January 1
I ventured outside tonight, simply walking without a specific purpose. I'm grappling with a sense of being adrift, lacking direction. It's been half a decade since my high school graduation, and I find myself questioning the progress I've made - which, at this point, appears to be negligible. These five years have yielded nothing tangible. Loneliness pervades; I lack friends and meaningful relationships. Having lost my parents at a young age, my childhood growing up has been anything but stable. My older brother remains distant; we've barely communicated in recent months, maybe even up to half a year. Uncertainty clouds whether my discomfort in his presence mirrors his own feelings or if I'm unfairly projecting my emotions onto him. Gavriel, in contrast, has charted a different course. He's proactively shaped his life, now married and on the brink of parenthood. The night's chill matches the emptiness of the streets I tread, punctuated solely by the muffled crunch of snow beneath my steps.
January 20
My job gnaws at me. I'm a janitor at a high school, stuck in a role that offers no prospects for growth. The stark contrast between the potential these teenagers possess and my own stagnant position weighs heavily on me. Witnessing their laughter, camaraderie, and carefree moments only amplifies my frustration. It's ironic how their youthful exuberance, though endearing, stirs up an unsettling feeling within me. My own past lacked genuine friendship - except for my brother's circle of friends, who were always closer to him than to me. Growing up I often found solace in solitude, relegated to my school's forgotten corners. Yet, these spirited kids, brimming with happiness, evoke an unexpected bitterness in me. Bitterness that I loathe being consumed by. It's a struggle, grappling with the hate that seems to be growing within me. I fear the emergence of a growing misanthropy. Amidst this turmoil, I'm clutching onto the smallest remnants of optimism, holding firm to the belief that the world might still harbour fairness. With each new day, week, and year, I yearn for the promise of waking up with a semblance of contentment.
February 8
Yesterday, a tragedy unfolded at the high school where I work - one of the students fell victim to a heinous aswang attack in the dead of night. Regrettably, Winnipeg has earned the grim title of Canada's aswang capital. The city's murder rate and the frequency of supernatural assaults far exceed the norm observed in other major Canadian cities. The very thought of aswang - their existence, their deeds - revolts me, igniting a seething rage deep within. To me, they're nothing but repugnant creatures, deserving of eradication. It's a fervent wish that a deluge could sweep these pests away, cleansing the city of their presence.
My parents met their end while hunting down these aswang. Back then, as a young child, the details were obscured by confusion in my memory. My brother Gavriel, being older at eleven while I was merely five, undoubtedly held more coherent recollections. However, he's consistently evaded discussing that painful episode with me. I suspect the incident might have scarred him more profoundly than it did me. Perhaps I should feel gratitude for my limited remembrance of those events. Still, the lingering ache remains. I can't escape the notion that the eradication of these monsters could have led to a normal childhood, a life enriched by the presence of loving parents. Wistfully, I yearn to touch them, converse with them, and simply feel their love. Such ordinary experiences, I believe, might have granted me a sense of normalcy.
As I peer out my window now, a blizzard rages, obscuring the world beyond. In this moment, I find myself hoping that the snow might symbolically cleanse the city, purging the stain of blood brought upon it by these malevolent creatures.
February 10
In the midst of cold midnight walks, I've adopted a new practice - concealing a weapon within my coat. It's an ancestral Igorot headhunting axe, once wielded by my father during his days as a supernatural creature hunter. Its formidable design exudes an intimidating aura, particularly due to the sheer size of the axe head, seemingly crafted to split heads open. I conducted tests using a dummy to simulate a human body, and the results were undeniably brutal.
This axe carries an enchantment that purportedly causes it to emit a glow in the presence of aswang. However, I've yet to witness this glow, leaving me uncertain about the reliability of this warning mechanism. It might sound foolish, but I find myself yearning for the axe to emit that telltale glow as I walk during the night. It's as though I'm drawn to the prospect of encountering an aswang face-to-face, almost desiring to lock eyes with the very monsters responsible for tearing apart my family and my world.
