything but my music and my bag. I had to concentrate on that. After all, the sound of train doors opening was a sign of war.

I would have put on my armor and unsheathed my shield if I had one. I had to get a seat. I was very tired from orchestra practice and I woke up terribly early due to a seminar I had to attend. I don’t care if the others have jobs and that they worked eight or more hours today. I am getting a seat and if they have to stand up, that totally isn’t my fault. The doors opened, and there was a slight stampede. It was like that all the time. I was able to get a seat, of course. What with having been riding the train for a year, I had a bit of experience when it came to pushing people aside to be able to get the “best seat ever”.

Sometimes, when I get really caught up in my business, I lose track of time and anything ever: like my music. I didn’t expect the train to be at Katipunan station already—my stop—when I was thinking about why left-handed people have a very distinct type of handwriting. If you think about it, it’s really true. Most right-handed people I know write things that shift to the left. For left-handed people though, it’s to the right. Well, from how I’ve been observing the handwriting of my friends who are left-handed (I have quite a lot too, those special people).

People who write with their left hand also seem to have the same kind of handwriting no matter who it is. They write in a certain way that when I see that kind of handwriting, I always ask the person if they are left handed, if I didn’t know which hand they primarily use for writing. I end up being right in my belief. Although I knew one girl back in elementary. She was left handed and had very nice handwriting, you don’t even know.

One of the many things I hate is when people run up the escalator. It. Just. Irks. Me.

But it was really strange. When the train stopped in Katipunan, I was the only one who went down. Usually, a hoard of people would go down and push each other to be able to ride the escalator but end up running on it instead of riding it the usual and right way. But no. I was alone the entire time. The guards were there doing their job, so there was nothing to be frightened about. The whole thing was just unusual, somewhat creepy.

What was creepier was the fact that Katipunan road was absolutely quiet. I got to the tricycle terminal a good song after I got out of the train station. It was the weirdest thing ever.


No one was around, selling peanuts and barbeques. No one was there. Katipunan was empty, but not messy. It was as if everyone migrated to another popular place without telling me. It was almost supernatural.

It probably was.

With no tricycle available, I had to walk along Katipunan to be able to go home. The road was dead, even the wind did not dare to pass by. The feeling I had then was the same feeling I usually get when I attend a class where I don’t know anyone but my teacher. It’s the worst feeling I could ever get. I was anxious and so terrified; I could pee in my pants. I was even getting the feeling that a zombie would sneak up on me and kidnap me, or something equally as strange a thought.

I grabbed my umbrella from my bag. It served as my weapon, if I had the guts to actually fight someone or something, instead of run away.

The road of Katipunan had always been a long walk. With no one around and being showered by the silence of the place, it was longer. Thankfully, I reached my landmark in one piece. Pancake House. The House of Pancakes. It was the best place ever, and I would not eat chocolate chip pancakes with peanut butter anywhere else.

It broke my heart to see the windows of the restaurant broken. Glass shards along the perimeter, the tables and chairs looked like they were ransacked and then burned.

Just.

Who would even do such a thing?

I didn’t even want to find out what happened to the rest of the Katipunan area. I froze there, in front of the remains of Pancake House and just whimpered.