THE DEBT OF TEN YEARS: HOW A TEENAGE BULLYING INCIDENT CULMINATED IN A COLD-BLOODED ACT OF RETRIBUTION AND A SON’S DISAPPEARANCE

The small public hospital in Cabanatuan in March 2008 bore witness to a silent tragedy. A slim, pale 13-year-old boy, Richard Abisamis, sat shivering, his brow being stitched after a severe laceration. His uniform was stained with blood, his arms grazed. Outside the emergency room, his mother, Norma, paced restlessly, while his father, Roberto, though outwardly calm, seethed with poorly disguised fury. Richard was a quiet, typical public school student in a Nueva Ecija barangay. His inconspicuous nature made him an easy target for school bullies, and this day marked the apex of his torment.

The incident occurred as Richard was heading home, his old, worn backpack slung over his shoulder, when he was intercepted near the waiting shed by a slightly older boy named John Fred Salazar. Salazar was a familiar name in the school, the son of the wealthy owner of a large local rice mill, placing him firmly in the town’s elite. While Salazar had mocked Richard before, this time was different. A single, powerful punch to Richard’s face immediately blurred his vision. As he collapsed onto the concrete, a barrage of kicks rained down on his side. The assault only ceased when a tricycle approached. A concerned citizen rushed the injured boy to the nearest hospital, where his frantic parents eventually found him.

Roberto Abisamis was consumed by disbelief and rage. He demanded to know the perpetrator’s name from the nurse, but Richard, trembling and weeping as his wounds were closed, could not speak. The following day, the Abisamis family lodged a complaint with the barangay, armed with a medical certificate detailing the injuries and photographs of the bruises. Salazar’s parents were summoned, but their attitude was one of dismissive arrogance rather than humility. They deflected blame, claiming Richard had merely been involved in a minor squabble and had provoked the confrontation by shouting first.

Two first-year high school students initially came forward as witnesses, confirming that John Fred had waited for Richard and initiated the a.t.t.a.c.k. However, the tides quickly turned, and the witnesses inexplicably recanted their testimonies. The barangay officials escalated the matter to the child welfare desk, but ultimately, given both boys were minors, no meaningful justice was achieved. Richard was merely advised to recover, while John Fred underwent nothing more than a perfunctory counseling session. He faced no suspension, offered no apology, and extended no financial assistance for Richard’s medical bills.

The injustice was profound. John Fred’s passive aggression and ‘accidental’ h.a.r.a.s.s.m.e.n.t continued unabated after the incident. The school failed to act decisively, allowing the bullying to persist until Richard, consumed by fear and shame, made the heartbreaking decision to drop out. The physical trauma was compounded by the psychological—the damage to his optic nerve gradually worsened, leaving his left eye partially blind. Richard’s dreams of becoming an electrician faded, his future obscured by the very hands that should have guided him. For months, he barely left his home, paralyzed by fear and the persistent, painful reminder of the justice he never received.

Ten years passed, and the event seemed to have been buried by time, forgotten by all but the victim. For Richard, the trauma was a daily reality. The stitched brow had healed into a prominent scar, a permanent marker of his past suffering. At 23, the young man who could barely look straight into a mirror now walked the highways daily, selling kakanin (rice cakes) from a woven bag at the bus terminal. He was an anonymous fixture to regular commuters, focused only on making a meager living for his mother. Norma, now in her 60s, ran a small store in front of their house. Richard’s father, Roberto, had p.a.s.s.e.d a.w.a.y two years after the initial bullying incident, leaving Richard as the sole surviving child and the main, albeit limited, source of income.

The past violently resurrected itself one day in 2018. While vending at the terminal, Richard approached a parked sedan and recognized the familiar, hated face of John Fred Salazar. The sight of his tormentor, the architect of his decade of hardship, caused Richard’s blood to run cold. The memory of March 2008 returned with crushing clarity. Once home, Richard retrieved his old cellphone, and through the pervasive reach of social media, easily tracked down John Fred’s profile. He was now a successful car dealership owner, his life seemingly happy, contented, and affluent. In that moment, the anger that had been latent for a decade, suppressed but never extinguished, violently reignited. Richard remained outwardly silent, his quiet intensity concealing a tragedy that no one saw coming.