February 19
Last night, I finally took action. I ended an aswang's life. In the middle of my sleep, I was roused by the ethereal, soft blue glow cast by the headhunting axe I had placed beside my bed. Urged by this eerie illumination, I rose and ventured outside. My steps led me across the street to McMicken St, where a mural-adorned tunnel lay beneath the Ellice Place retirement home. There, behind a dumpster, I heard the sounds of a desperate struggle. Peering around the corner, I saw an aswang feeding upon a man's lifeless form. Our eyes met as the creature sensed my presence, yet without hesitation, I raised the axe and swung it with all my might. A solitary blow was all it took to bring the monster down. Blood rushed from the aswang's head as I split its skull open. It took me a considerable effort to dislodge the axe from the monster's cleaved head, and although I was expecting the weapon to be coated in blood and brains, the axe was remarkably clean when I pulled it out. Presumably the cleanliness was part of the axe's magic.
Swiftly, I retreated from the scene, my footsteps hastening as I returned to my apartment in the three-story brick block just across the street at 550 Ellice Avenue. The following day, news of the aswang attack made headlines. The corners of those apartments were equipped with surveillance cameras, and I realized I might have been caught if the aswang hadn't systematically obliterated them before my act.
Despite the perilous circumstances, I felt an unfamiliar elation and thrill within me. I've never felt more alive.
March 6
I had the opportunity to meet up with my brother and his wife. Marilyn, my sister-in-law, is quite traditional in her beliefs, embodying the essence of a devout Catholic woman who even wears a veil during church services. I couldn't help but notice the gentle swell of her belly, a clear sign that they're expecting a child in the near future. In a gracious gesture, they extended an invitation for me to join them at church the following Sunday, an offer I graciously accepted.
As I stepped into the church, a comforting warmth enveloped me, and a sense of tranquility settled within. The soft cries of children, including those who were too young to articulate coherent words, echoed during the Mass. Their innocence seemed untouched by the complexities and harsh realities of life. I couldn't help but reflect on my own distant past, recalling cherished memories of being in a similar setting with my parents. I hazily remembered the excitement I had as a five year old, a ball of energy that resisted any notion of sitting still and remaining quiet.
However, these fond recollections took a somber turn as I allowed my mind to wander further. I imagined a sinister scene where my parents' lives were cruelly consumed by aswang, and once again, anger and resentment surged within me. Amid these conflicting emotions, I found myself sending a heartfelt prayer to God, beseeching for the eradication of all aswang within our city. I yearned for a safer environment for the upcoming generation, one free from the looming threat of these monsters.
And if God refused to answer my prayers, I vowed to take matters into my own hands.
June 9
My pursuit of hunting aswang has transformed into an all-consuming obsession. It's become the very essence of my existence, a passion that eclipses all other considerations. Day and night, my thoughts are fixated on this singular purpose. I've patrolled the city during its darkest hours, seamlessly leaping from one rooftop to another, driven by an insatiable hunger to uncover more of these otherworldly creatures. I've embraced the role of a masked vigilante, an enigmatic figure who prowls the night.
In my wake, I've left behind a trail marked by bloodshed and devastation, a testament to my relentless efforts against the aswang menace. The city, and even the entire country, has taken notice of my presence. Whispers have spread, christening me with the moniker "Phantom." It's as if I've transcended the boundaries of mere flesh and blood, embodying something more ethereal and powerful. Astonishingly, some have gone so far as to dub me a hero-a label that I find myself unable to accept without a wry, disbelieving chuckle.
In truth, I recognize the inherent irony in this situation. I am, at the core, an empty husk running purely on anger, driven by a consuming obsession for violence. Far from a heroic archetype, I was just a freak, a nameless ghost who roams the periphery of society, seeking to quench an inner emptiness with the spilt blood of monsters.
