A house consists of wooden planks that are hammered together with metal nails. A home says otherwise because a home consists of love bound by blood.

 

Is it a coincidence then, that metal nails share the same taste as blood?

 

My mind wandered as I sucked in saliva and the rusty liquid through my reddened teeth. As my mind begins to drift, stings pierce my flesh. Tears I fought to keep stain the filthy blindfold that prevented visions from developing. Yet, the waves of laughter that resonated beyond the limits of my eyesight established the picture.

 

I cough blood, then hear a familiar voice say, "I am doing this because I love you."

 

Suddenly, I am six years old again, sheltered by a house in the heart of the plains and fathered by a hand that hits. A young boy is now on his fours on the ground, whose cries ricochet to the ground and echo through the distant greens. 

 

"I am doing this because I love you," words my father spit as he strikes me with the dreaded 2x2 wood. 

 

On television, the television news mocks the spectacle while ironically delivering a wake-up call. The news anchor dictates the Department of Social Welfare and Development's statement. According to the report, 8,948 Filipino children were abused in their households, including physical and psychological abuse, sexual violence, bullying, and exploitation.

 

My impulse to flee only grew greater as I grew older. My pupils were flashed with the supercuts of my life at that very instant. The several storylines behind my purple bruises were once again displayed before my very eyes. Reliving my father's love over and over again till I reached the pinnacle of my life: freedom. As I walked into college for the first time, I was filled with a sense of belonging as I met new individuals I could now call my brothers, bonded together by trust rather than blood. 

 

We shared laughter—until I was the one being laughed at.

 

I closed my eyes and found myself held captive in the tear-stained abyss once more. Rust coated my lips as my friends thrashed me with the wooden paddle once again. At a secluded place, the young boy, now a college student, is kneeling on the floor.

 

Because it was a matter of trust that bound us together—a brotherhood. It was a test to determine loyalty. After all, you don't want to be the nail that destroys the house that your predecessors established. Nevertheless, at the same time, you wouldn't want to be one of the 66 reported deaths, if and only if luck were on my side and my body was ever found. You wouldn't want to be another individual to make headlines concerning the strengthening of the overlooked Anti-Hazing Act of 1995.

 

After all, what has been beaten into my skull over the years is that violence is the fruit of love. Love bound by blood is like a house held together by metal nails. Without the metal nails busting through the surface of the wood, then no house will stand. Without the hand breaking through the surface of one's skin, then there's no love within the home.

 

The Bible itself validates the belief, as it states that superiors can physically punish their juniors. Perhaps this is why metal nails taste like blood. For the nails are already rusting within the wood— already rusting within us, our bodies, within families. Metal nails that pierced our skulls are the nails pounded down by previous generations. Rust passed down by blood, one mentality after the other— one brother after the other.

 

Maybe, that's what love was all about. And in this lifetime, I am given too much. 

 

I am so loved.