bacotri

[bacotri]

It's Unbecoming

Realization lives in empty hallways of a conversation's end. The silence after confronting an unfaithful lover. Those moments following a fireworks' blast. Realization rests within the cycle of fullness, when everything returns to zero.

For me, it's my first breath after the long coma I've been in. Time moves absolutely different for people in a coma. A second is a month in real life, maybe. But it feels like a fanfare when I left the dream.

Waking up to the cold, sterile, and bright room was my moment. Even more so was the fact that nobody is there to greet me. In movies, or dramas, often we'd see the families of comatose patients crying and sobbing while waiting for them to wake up. But really, realistically, who has the time to do that?

Everyone has a life of their own. I don't blame them. Also, unlike those stories you might have heard, I can actually distinguish coma dream from reality. So I don't need help from families or friends to grasp anything, reality is as solid as a brick.

Well, except for the thing sitting next to me.

I can't describe it in a way that won't make it more confusing. Let's say, a girl, about my age. Imagine that, but blurry. Like in third dimension but also wrong. It can speak too.

"The button, behind your head, it calls for a nurse." It didn't sound hostile.

I did as it... she? I did as she asked. Sorry, it's way better for me to use that pronoun. It humanizes her, and I'd like her to be human.

I pressed the button to call the nurse. The process after was very procedural. Health inspection, checking for muscle atrophies, soreness. The nurses and that one doctor was gentle, and I felt a little embarrassed at the thought of girls touching my body.

Don't judge, but I've spent years in a practically dead state. I can't feel anything in the real world. Every bit of sensation sent to my brain is overwhelming at that point.

Then again, the one thing I can never erase from all the thoughts invading me at that point was that... I like being touched. Not even in an explicit way, but I like the sensation of physical touch on my skin. People often would take those for granted, holding hands, hugging, all of that.

But think about it like this. In a dream, you trip and fall down. In an instant you'd be jerked back awake. You never had the sensation of the impact on your skin. That is, the membrane separating dreaming and waking is merely the sensation of touch.

It is very thin indeed. After the coma I find myself savoring more and more of the concept of touch. I give myself time and space to just simply touch an object and feel it. It's weird.

I went home about a week after I woke up. The thing invited herself into my house as well. I don't mind her, her presence is calming. I miss some days when I would be alone though.

"I'd like a salmon today." She requests things like that often. I'm surprised too, because I'd find myself wanting those things she asked.

One day, I remember it was a rainy night. We had a conversation. I've had conversations with her before, alone of course, other people can't see her. That's something I find myself relieved with as well, that I have a secret that is her.

"I can't see the stars tonight," she said. "I want to see the stars."

"You can't, it's raining, heavy one too. Seems like it won't let up for a while," I replied.

It was an in between period. Sometimes after summer ends, it will rain heavily. I remember that from my childhood.

"On nights like these, when you can't see the stars, what do you replace them with?" Her tone back then was innocent. But even a blind man can see that she asked a loaded question.

I wanted to answer that I don't replace the stars. It's fated that we can't see them that night, and what is fated can't be changed. But deep down I want them to change, she and her tiny hands have reached deep into the permeable surfaces of my heart.

It was a simile, a play on words. What I meant, and what I'm sure she meant was, given another circumstance would I allow my family and friends to enter my life again? If not, what did I replace them with?

"It's you, isn't it?" I asked her.

Silence.

My family didn't leave me. This is reality, not some short story. Of course sometimes they would ask around, contacted me, but I always kept my distance.

That's worse, I agree. Keeping them just out of reach. Yes, it's like putting myself in a cage. I've used similar metaphors, and those are dangerous you know? Metaphors are used only to build love. If carelessly used they will build a wrong type of love.

At least, my parents brought me lots of metaphors. Most of them by the name of my best friend, or my neighbor, my childhood friend, even my own girlfriend at one point. It's love, they claimed. I feel it, the love, suffocating and scary.

When I told her... of course I told her. I told her many things. She saw my worst, days where I would loop myself like an ouroboros of depravity. Coming back and forth between laptop and phone, staring at pictures and videos, and imagining I was there instead of whichever male actor was.

"I don't mind," she said. "These are human things, these make you human. But please tone it down."

I don't know if she's being ironic, or that it's her twisted way of seeing what a human is. But her words made me stop. It made me realize that she was seeing my vulnerability and it's the one thing that became my blockade.

