Manila. The self renowned "City of Dreams". If you still consider nightmares as dreams that is. This cesspit is a pilgrimage for the poor and an infestation of convicts. Crimes run rampant in broad daylight, and most are even made by lawmakers themselves. Come to think of it, it's like Columbia but worse. It's like America but poorer. Like Yemen but made tropical.
This city might be shit but it's the perfect place for me. I'm a convict on the run and Manila is the place that attracted me. Like a bee and a flower. I hide amongst the murders of the city. My trail of carnage is masked by the tsunami of blood happening day by day. This is my city, and I'm here to stay.
Currently, I live somewhere near Ayala. A district in Manila which contrasts its wealthy neighbors. Buildings stand side by side with no space in between. You can practically hear the bickering of your neighbor and the cheap moans of prostitutes next door. Outside the buildings is masked by a thick cover of dust and grime, tarpaulins of long-gone lying politicians and hundreds of intrusive advertisements. When I open my windows, the only thing I could breath is smoke. My ears are flooded with the mumble of the crowd and the honk of cars on the road. My eyes followed the road. The trail of cramped traffic stretch from both horizons.
"Santiez, you're awake I see." I look below me, it's old woman Alice, my landlady. "Are you going to pay in advance for your rent?"
I already paid three months in advance and she's asking for more? The nerve of this lady.
"I'll pay when I get the money."
"Thanks deary. On your way down, can you knock on Mr. Olivarez' room. Please tell him that I know he's using a rice cooker in his apartment. I'll rack up his rent for the next month."
I closed my windows and did my morning routine. I washed my face from a plastic basin and looked at my face from a cheap Made-in-China plastic mirror. My face is brown with open pores. Eyebags hang from the sleepless nights at this place. And judging from my stomach, I may be getting fat.
I sighed. I think it's enough time for rest. I need to eat. Every fiber of my being is screaming for the hunt. It has been days since I last ate. And the few ones I feasted don't even have bountiful nutrition inside of them.
I did a last slap of water in my face, dried myself and changed into a new set of clothes. As I walk downstairs, I smell rice coming out of Mr. Olivarez' room. I want to notify him but I decided to leave him be. He was a shitty neighbor who complained a lot about the noise coming from my room. As if it was my fault that my food likes to struggle and hit their head on the floor.