Little East

Shelomi Domingo || Fall 2025

In the summer, only spilled cow milk lingers, so Iron Buckle and I float to Little East. Little East is where Iron Buckle and I stay. Walking the streets felt like entering a diorama, where every surface, from the cobblestone paths to the faux grass, had an oddly precise texture. The spaces between houses to the garage to the next-door neighbours felt intentionally manicured, the gaps filled by the hollow air from the mailbox-tall pine trees.

The fence we stay in passes through—the tiny doorman presses the button and says to keep noises on the low. I anticipated a reaction from Iron Buckle and found none, because we were in Little East. Nothing unpleasant stays in Little East. 

Then, the spike penetrates. 

I sit still beneath my robe, blue light from the monitor casting reflections on skin and screen. Blue negates, resists, succumbs to mahogany flesh. The monitor hums, its soft pulse dictating the rhythm of the room. A voyeur, if ever there was one. Framing and reframing us in quiet observation. It watches Iron Buckle. My brother. It watches me. 

This is the first step. 

This was the first step. We hand the tiny doorman 5 Little East dollars, and he greets us with a lovely trip. 

Despite the profusion of dollhouses in Little East, the officials insist on just ten more. I’d heard it from a friend, who heard it from an affair. One friend contends it's because of the tourists; her friend argues it's dystopian. The affair dismisses it as nothing. 

Our dollhouse stands inconspicuously. Wood and paint meld, lace-draped windows, and a lone chimney exhaled smoke into the stagnant air. Ivy clings to the side. The miniature door creaks open, the chipped white paint peeling at my touch. "Thanks," I mutter, taking a cigarette from the balcony.

"Hah," comes the voice from next door. 

The next door was three feet away and only three feet wide. We stay beside a mother mannequin draping her sixteen-year-old son with a babe’s broth. 

The son is exciting. He’s the only one in Little East without a lower body. Every mannequin else is one whole. He uses his days grunting from his shoebox doll room, air-frying four chicken breasts, sometimes two chicken sausages, four egg whites, and guzzling a sugar-free Red Bull. All is well as long as he hits his macros. 

On occasion, I’d summon him from the balcony to bum a Chinese cigarette, to which he’d respond, “I don’t get you girls.”

"Yeah. Me neither." 

The last time Iron Buckle and I engaged in the ritual, we shared an apartment. 

He came back from uni that day, profile sharp with anger. His go-to scream was a resounding fuck or an alto putangina,and he enjoyed punching the concrete walls, which I always found amusing.

"Fuck—(punch)—ing—(punch)—kill him! (punch!)" 

But an iron buckle punching a concrete wall isn’t intimidating at all, the sound is too nimble. And even newborns aren’t afraid of a little piercing. The noises nullified the other.

Sometimes I wrote while Iron Buckle punched the wall or cried helplessly on the floor or cut his thigh in front of me. Or I ate and showered. 

Most times I’d be outside and would return home to a one-legged man. 

The misconception about passivity was that it is inherited, but passivity is a learned skill. That the baby, once let free, purges the birth milk out of the mother only to give in again to the taste. 

Wake up. 

This is the real world. 

This is the pulse of Manila, with its veins of Iron Buckle, where the silhouette of a girl lies parallel, a mere three feet apart. 

We are seasoned voyeurs and today is no different. The siblings moved into the apartment an academic term ago and have kept two cats on the low, whereas we have to give up our identification cards for entry. The apartment is the only one in the vicinity to be entered through the parking area before the lobby, a mark of a true Manileño. 

We rise above depressed elevators. 

We infiltrate the room through the windowsill and perch on the narrow ledge. 

Bird’s Eye View. 

Perfect. 

Let me explain the mechanics of the spike.

It starts with the itch, that fizz just beneath the skin. You scratch and your body pretends it can hold still. 

There is a ringing on the left and a tickle on the right. It is a home. It is my street. There was roadkill when I returned home last night. Iron Buckle said it resembled two XL garbage bags stacked against each other. But you know the scent like lingering, it is roadkill & dead. He doesn’t see me scratching. He never does. I wonder if he’d notice if I stopped altogether. 

The apartment spins but you know it is just you with nothing else to call the sensation. It spins and you are questioning volition. It spins and we move against the current. 

There is much to experience and much to write about, and we consider neither. 

This was living in the present. This is what it means to be enlightened, in the moment—whatever that means. 

“Ready? One more.” 

He positions his right arm and extends it. The son is teaching me how to dap, and I unfurl my hands for the ninth time. Whenever we get the sound right, we do a mini celebratory yell that would scare off potential lovers. 

“You’re getting there. More practice and you officially will be the town’s most unfuckable girl.”

I roll my eyes, laugh, and lean back from him. 

He was wearing a taupe Uniqlo boxy shirt, its bottom hem slightly grazing his smoothie.