Oh, yeah, back to the parents thing. I told her that too. About how they would proclaim love in such a way. She told me that it wasn't love.

"Love doesn't hurt," she murmured. "If love hurts, it's not love, it's a skin of one, but inside it's different. A whole new kind of thing."

"But it didn't hurt," I scoffed. "It just felt weird. They seem to enjoy other people more than their own kid."

"That." She then held my hands. "That is hurt. Don't be ashamed of that."

In a way she does, it's strange, like she's reading my mind and dares speak it. Sometimes I would think of a concept, mull over it, and gave up because I just can't find the right word to convey it. Then she would have this grin, and in the sweetest voice someone could muster, she'd say the exact sentence or phrase which would describe it.

Some days she'd be silent, just watching me. I hated those days at first, but she has a way to make me feel at ease, even with those piercing unseen eyes. Those are usually paired with rain, I think she hated rain.

I wonder the same thing too, why I kept coming back to her on all of our sessions. She seems to be something I kept on my mind, even when she's not here anymore. I just... maybe I am feeling lonely.

Describing myself in third person is strange but I can try. He is a man in his late 20s, wearing thick glasses, likes to go out and eat, had a coma once. His strength... let's see, empathic? His weakness revolves around that too, maybe seeing too much of people's faults and overanalyzing them.

I get that this might help, but I feel like day by day my memory of her is beginning to fade away. Maybe, back to it again, it is fate. I am fated to lose even her, but I don't want to.

This is something I'm incredibly passionate about, mostly because I want to see her again. Do you think she's waiting for me? I think she is, and she's dying to speak to me again.

The last day I saw her was before I had that crash and ended up here again, last year. It was strange because the events play out exactly like when I awoke from my coma years ago. Sterile room, buzzing light, only difference was you, I guess.

I am glad, yes. I'm glad you are there. It's not as lonely as the coma.

"Be careful," she lamented. It was such a weird tone. Like she'll never see me again.

No, not lamenting, maybe more hoping? It's certainly much more brighter than I might remember. I'm biased after all, because after the crash I never really see her again.

Well, it'll be easy to describe her in third person. She is... wearing a white shirt, long black hair, even if fuzzy I could still see her wearing glasses as well. She's not slender, not tall, just average in height, weight... no comment, maybe average too? Her build is not something I truly look at.

Come to think of it, she does.

Wait, can you try putting your hair back again?

Oh...

Oh my God.

[bacotri]

Rooftop Girl

I woke up on the bed again. It's the same room, same building, same atmosphere, all over. Cursing myself, I wanted to go back to sleep, but my clothes are uncomfortable enough that I decided I'd go to bath.

Often at times like this I'd scramble myself out and go straight to the rooftop. Uncomfortable clothes means sunlight, and sunlight means I can go up top. There'd always be a girl, smoking up there, and I like talking to her.

As per usual my dreams was realistic and boring. It's always either middle school, or high school. Some of them even blend the two. They always have my friends on them, faces all blurry but recognizable. I hate it, I want to dream something fantastical.

I want to wake up as a detective on some foreign land. Half-dead after a bender and reeks of alcohol. But duty calls and I have to solve some murder.

Or maybe take me to some ancient and evil land. Where I have to survive and battle giant lizards and flaming dragons. In the end I'd marry a princess or save a kingdom.

Anything, anything but the mundane.

"Hey, you again," said the girl on the rooftop.

Her name is Helen, but she doesn't like to be called that. We settled on "rooftop girl" since it's obscuring enough while describing her so much. Helen loves dragging cigarettes and leaving the butts for the cleaning crew to painstakingly pick up.

"I knew you'd be up here," she continued.

"Whatever, I'm here to tan." I sat down near the fences. "They still haven't banned you from those, huh?"

"They can't, and these aren't your usual smokes, too." She drags a smoke and throw one of the butts down to the field below.

"That's gonna hit someone, someday," I said nonchalantly.

"Nobody's been down there since ages, Ko." She lights up another cigarette.

We didn't talk after that. The bags under her eyes feel comforting to me. Her ruffled hair and overall tired look makes me want to protect her at all costs.

"How was... your sleep last night?" I asked, surprised at myself for asking that.

"Huh? It's fine I guess. I didn't sleep much." she said.

"So am I."

