[Donald Badeau, a businessman and the CEO of a famous five-star hotel in town, The Grand Badeau, was shot dead in Silver Boulevard past eleven o’clock in the evening…]
It was midnight, and was raining hard because of an approaching storm. They’re soaked in wet while running in the Operating Room while his mother clasps the beads of rosary, praying and hoping for Donald’s life.
He remembered it all too well. The ambulance’s siren, people’s gossip, reporters’ interviews, the sound of a camera’s shutter, and his mother’s loud mourn in the morgue.
Israel was just barely a grown man – a thirteen year-old to be exact – to have lost a family member. His dad, Donald Badeau.
Everything seems to be moving so fast. Before everything happened that night, they were celebrating for their new launched project at their home. It wasn’t that grand, just a simple gathering with friends and investors.
Yet here they are, in a cold room, with a cold body of his father, lying on the stainless bed.
Donald Badeau, a thirty-five-year-old business man was shot in the head.
As Israel stared at his father’s coffin that was about to be buried, he blinked his eyes and found his mother’s face smiling at him.
“Happy birthday, son!” Rosalinda Badeau was holding a freshly baked red velvet cake on her hand. “Blow your candles, sweetie!”
Israel’s smile can’t be described. He was so happy. Every year, her mother would greet him first thing in the morning on his birthday with a freshly baked cake. His mother made them by herself, which made him think that the cakes he’s going to blow is a very unique one.
“Oh, mi amor,” Rosalinda mumbles after Israel blew the candles. She put down the red velvet cake and reached for his son’s head and kiss Israel on his forehead. “I’m so sorry if I can’t be with you today on your birthday, sweetie.”
Israel chuckles and sat down on the high stool chair. Using his index finger, he traced it on the red icing of his red velvet cake and licks it.
“It’s okay, Mom. I can invite my friends over to celebrate with me. Just have a safe flight.”
“Aw. Come here!” Rosalinda teases Israel by poking the side of his waist. “My baby is already a grown up!”
“Mom, stop, it tickles!” Israel giggled as he tries to avoid her mother’s index fingers.
“I’ll make it up to you when I get home, mi amor. I promise.”
The only word that traumatized him most. His father, Donald, had a promise with him, too, when he was still in seventh grade.
“I promise I’ll buy you a bike when you turn fifteen, son.”
Israel blinked his eyes again and he’s in their living room with confetti on the floor, helium balloons floating on their ceiling, and a party popper on each of his friend’s hands that just had exploded.
[Flight code BD 04 burst into flames and crashed near the mountains of Mexico. Authorities announced that the plane was a private vehicle of Rosalinda Badeau, the late Donald Badeau’s wife, a CEO of Badeau Group of Company.]
Israel went deaf for a moment after hearing the headline. His friends looked at him in concern, especially that the reporter mentioned his mother who went aboard for her meeting in Mexico City.
[… there were no survivors…]
Israel’s world seems to shatter. His hands started to shake, his knees began to lose strength.
Just the night on his birthday, he lost another family member.