Entry 3 | March 18, 2025 | 12:48 AM
I played Call of Duty: Mobile using my mobile internet. And now, I can't seem to go to sleep. My girlfriend is already asleep, her soft breathing barely audible from the bedroom. Meanwhile, here I am in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my laptop, wide awake.
Well, by the way, it's been 12 days since my last entry. Let me just give you an update. One, I already live in my very own apartment. Two, it's day three since I moved out. Three, my family told me to get out of the condo which I honorably, and gladly accepted.
It was 10:30 PM when they kicked me out. And it was 2:30 AM when I finally finished moving out.
Why, where, what, how, and when?
I arrived home that evening, tired from work, with a McDonald's meal in hand — a simple cheeseburger, and a two piece Chicken with rice combo just for myself. The scent of fries lingered as I placed the paper bag on the table. My younger sister, lounging on the couch with her phone in hand, glanced up.
"You only bought food for yourself?" she asked, her voice half-curious, half-accusatory.
"Yeah," I said casually, unwrapping my burger without a second thought. "I'm starving."
I didn't know those words would start a fire.
Not long after, my mother called my younger sister and my father outside. They left for a bit, but when they returned, the air had changed. My mother's face was tight, her eyebrows pinched together as she stepped inside. My father followed closely behind, his expression grim.
I was still sitting on the floor, headset on, finishing my burger while chatting with my girlfriend. The faint crackle of my microphone must've been audible because my mother's voice suddenly cut through the air like a blade.
"Does that person you're talking to even have a job, or are they just a bum?" she snapped, her voice sharp and heavy with disdain.
I froze, muting my call mid-sentence. I set my burger aside and just let her talk, hoping she'd stop after venting. But her voice only grew louder, each insult cutting deeper than the last. She spat words about my selfishness, about how I was wasting my life, about how I never cared about the family.
"You don't care about your sister," she said, her voice tightening. "All you think about is that useless person you're always talking to!"
"They're not my responsibility!" I shot back, unable to hold it in anymore. "My siblings aren't my responsibility! Neither are my cousins or your siblings!"
My father stepped forward then, his voice booming. "You're disrespectful!" he barked.
"Disrespectful?" My anger flared. "You can't even make Mom stop when she's like this!"
"You're ungrateful!"
"Ungrateful? I already agreed to split the monthly expenses three ways even though there are five people living in this house!"
"Oh, so what? They're still your siblings, and that's still your grandfather!"
"They're not my responsibility. Especially your siblings who already have families of their own!"
"You owe them! They took care of you when you were a kid!"
"And what have you even given your sister, huh?" She challenged me.
I was already giving my younger sister plenty, yet here I was being told it wasn't enough. Worse still, she wasted my 13th-month pay on her siblings — money I thought was going toward the condo's renovation.
The air felt suffocating. My chest heaved, my fingers curling tightly into fists. The heat of frustration boiled over, and before I could think, I grabbed the electric fan beside me and slammed it down on the floor — once, twice, three times — until its plastic body cracked and pieces scattered like broken glass.
"Ano ba?!" my father roared, storming toward me. His face twisted with rage. He raised his arm as if to strike me, but I stepped back, shoving him away before he could.
"Gusto mo?! Sige, lumaban ka!" he growled, voice trembling with fury. "Papatayin kitang hayup ka!"
His eyes darted around the room — searching. For a knife? For something sharp? The threat felt too real. But I already faced lots of horrors from my High School days up to date to be frightened of such a puny but sharp thing.
"Lumayas ka na dito!" my mother screamed, pointing at the door. "Ngayon din!"
"Fine!" I spat back. "Ayoko na rin dito!"
I packed my things in my bag, they left and went to the other condo unit they are renting, and stormed out. This gave me the time and freedom to organize the things I will bring with me.
I booked a grab car and went to my apartment with all of my things.
