In my dream, I was scouring a market place that can possibly be Divisoria. I was looking for someone. Since I was limping my way in search for that unknown peson, I probably attracted attention from the tambays. I spotted my uncle who happens to be a cop in the Manila area but I feigned I didn’t see him.
Lost, tired and decided to save any remaining strength my injured knee has, I asked for directions. This guy, just like every single stranger I’ve met since my injury, expressed concern on my condition and ask what happened to me. For the nth time, I explain my right kneecap got dislocated for dancing drunk. He escorted me to the place I asked for. Such a nice guy, I thought.
When I finally reached the place, I had to drop my yellow shoulder bag so I can reach below and open a seemingly underground opening. In spite of the three-seconder mental reminder NOT to trust anyone, my faith in people won over trust issues and I left my shoulder bag so I can conveniently work on the task at hand.
True enough, the “nice guy” grabbed my shoulder bag [and its gold bars] and ran in the speed of light. What else can an injured woman like me do? I started calling for Tito Nelson’s name so he can arrest the burglar. Thanks to my lung power, my uncle heard me and deducted what’s going on. It was too late when I realized it was a wrong move.
The “nice guy” heartlessly murdered my uncle.
I admit such possibility comes to mind. Anyone can just grab my belongings from me and run away. I don’t have the power to run after them and beat them into a pulp, you know. I always try to shake off that kind of thoughts when I’m on my daily commutes. Fortunately, I don’t have any real-life crime dramas to share up to now.