Richard meticulously discovered John Fred’s address, a place of large, secluded houses on the outskirts of town. He began to stalk his former bully, observing him from a distance, never revealing his presence. Richard walked the opposite side of the road, his hands clenched, watching and planning. He began charting the path to his day of reckoning. It was a dark, damp night on February 18, 2018, the air carrying a chill and the promise of rain. A lone shadow moved along the poorly lit street, a small k.n.i.f.e, bought days earlier from the market, clenched tightly in its hand. Richard Abisamis, 23 years old, was back to conclude a story that time had failed to erase.

He knew every detail: the time John Fred Salazar returned from the office, the model of his car, the gate that was occasionally left unlocked, and the stretch of road beyond the reach of any CCTV camera. He had rehearsed the sequence until it was second nature. Promptly at 9 PM, a red sedan pulled to a stop. A man in a long-sleeved shirt stepped out, carrying an umbrella, head bowed as he checked his phone. He did not notice the shadow closing in behind him. In a flash, John Fred lost his balance. As the rain began to fall, blood stained the pavement. Richard did not linger. He wiped the k.n.i.f.e clean with a wet handkerchief and tossed the weapon into a nearby river. He stripped off his hoodie, discarding it in a sewer. Then, he walked away, his gait deceptively normal. He felt a sense of justice long denied, but the falling rain mirrored the tears that unexpectedly streamed down his face.

Upon arriving home, Richard paused outside his mother’s small store. Norma was asleep, the house dark. He quietly kissed her forehead and placed a letter on the table beside her. It was a note he had agonized over, simple yet heavy with meaning. The next morning, the town awoke to the news of a body found on a residential road, identified as John Fred Salazar. Police initially suspected a random r.o.b.b.e.r.y turned v.i.o.l.e.n.t. There were no witnesses, no CCTV footage, and the rain had washed away any forensic evidence.

However, a few days later, an elderly woman appeared at the precinct: Norma Abisamis. She reported that her son, Richard, had been missing since the night of February 18—the very night John Fred’s body was discovered. In her trembling hands, she carried the envelope her son had left behind. The contents were succinct but devastating: a mix of gratitude, farewell, and a veiled confession of rage against a person who owed him a great debt. Though not an explicit admission, it was enough for the police to connect Richard to the h.o.m.i.c.i.d.e.

The subsequent police investigation unearthed the decade-old story of John Fred’s bullying of Richard. Richard was immediately classified as a suspect with a clear motive for revenge, despite the lack of direct physical evidence. A search operation was launched for Richard. His mother desperately pleaded for him to show himself. Then, a barangay watchman discovered a pair of slippers under a bridge near the river—one with a broken strap and caked with dried mud. Norma confirmed they belonged to her son. Suspicion deepened: Richard might have attempted to flee after the a.t.t.a.c.k, or worse, he might have drowned in the river. Without a body, there was no confirmation.

Weeks turned into months, and Richard Abisamis vanished without a trace. Police alerts to neighboring provinces proved futile. The name Richard Abisamis slowly transitioned from that of a suspect to a mystery, filed away as a missing person. At the Abisamis home, every night became a quiet vigil of grief. Norma sat before their small altar, holding the recovered slippers—to her, they were not just a reminder of his l.o.s.s, but a symbol of a son who had taken a desperate, final step for the justice denied to him a decade prior.

Meanwhile, after the burial of John Fred Salazar, the barangay returned to its quiet routine. The funeral was sparsely attended. John Fred’s parents were visibly distraught, their grief unceasing. A few former teachers and high school classmates attended, some offering sympathy, but others could not help but feel a flicker of empathy for Richard, knowing the full history of the bullying and the profound suffering the young man had endured.

A year after Richard’s disappearance, a cold February morning found Norma back at the riverbank where the slippers had been found. She clutched the old envelope Richard had left. The edges were worn, but the words inside remained clear: “Nay, thank you for everything. I collected the debt from the person who owed me greatly, but I may not be able to come home. Goodbye, Mother. I hope we can meet again.” With every word, Norma heard her son’s voice, a message short but heavy with emotion. Neighbors advised her to light a candle at the river, but she never did. Some believed Richard was d.e.a.d, his body swept away by the current; others held on to the hope that he was simply hiding. The river flowed on, carrying with it the twin burdens of a v.i.o.l.e.n.t c.r.i.m.e and the lingering, painful mystery of the boy who took revenge and disappeared into the rain.