FATAL ASSUMPTIONS

By Raoul Simon Suarez

December always arrives the same way here. Slowly at first, then all at once. Jeepneys wear tinsel like borrowed jewelry. Storefronts glow even when the paint is peeling. The noise from the karaoke machine spills into the street. Songs are sung off-key but wholeheartedly. By the second week of the month, the air itself feels heavier, thick with smoke from grills and the expectation that everyone must be happy. Everyone must celebrate. Everyone must drink.

The gathering was not grand. It never is. White plastic chairs borrowed from neighbors. A sturdy folding table stretched with food meant to last the night. Someone brought a speaker that worked only when the wire was held at a certain angle. Bottles were placed in the middle, not counted, just assumed. This was how it had always been. This was how it would always be.

Laughter came easily at first. Stories were repeated even when everyone knew the ending. A toast was made to the year survived, and to the next one hoped for. The glasses clinked. Some were chipped. Some were mismatched. The night grew warmer. The road outside stayed dark, like it was waiting for something to claim.

The motorbike stood near the gate. It was angled toward the street. It had been there all evening. Always faithful. Always silent. The keys were not hidden. They never were. There was no need to do so. The ride home was short anyway. Everyone knew that. A straight stretch, a familiar turn, and a shortcut learned over years of repetition. It was the kind of route you could almost drive with your eyes closed. That was what made it dangerous.

No one planned to drive drunk. Nobody ever does. That was the thing. It was never planned. It happened quietly. It happened between “one more” and “I’m fine,” which were all uttered in jest. It happened between the confidence of familiarity and the belief that accidents are only met by other people, on other roads, and on worse nights.

Someone suggested staying the night. It was said casually. It was said without insistence. Someone else laughed it off. There were responsibilities tomorrow. A job. A family. A morning that would come, whether or not one was ready.

It was time to go. The bottles were discarded. Hands were wiped on shorts. Goodbyes were spoken with the looseness of alcohol. The farewells were long and affectionate. As if that made them safer during the ride home.

The engine started. Its roaring sound cut through the blaring music for a short moment, then slowly blended back into it. A faint headlight flickered on. It briefly illuminated the faces of those who were still smiling and still unaware. The road accepted the vehicle the way it always did, without protest and with a silent embrace.

The sudden crash did not sound dramatic. No explosion. No fire. Just metal meeting concrete and a sudden absence where movement had been. It was the kind of sound that makes the body react before the mind even understands. Someone dropped a plate. Someone stopped singing mid-lyric. Someone sat frozen in the chair. The night held its breath.

People panicked and ran. Slippers slapped against the pavement. The neighbor’s gate swung open. Voices cracked before the words were fully formed. Someone shouted for help as if all the repetition would make it arrive faster. The dark road that had seemed harmless now looked narrow and unforgiving. The headlight lay broken. Its beam pointed uselessly at the sky.

The sirens arrived late, or maybe it only felt that way. Time always behaves differently in moments like that. The minutes stretch. The seconds disappear. The smell of alcohol lingered, mixed with engine oil and dust. Hands trembled as phones were dialed. Prayers for intervention were whispered without structure or confidence.

The festivities did not end that night. The music continued to play in other houses. The laughter still rose from streets away from this one. The celebration does not stop just because tragedy has chosen to reveal itself. People are never bothered by things that do not affect them directly. If it isn’t personal, then it remains invisible.

In the days that followed, the story changed depending on who told it. There were different reasons and takes on that fateful incident. Some blamed it on the alcohol. Others blamed it on the driving speed. There was one thing that they agreed on. They all blamed the road itself. They spoke ill of it as if the concrete were at fault. Beneath every version was the same truth. A truth that was unspoken yet heavy. It did not have to happen. It was not supposed to happen. The road patiently waits every night. We can either respect what it can take, or continue to trust it with lives that cannot be replaced.

December always arrives the same way here. Slowly at first, then all at once. Now it has returned, as it always does. Decorations went up again. Bottles reappeared on tables. Jokes were told, louder this time, as if the increase in volume could push the sad memories away. In one household, a chair stayed perpetually empty. In another, a helmet was never moved from its hook and was slowly gathering dust. Drinking was never the enemy. The celebration was never the problem. It was always about the bad choices made after all the merrymaking. It was always about the assumption that nothing fatal would happen this time.