By 2:30 AM, I finished moving in my apartment — small, quiet, and untouched by their voices. I stood there for a long while, staring at the empty walls. No picture frames. No noise. Just me, breathing in the silence.
Good thing I had been planning to leave that toxic household. Looking back, it feels less like I escaped and more like I finally set myself free.
When I arrived at my apartment and finished bringing my things inside my new home. I noticed a scar in my hand. It overlaps the old scar I had back in my First day of experiment in our Chemistry laboratory in College.
I still could remember… The corridors were buzzing with footsteps, murmurs, and the occasional slam of a distant door. The building had that scent—vague traces of old paper, metal, and something sharper that lingered in the air like ghosts of past experiments. My palms were cold, but my back was damp with sweat. I had rehearsed this walk a dozen times in my head. But nothing prepared me for the sheer weight of that door when I pushed it open.
Inside, the lab was colder than I expected, lit by flickering fluorescents overhead. Each long metal table was lined with Bunsen burners, glassware, and those wide white sinks stained by years of hurried cleanup. The smell of ethanol and hydrochloric acid clung to everything.
I found my seat near the back, third row from the front. My stool wobbled as I sat down. I remember scanning the room, watching everyone set up like they already knew what they were doing. Gloves snapped over hands. Aprons tied tightly. A girl to my left was scribbling fast on her lab manual, her brows furrowed beneath thick black bangs.
Then the instructor entered—in white lab coat too crisp to be trusted. She didn't smile. She barked out instructions like he was allergic to wasting time.
"Put on your goggles. Don't act like you're in a high school science fair. You're handling real chemicals now."
We were asked to perform a simple acid-base reaction, something introductory to get us used to the process. I didn't listen as closely as I should have. I was too distracted by the burning thought in my head: I didn't study for the quiz. I copied. Just a few hours ago. Quick sharing of answers with someone else while the instructor wasn't around.. I thought I'd feel victorious. Instead, I felt sick.
My hands were trembling as I reached for the glass pipette. I measured wrong. Too much of the acid. I didn't realize until a small splash landed on the back of my hand.
It was silent at first.
Then someone screamed.
"Shit! You're burning!"
I looked down. My skin was bubbling—tiny white blisters forming where the clear liquid touched. I didn't feel pain. Not yet. Just a strange, numbing heat crawling across my nerves.
People gathered. Some backed away. Others hovered too close.
"Get to the sink! Now!" a girl yelled—I think it was her, the one who wore her apron like armor and had those sharp, commanding eyes. She grabbed my wrist and dragged me forward. Her grip was tight but careful. I remember the scent of her lavender-scented sanitizer as she pushed my hand under the freezing tap.
"You're lucky it was diluted," she muttered, her voice low but steady. "Could've been worse."
The pain came after. Sharp, crawling, angry. It spread slowly, like my skin had only now realized what had happened.
I winced, trying to hide it. "Thanks," I managed.
"You weren't listening," she said, not unkindly. Just… disappointed. "Next time, don't play around. This lab doesn't forgive mistakes."
I wanted to answer back. Say I wasn't playing around. Say I was just tired. Say I was trying.
But I stayed quiet. I didn't have the right words. Maybe because part of me felt she was right.
Later that day, I saw her again by the benches outside the lab. She was drinking from a plastic tumbler, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She saw me limping, hand wrapped in gauze.
"You'll live," she said with a hint of a smirk.
I smiled back. "Barely."
She offered me the seat beside her. "Name's Bea. You?"
"…Storm," I lied. I didn't know why I said that. Maybe it felt cool. Maybe I just didn't want her to know my real name yet. Maybe I just wanted to rewrite who I was that day—a cheater with a burned hand and a bruised ego.
And from then on, she started calling me that.
Storm.
What if I never stepped into that Chemistry Lab? Maybe I wouldn't have cheated on that quiz. Maybe I wouldn't have felt like a fraud on the first day. Maybe I wouldn't have met Bea.
But I did. And now, every scar has a story.