THE FIRST NIGHT
ANTHONY
I was seventeen, and Manila was my playground. In my father's latest sports car, I cruised through the streets of Quiapo like I owned them. Maybe I did, in my own way. Money opens doors, after all, and Ambersons never knocked—we kicked them open.
The night was sticky and alive with the hum of street vendors and distant laughter from nameless alleys. Another party had come and gone, the kind where everyone knows your name but no one remembers your face in the morning. That's how life rolled for Anthony Amberson, the heir to more money than most people could dream of in a lifetime.
I should've been bored out of my skull. Another champagne-soaked night with people who smiled through their teeth and toasted their trust funds. But then, there she was—a shack tucked away like a joke in an alley I hadn't bothered to notice before. A flickering light drew me in, and before I knew it, I was peering through a crack in the door.
Inside, surrounded by flickering candlelight and the faint scratch of an old-fashioned pen against paper, sat this girl. Alison, I'd later learn her name was. She was scribbling furiously, her face etched with determination and something else I couldn't quite place. Poverty? Ambition? Both, maybe.
"Writing in a dump like this?" I muttered to myself, my voice thick with amusement and disdain. "What a waste."
I couldn't look away. Here was this girl, living in God-knows-what conditions, pouring her heart out into a notebook that probably cost less than the watch on my wrist. It should've been laughable, but instead, it intrigued me. Why bother dreaming when reality was knocking on her door, ready to swallow her whole?
Turning to leave, a wave of dizziness hit me like a punch to the gut. I stumbled back against the shack's wall, my heart racing with sudden panic. What the hell was happening to me?
Then it hit me—literally. A sensation of tiny legs, prickling and crawling all over my body. I looked down, expecting to see ants or some urban pest. But no, it was worse—I had turned into a goddamn cockroach.
Panic doesn't begin to describe it. I scrambled away from the shack, desperate to escape the confines of the body that had betrayed me. Yet, as I scuttled into the shadows, something held me back. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe it was fate, laughing at the irony of Anthony Amberson, the cockroach.
Days passed—or was it nights? Time blurred when you had six legs and a new perspective on life. I watched Alison from the shadows, an unseen voyeur in her world of flickering candles and worn-out dreams. She carried on, oblivious to the cockroach that had once been Anthony, the asshole with the shiny cars and the empty heart.
"You're such a cliche," I muttered to myself one night, watching as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Poor girl with big dreams. Haven't we seen this movie before?"
But the longer I watched, the more I saw beyond the worn-out notebook and the flickering candles. Alison wasn't just dreaming—she was fighting. Fighting against odds I couldn't even begin to understand from my gilded cage of privilege.
"And here I am," I said to no one in particular, "trapped in this tiny body because of some cosmic joke."
As days turned into weeks, I began to understand Alison in a way I never thought possible. She wasn't just surviving—she was thriving. Her determination was like a flame in the darkness, illuminating corners of my mind I'd never bothered to explore.
"And to think," I muttered bitterly one night, "I used to complain about the champagne being too warm."
But even as I mocked myself, a strange bond grew between us—a connection forged in the strangest of circumstances. I saw her struggle, her moments of doubt, and her quiet triumphs. And through it all, I couldn't help but admire her.
"Maybe," I whispered one night, as Alison struggled to open a stubborn can of beans, "there's more to life than just parties and fast cars."
But still, I longed to be human again. To feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. To walk away from this bizarre curse and pretend it had never happened.
Yet, as I watched Alison laugh with her brother Dani, or scribble furiously in her notebook, a part of me hesitated. Maybe this curse was a wake-up call—a chance to see the world through someone else's eyes, even if those eyes belonged to a girl living in a shack.
"And who knows," I muttered, as Alison tucked herself into bed one night, exhaustion etched into every line of her face, "maybe I'll learn something after all."
As dawn broke over Manila, casting long shadows across the city, Anthony Amberson, the cockroach, settled into his hiding place. Watching, waiting, and wondering what the next chapter of this strange tale would bring.
Just as the first light of dawn began to filter through the cracks of Alison's shack, I shifted uneasily in my secluded corner. My antennae twitched with a mix of restlessness and resignation. I had been watching Alison for weeks now, seeing her highs and lows, her moments of quiet determination and overwhelming exhaustion.
Tonight, she seemed particularly worn out. Her shoulders slumped as she shuffled around the small space, tending to the simple tasks that filled her days. I watched as she paused, leaning against the worn wooden table, her gaze shifting toward the corner where I hid in shadow.
For a moment, our eyes met—or at least, I imagined they did. She couldn't possibly see me for what I was—a tiny insect clinging to the wall. But her smile, small and fleeting, seemed to suggest otherwise.
"Good for you, you have six legs," she murmured softly, her voice carrying a blend of wistfulness and resignation. "I have two but none of them are working."
She was absolutely beautiful. Not in the way that models on magazine covers are, but in a way that transcended the superficial. Her beauty was in her resilience, in the fire that burned in her eyes despite the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Every night I watched her, my admiration grew. She faced challenges that would have crushed me in my former life, and yet she persevered with a quiet strength that left me in awe. Her laughter with Dani was a symphony of hope amidst the chaos, and her determination was a beacon in the darkness.
In those moments, I realized that Alison was more than just a girl with dreams. She was a force of nature, a testament to the power of the human spirit. And somewhere along the line, I had fallen for her. The cockroach heart that beat in my tiny chest ached with a love that was pure and untainted by my past arrogance.
"And who knows," I whispered, watching her sleep, "maybe this curse was a blessing in disguise."
As the first light of dawn kissed the city awake, I settled into my hiding place, content to watch over Alison for another day. She was my world now, and in her, I had found a purpose beyond the empty life I once led.
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