This was what the son cared about: his mom, paprika, and good conversation. 

“Yeah, right.” I retort and we continue laughing like this until the mom arrives. 

The mom brought home truffle risottos, which was the son’s guilty pleasure meal. He ate it once a week, every Wednesday, precisely at dinner time. 

When I asked, he said it was because of the cutting season. 

Then he showed me his lats. 

The mom is in her late thirties. Her hair is professional jet black, not the box dye, long, layered, and wavy on the ends. She knew the best cashmere and sunglasses brands to shop for in Little East, the personal number of nightclub managers and expedited dry cleaning, and why one should never ask for valet parking. 

I liked her because she was opulent. Who cared about elegance? She knew that the best pieces had the most wear. 

“Won’t we be late?” I asked the son. 

“I was just waiting for you to stand,” he replied. 

First time I understood anger and freedom; I was nine. 

I wrote one-word curses to Iron Buckle. My hand’s edge smudged so much lead from wishing him a slow, agonizing death. Fuck your aching tooth. Fuck you. Shit. Damn! I hate your violence! Die! Die, motherfucker, die! 

But he never laid a hand, never hurt me, or did me wrong in that way. Sometimes I think he would, I’d stiffen and see if he actually, and what he would do. Did it matter if he was strong or not? The man towered over me. I rationalized a punch to the shoulder as the easier wound, one I could forgive and forget. So I never moved, not one bit. The worst I could be was the one who flinches, I thought. 

But no, the son of a bitch only wanted to make sure I remembered that I knew what violence was.

And he was right. 

I never felt more free. 

That’s just what happens when you grow up inside each other. 

There’s no line left. 

A Little East event has its own kind of vibrancy. 

Residents—us—enter the main square dressed in the palette of our homes. An unspoken ritual yet strictly adhered to. 

From a distance, I spot Iron Buckle. His silhouette is distinct against the lantern-lit stalls, his gaze sweeping over them with detached curiosity. 

The hollow air is thick with competing scents.

One stall boasts its yuzu and pink pepper, sharp and floral. Its neighbour hums with the warmth of freshly baked cardamom pastries. A group of teenagers drifts near the center of the square, a haphazard spectrum of the nicer Pantones. 

One man stands out—a Hawaiian shirt, loud and clashing against the surrounding earth tones. He fumbles with a henna cone, attempting to mirror the intricate patterns inked on the locals’ hands. His shaky attempt, paired with a bottle of sunscreen, results in an unintentional abstract masterpiece. 

Another man, in khaki shorts and a generic baseball cap, surveys the festivities with a raised eyebrow.

Leaning against a taco stand, blunt in hand, I watch the son. 

“Never heard that answer before (about the most beautiful sound). Interesting answer.”

“I think you say that because when you lay on someone's chest, you get that feeling of being protected.” 

“Most beautiful sound on earth might be our own name. We all want to hear our name.” Like a verdict I already knew. “And that is?” I asked. “Son.” He smiled, a hint of pride in his eyes.

“Have you got any other name?” 

“No, my mom named me. She wanted to feel close to me.” He shrugged, gentle smile still on his face.

“It’s beautiful.” 

“Thanks.” He nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know.” “You seem okay with it. Letting her take care of you.” 

A slow smirk. “Didn’t exactly win the genetic lottery, did I?” I lit up. Inhaled. “But you’re fine with it?” 

“We’re not Americans. Enthusiasm’s not in the blood. Besides, she’s my mom.” I flicked the lighter impatiently. “Must be tough.” 

“Man, come on. Rent’s free. Food’s cooked. I don’t gotta do nun.” “You ever thought of leaving?”

His face darkened. “Leave for what? I’ve got mom. I’ve got my routine. I’ve got risotto.” I exhaled slow. 

“What more does a mannequin need?”

He blinked. Smiled small. 

Smoke curled between us. 

I met the son's eyes with a newfound calm. 

Mother makes fruit salad. 

Skimmed milk spills across the floor. I move to wipe it. She stops me. 

“What’s the maid for, then?” 

She stirred. “Cheese.” 

I handed her the Eden block, watched her shred it into the bowl. She pours two glasses of Moët, the bottle’s mouth hissing as it emptied. 

Her waxy profile twisted at the taste. “Told you. I asked those KTV fucks if it was fake. Thought it was the language barrier. Turns out they’re just cunts.” 

She lifted her glass. “Cheers.” 

She clicked it against mine. A few drops spilled. 

That night, she argued in the liquor section. “I said the real one.” 

The doormen, overwhelmed, nodded, placated. I imagined them cursing her in their language once she turned. Then smiling at me. Because I, for one, was not her. 

Teresa moved through Little East like she belonged in the corners. Shadows shifted around her, pulled close like old friends. 

