The Pain Trader.
Risha Mae Ordas

In the tight dark alleyways of Alabanza, Bliss finally found one of the town’s few reservoirs. She and Angie heard the gossipers in front of Tita Baby’s store talk about how “it” moved places again. They said that since it was the middle of the humid Manila summer,  it was most likely in one of the coldest spots in their shoddy barangay. In what little she saw in the dark, she managed to find an old familiar door. Wracked by nerves, Bliss tried to tame her unruly hair and straightened her best blouse. Her mother picked the blouse especially for her because it was filled with small flowers. This was the only memento she had from her old life. She then fished out her ware from its plastic bag and carefully cradled it in her arms.

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She had heard that the being who took pain in exchange for coins was very stingy. Folks around the dumpsite went around and called her the “pain trader” because she only accepted items that symbolized great pain and would exchange them with the value she thought they were worth. Some brought baby booties, old heirlooms, tombstones of all varying states of decay. Others, though, realized that the quick and easy way to get symbols of pain was through wounds—and there definitely was no shortage of that in this barangay. Rumors had spread that maybe she was from the old country, a faraway land more in tune with the spirits of the earth. Others say that she was a spy for the government silently watching over the anarchy of Alabanza. But that mattered little to Bliss, who was determined to meet the old lady.

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It was customary to knock twice at the pain trader’s door before going inside. After her second knock, a small voice beckoned her to come in. Bliss had met the pain trader only once before. It was Angie’s idea to look for the shaman. She secretly collected her tears in pretty little perfume bottles she managed to grab from her aunt’s house before running away with her brother. Bliss wondered if she started collecting them long before they joined her in the dumpsite. Five of them certainly took a long time to fill.

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The old shaman only had to lift one to the dim light before quietly heaving bags and bags of coin to their direction. It was the first time Bliss had seen Angie smile since her brother died of poisoning a year ago. They left the small shack feeling relieved that they didn’t have to worry about paying for Aling Pia’s meals.The old karinderya owner was kind enough to give them some food occasionally, but Bliss knew that everyone in Alabanza was struggling to survive. Besides, it was easier to pay with coins than with favors. Who knew if Aling Pia’s kindness would run out someday, and she’d ask for something Bliss couldn’t do.

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Bliss didn’t have any pretty bottles like her friend did, but she did her best to polish an old jar of Nescafe that she saw lying near their shanty. Bliss was also very careful not to deform the scabs she painstakingly collected. She looked at her ware once more and hoped that the patterns on the glass would at least please the old woman. But as soon as the doors swung open, there was no space left for doubt inside the 11-year-old’s mind. The small hallway was Bliss’ favorite part of the pain trader’s shop because it sparkled with rows of incandescent vials the first time she visited. That same hallway greeted her this time and led her to what she imagined an altar would look like. Her gaze wandered through the lights before it landed on a small makeshift table made out of some plywood. 

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At the center of the room, a stern-looking woman peered at her curiously. Her beady eyes reminded Bliss of how round the moon was when she and Caloy ventured out during midnight to gather discarded bottles to sell. Her skin sagged to her jowls and down to her neck before it disappeared into a faded blue duster she saw on Aling Sylvia just a few nights ago. It was her favorite duster too, the child recalls. 

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There was a rattle in the air along with the tap, tap, tap, of sharp talons on ragged plywood. Whenever the pain trader moved, her trinkets of collected teeth, coins, and other shiny memories echoed in her small room. She tapped her plywood again, seemingly wanting the young girl’s attention. Bliss hesitated for a moment, but like Angie she shyly slid her old coffee jar to the woman’s knobby hands. She felt slightly embarrassed when the shaman had difficulty prying the cup open, her accessories making small, uncomfortable, cacophonies. But once she did, the force she used to open the jar made some scabs fly out.

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“Careful with that!”

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The pain trader glanced at her once, and Bliss could have sworn her eyes turned a vibrant shade of green before melting back into the dull brown eyes the young child had seen on her small siblings and on the other citizens of Alabanza. A little ember of hope lit in Bliss’s heart, because at least the old woman took great care laying out the scabs. When she and Angie were here, the pain trader also took her time caressing the vials before deciding to lift one up. She was already imagining she’d buy some kwek-kweks from Manong Marsing for her adopted brothers and sisters before she went home. But the pain trader eyed the scabs with thinly veiled disgust that Bliss was used to seeing. 

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“This it?” the pain trader scoffed. Her hope quickly turned into a stone that sunk to the pit of her stomach when that disgusted look turned to her.

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“These are quality,” Bliss tried to defend. “These are still fresh.”

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“Where from?”

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“My stomach.”

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She continued to pick at the scabs, the dried skin crunching beneath her pointy nails. Deeming to have seen enough, she gathered all the scabs and returned them to the jar. The pain trader’s bone-thin hands tried their best to close the stubborn lid, but the plastic cap was too tight to even cover the jar’s opening fully. Her bracelets’ hums echoed around the room as the horror of what she had just said washed over the Bliss’ catatonic body.  

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“Not enough.” She sounded almost apologetic. “Worthless.”

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“What? But I heard you took in a man who brought tissues with blood and pus on them!”

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Everything is going wrong, Bliss thought. She thought she at least had a chance. She even polished the old jar! Sure, it wasn’t as pretty as the vials that lined the wall, but this was hers. How was it not worth anything? She didn’t need a lot. She just wanted something.

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The old woman shrugged. “Man hobbled. Look hurt. Lots of blood. Lots of pus.”

