Flat line

John and his two sisters go to church at 8am without fail. Come hell or no water, you’d find them there at the last row of the balcony, all by themselves and sometimes joined in by other relatives. After church, they would all scurry down the hall to the terminal that would take them straight to home, rarely taking time out to check fellow human beings invading the nearby mall.

Having read and watched Twilight, his family’s semblance to the Cullens are pretty close except for the fact they go to church and they don’t grow fangs. They don’t eat at the restaurant because they prefer dining at home. John is neither that pretty to be Edward. Pale maybe. The rest of the brood are just as ordinary as anyone else in the Philippines try to be. Pleasant, nice, kind and quiet.

Everything about him and his family are perfectly orchestrated in such a way one could easily distinguish black from white. Home-school-work-church routine is the way of life. It is one straight line doctors interpret as flat line. For a spectator like me, he is safe, boring and dead.

I am what he perceived a complete opposite of his being, a genetic anomaly that came across his realm one fine day. I am likewise a boring person but I tend to differ from known stereotypes. Like Barrack Obama, I like change. John is McCain. Somehow, those occasional chatroom dramas and 30-minute gossiping during church breaks helped melt down the iceberg between us.

John is flat line no more.