She pressed open the dollhouse door. 

This agency gets her into sticky situations and Iron Buckle knows all of these, even the parts Teresa glosses over with her friends. He only tells her to be careful, or to be safe and then gives her a fist bump. Teresa understands his sincerity. 

She had a best friend once. Then she blocked her. Just like that. 

Insider: Teresa just up and blocked me, like, out of nowhere. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it.

Me: That's rough. You try talking to her? 

Insider: Yeah, but she's giving me nada. We never had any beef before. It’s like I don’t exist. It's like she's shut down completely. 

Me: That sucks. 

Insider: It's not just that. She was my anchor. Now what? 

Me: Yeah. That’s hard. 

Me: That sounds tough. I can imagine how much you relied on her. 

Another insider has known Teresa for nearly seven years. She emphasizes Teresa's sincerity and thoughtfulness, expressing deep respect for her ability to endure a challenging childhood. "Teresa is fiercely private," Insider observes. "She pulls away when she’s sick or hurting. Once, when I brought her to the hospital, she worried more about burdening me than the IV in her arm. It was heart-wrenching.” The insider had to leave. Couldn’t stand it. 

Teresa studied the dollhouse’s damp walls; the Diet Coke stains on cheap flooring. Fake plants. Footprints more permanent than furniture. 

She smirked. “What the hell? 

A figure emerged from the shadows. “Who is that?” “No one.” Teresa was about to leave.

He grinned. “You’re alone?” 

“Needed a break.” She exhaled. “But this might be pushing it.” Dancer shrugged. “It’s a good place to think.” 

They walked through frozen streets. Mannequins caught mid-laugh, mid-fear, mid-breath. “How do you do that?” she asked Dancer, who moved like he was always in a fight with gravity. He met her gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “Momentum.” She raised a brow.

“Momentum?” 

“If you stop, you sink.” 

She considered this. “And the ones who can’t swim?” 

“Well, keep them afloat.” 

Teresa nodded. 

Every mannequin needs a dancer.

Most days are a black hole but not a void. Teresa would argue otherwise. "It is so much more than that." A perpetual search for a mood, an experiment in fallibility. 

She sits, leg crossed, recounting her latest escape. "I just don’t like ill-tempered people," she says about running away. 

"A total fucking weirdo," about a stranger who tried trapping her when she "didn’t wanna fuck. I gave in to making out to get to the door and went on." 

He sent her money as an apology. 

Texted: Honestly, just exploring your mind is almost like sex. 

She laughs. We don’t. 

Iron Buckle. The name alone. 

He moves through the rain-slick street unnoticed. A shadow swallowed by other shadows. Just after rush hour, everyone scrambling for the next train. No one sees him. 

But we see what he is. The dull monotone of his voice. The way he detaches, recounts his days like they happen to someone else, makes it harder to empathize with. Or perhaps, in our apathy, we've simply never bothered to try. 

So he stands here. Arms tucked in. Blood soaking his grip. Eyes locked on the crossroads. A dull ache in his thigh, but nothing compared to the cathedral hollowed out in his chest. Not emptiness, but a ruin.

He moves through the city like a ghost with unfinished business. Faces blur. Stories go unheard. The tide of people carries him forward, but he is weightless. 

Then, his phone buzzes. A single text. Stark. A fist to the gut. 

Teresa: I got raped. 

Iron Buckle: oh god you didn’t deserve this at all, it’s not your fault where are you right now are you safe i’m going to be behind you however you decide to work through this im here

Teresa: you too be safe 

Iron Buckle: im very sorry i wish i could’ve been by your side to protect you as an older brother where are you please tell me you’re safe

He doesn’t know what to do. 

So he texts The Son. Says he failed. Says don’t message anymore. Says he’s going to see something. If he had did what he would’ve done that night—if he had followed through—people would’ve stopped. Would’ve looked at his body. Someone would have taken out their phone, called 911, snapped a picture, texted: I just saw someone die. 

The police would search his pockets for ID. Call his family. They would all cry as his body was rushed to the ER. 

He would have been dead. 

And finally, he would have been seen. 

When we ask Teresa about her childhood, she pauses, then shrugs. "What about it?"

So we tread lightly. We ask only the right questions, which means nothing before age nine. The gaps in her story are like missing film frames—blanks he can’t fill, details just out of reach.

He'd believed, maybe stupidly, that he'd shielded her from the worst of it. 

When Teresa learned her mother was coming back after disappearing, Grandma braced for her anger. Instead, Teresa was relieved. Finally, someone who might understand. 

"Grandma told me the mouth is the organ that cuts, the nastiest one in the human body. I thought about all the times I cried my first words. Childhood was like losing gravity." 

The way we anchor ourselves. The way we tangle in each other’s hollows. The way we hold on, hoping something stays. 