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“You,” she continued. Her old eyes shifted from Bliss’s forehead down to her toes, and never in her life did Bliss feel so exposed. “Not look hurt. A few scabs. Not count for shit.”

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Bringing as much force as she could muster, the shaman slammed the stubborn plastic lid shut. “Bring real hurt.”

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As she watched the pain trader slide the pesky jar across the table, Bliss could feel her beady eyes on her body. She did not dare look up, for fear of god knows what. A few tears slid down her face before she angrily swiped them away. She didn’t know what to do, she didn’t know where to go. Bliss couldn’t go home now; everyone at the shanty was counting on her for food. She had to take home something, but what? 

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“Shirt.”

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The child’s neck snapped up, tears freely caressing her face. What did she just say?

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“Shirt,” the pain trader eyed Bliss shirt curiously. A protective fist settled on the front of her shirt and Bliss could feel herself shake. No, she thought. Mama gave me this. With as much contempt as she could muster, she grabbed her jar and sprinted out of the small shop.

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Bliss ran through the sordid pathway at the back of the water reservoir, a shortcut to the dumpsite her mother used to warn her about. She ran as fast as she could with tears running down her cheeks. The sky was at its darkest, and rain beat down on her bony frame. But she didn’t care. She kept running. She knew adults brought great pain with them; after all they lived longer than her. But to Bliss, her pain was big.

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“She’s so stupid!” she screamed into the silence once her fatigue caught up to her calves. She heaved as much air in her lungs as she could, and in her frustration she threw the jar of scabs to the pavement. 

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The child was prepared to enter another tiny alleyway when she felt a slippery bump beneath her foot. Her ankle rolled  in an unnatural direction. Instinctively, Bliss tried to regain her balance but her body didn’t act fast enough. She was falling, she realized. In a split second, she saw the unassuming jar of scabs roll away from her before she hit her shoulders on the cold pavement. 

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Bliss’ vision spun in every bounce and bump she landed on down a bedraggled slope. She saw the starless sky. Then, crumbling concrete. Then, the starless sky again. If she tried hard enough, she could imagine that she was floating. But before she could, a particularly pronounced rock collided with Bliss’ cheek. Everything went black.

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Bliss didn’t know how long she lay there. By the time she came to, the torrential rain had calmed into a light drizzle. The child was tempted to allow the soft pitter patter to lull her back to sleep like it always did, but the sharp pain in her jaw and the duller pain in her stomach reminded her of her mission. 

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Blearily, she realized that missing dinnertime was the reason her stomach was burning––that meant everyone in the shanty had their stomachs burning as well. But perhaps she could salvage this situation, after all she still had some time to get breakfast for everyone. 

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Once she climbed back to the old woman’s shack, she could hear faint whispers mixing with the hums of clashing bones and eyes on her wrists. Then, the whispering stopped as the two knocks on the pain traders door reverberated beyond the hallway before an old voice beckoned her in once more. The shop had more customers, making the room feel smaller than it already was. A few heads turned her way and Bliss could feel herself shrink a little. Undeterred, the child stood in line and patiently waited for her turn. 

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The pain trader’s snooty glare came back full force once Bliss reached her table. The child gulped the blood pooled in her mouth before trying to dry her face with her soaked blouse. She then spat out the loose tooth on the palms of the old shaman, who looked at the tooth with contempt.

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“This it? This real hurt?” 

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Bliss stiffed at the comment, hastily trying to salvage the conversation. “Isn’t that worth something? Why is it different? It’s a tooth with blood! You said blood!” 

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When the pain trader shook her head, an unfamiliar chill spread throughout her body. Why did this hurt more than her fall? 

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“No. Leave,” the shaman waved to the door. “More people with more hurt than you.” 

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The child felt something break inside her. Her vision blurred. She followed the old woman’s gesture and felt the sharp stab of judgment from everyone in the room. There was a pressure in her chest that Bliss couldn’t contain, like one of those devastating floods that washes through the alleyways of Alabanza when the rainy season comes. 

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Bliss couldn't help but let out the loudest wail she had ever wailed in her whole life. She didn’t cry when her papa did things to her. She didn’t cry when her mama left her in the dumpsite. But now the dam in her chest had been broken, and Bliss felt like she couldn’t stop the insurmountable anguish that it was holding.

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There was a distinct discomfort in everyone’s faces, but Bliss couldn’t see it; all she could do was cry. She continued to cry even when people started whispering about her. She continued to cry even when people started to leave the shack. It was only when the two of them were left in the room when Bliss felt like she had no more pain to give.

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Once her crying diminished into bumbling hiccups, she wiped the snot from her face with a bloody blouse whose flowers could no longer be seen. Bliss knew she didn’t have in her to listen to another scathing comment from the old woman, so she turned to leave. The least she could do was to save her last shred of dignity. 

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“Wait.” 

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Bliss closed her eyes before turning her swollen gaze to the pain trader. Her old knobby hands slid a gold ring across the table to the child who took a few small steps to pick it up. The ring looked old but polished, and its turquoise gem shone brightly in the dimly lit shack. 

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“For the trouble,” the old lady whispered.

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Bliss stared at the ring for a moment and then at the shaman’s face. The child allowed a small smile to creep on her face only for it to dissipate with a tired sigh. She felt another wave of tears coming, but she wasn’t sure if they were still sad tears. But at least now, she was worth something – five kwek-kweks, or perhaps more, she hoped.