Mother muses, "We’re all still learning how to live." 

There is sympathy in the night. We are reaching for it. The window is a witness. The light hesitates, then stays on. 

But Teresa wasn’t clueless that night. 

She got into Dancer’s car, still technically a stranger. Put her luggage in the back. Let him drive her to his house. She needed a place to stay. 

She knew what could happen.

She had a choice. She had no choice. She had little choice. 

“Dancer’s a single dad,” she says. “His 14-year-old daughter was in the next room. At around 11 pm, he tried to make out. I wasn’t in the mood. I told him I was tired and went to bed. In bed, he kept trying. Kept pressing. Kept putting it inside. I said I was tired. Because, well, I was. He wouldn’t listen. So I slept while he did everything else.” 

She considers leaving. Going to Taft. But it’s too late. She’s too tired. 

She wakes at 4 am. It happens again. She stops fighting. Sleeps through it. When she wakes, everything is normal again. 

“He even booked me a car for work.” 

She doesn’t block his number. His last message sits frozen: 

When you need help or have nowhere to go, I am willing to help you. I am happy with our bonding even if you fell asleep on me. 

Still, there's a quiet strength that protrudes from Teresa as she dares to finally call it what it was. She was raped. 

The morning she left his house, the daughter, sweeping the front yard, noticed Teresa while Dancer introduced the two to each other. She’s known the girl’s name since the night before. Dancer showed her the daughter’s Facebook. She repeated it to herself. Made sure she’d remember it in the morning.

The daughter is 14. Teresa is 18. 

They exchange awkward “hi’s.” 

Bowing their heads under the weight of her father’s shame. 

Dancer said his daughter was a bit of a Marites. A Karen. 

Didn’t explain further. Teresa figured not to ask. 

Underscoring the severity of what happened did not connote a call to action. What was so different from what happened with Dancer from those preceding it? 

Despite her family’s pleas, despite Iron Buckle demanding a name, Teresa stays silent.

Her mother's shaking voice slices through the tension, “Why do you understand him? What was done to you you don't understand? What if you get pregnant? Are you more concerned about that than what was done to you? What did he do wrong? It has been blotted in the police that your dad knows someone there in Taft. You’re lucky your dad knows the PNP chief.” 

This was the cost of telling. 

Teresa replied,” It wasn’t rape-rape.” 

Right. 

Hours later, Son messaged. 

The son: Teresa 

Teresa: What's up? 

The son: I left something in your book. 

I saw the page, a crumpled Kraft pad. Neon orange highlighter scrawled across it, indecipherable.

Teresa: What's this? 

The son: Tangina 

The son: That's what you gave me years ago. 

The son: Bruh 

Teresa: Wow, where'd you keep it? 

The son: Wallet 

The son: I have more 

The son: A lot 

The son: Since you're leaving 

The son: Corny amputa wow eh no 

The son: Up to you, idc 

Teresa: My memory's so bad, sawrry 

The son: Hahaha 

The son: Taguig moments (a place in the Philippines)

Apr 3, 2024, 11:56 PM 

Teresa: I'll send my location 

Teresa shared her location with @cozyboyson. 

@cozyboyson was not notified about this message because he was in quiet mode. Teresa: I'm with someone and he's lowkey sketchy The son: Tangina, no reaction? 

The son: I kept everything, dawg 

The son: Everything you wrote 

The son: Wya? 

Apr 4, 2024, 1:31 AM 

The son: Wya? 

The son: Are you okay? 

Apr 4, 2024, 3:23 AM 

Teresa: Help 

Teresa: Please 

@cozyboyson was not notified about this message because he was in quiet mode. 

Skin crawls. Just enough to get to the window. It's always the heat before the cold. Iron Buckle beside me, same tremors, same sheen on clammy skin. 

Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. We stare at the glowing red tip of the spike. 

Seven. Six. Five. Iron Buckle looks to the street. Empty. No frozen figures mid-step.

Four. Three. Two. 

One. 

Slam. 

Spike plunges into my wrist. 

Pain is a white-hot star. 

I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.

Breathe. Don't breathe. Doesn't matter. 

Muscles scream, then go slack. 

Iron Buckle grunts, the sound distant, distorted. 

Then silence. 

Perfect, hollow silence. 

I open my eyes. 

The world is still. 

No nothing. 

The dust moves. 

Nothing else does. 

Iron Buckle stumbles. Knocks over a teacup. 

It doesn’t matter. We won’t remember. 

Just this. 

This stolen breath. 

This shaky moment of feeling human. 

I am laying my forehead on someone’s chest. 

I’m feeling weightless. 

Then, the world snaps back. 

My muscles lock. 

A grin splits my face—unnatural. Eyes wide, but where? Sightlessly ahead.

Like an erotic dead woman.