"Bullshit, or you'd be here since seven. You just got here because it's hot inside, right?"

"Yeah, you got me. But I dreamt of that thing again last night, might as well be awake."

"But you did shut your eyes and dreamed. That's sleep alright. Me, a creature of the night, I don't sleep at all."

"You're saying that if you were to sleep now, you'd have an awesome dream, don't you?"

"What the hell?" She laughed. "No, I don't dream. Mostly just blank screen and then an alarm blazing afterwards. That's why I hated sleep, maybe that's why this insomnia is haunting me as well."

That's scary to think about, right? Imagine being locked in a position where all you have is yourself and an imagination. You'd have nothing to do but dream.

But to have no dream at all, means not even a shadow on the wall from the fire is present. It's emptiness and tomorrow afterwards.

Sun is setting, and we have to come down again. Our rooms awaits us, and the night is a finicky master. She'd serve us sleep however she liked it. Sometimes not at all.

I stared at the ceiling of my room, waiting for sleep to come. The rooftop girl, Helen, probably didn't sleep like she said. Reminds me of an old friend I had whose obsessed with coffee.

He's a lightweight when it comes to caffeine, though. Just a sip and he won't be able to sleep. It's from him that I got an inkling that dreams need rest too. That after a few nights of non-sleep, those where you lay your head and suddenly woke up the next day, the dreams are so far removed from reality.

The next morning, I had a talk with Law, a doctor, my friend. He berated me for not sleeping.

"Think of your own health, Ko," Law said while rubbing his glasses.

"I'd go insane if I keep going like this, Law."

"You'd go insane regardless. But please, at least for the sake of me, would you just... endure this."

"I know, but you can't coop me in here like some lab rat."

"I can't do anything about it Ko, they told me that it'd get sorted out soon, but you know how they are."

"Can we settle, at least let me trace the perimeter of the building."

"No, too dangerous. You and that Helen girl are the only two hopes we have."

"I want to feel the grass again, Law."

"Soon, Ko."

I hate mornings like this. Helen hates it too. That bond is unbreakable, if you don't know it yet.

The beginning of all circle of friends are not just mutual "like" of something. Sure, that might be the case for some groups, but more often than not there's something we all hate. Hatred is a connective tissue, it promotes gossip.

It makes stories.

"What if I go, Ko?" Said Helen that day.

"Go as in..."

"Go away. Fly out of this building and just disappear."

"I think it'd be the best, right?"

She didn't even look at me as she said that. Her eyes fixated on the sky. Granted, the sky looks very pretty today.

"But you can't." I sit myself closer to her this time.

"It's a what-if, that means anything can happen," she said.

"Well, in that case you'd go, and we wouldn't see each other again," I replied.

"That makes it sound sad, Ko. I've replayed the answer over and over again in my head, and it never sounded as sad as your words. Even though they're the same words."

"I mean it would be sad considering you're leaving me behind."

"You don't even consider going with me."

"Why would I?"

Helen then made a frame out of her fingers, and point it at me. Her cigarette blew smoke out.

"Ko, I got you in a frame now. Now you exist between these fingers." She then moved the frame away from me, towards the coming sunset. "Now you're not. But are you still there?"

"I am, I guess. You just took me out of the frame."

"Then in this case, are you going with me, or not?"

"I don't know... in spirit?"

"Yeah. In spirit. A shadow of you."

The ambers from Helen's dying cigarette flies away. Sunset is coming, and she held my hand as we move back in.

"I've resigned from ever wanting to get out of here, Ko." Helen and I walk down the staircase. "From the first day of quarantine, they told us that we're special, and that this is going to be just like home."

"The first day, huh? That's like, what, a year ago?" I asked rhetorically.

"We've lost a lot of people. They couldn't withstand the daily tests. Only the two of us left."

"It's funny that out there there's a real disease, actually killing people, all death-tally and world-shaping, and we're here dying of boredom."

"Funny is a funny word to frame it."

We reached the doors to our dorms. It was a dorm before, but now it's more of a large single room. We were separated by sex, so Helen and I never had time to sleep together.

That doesn't mean her and I haven't had time to lay together. Lay, because I never could sleep beside her. I've always wanted to feel how it feels to wake up next to her. I would spend all of the night examining her features, the way the shadow lands on her beautiful mixture of blond hair and firm lines, or just how on each breath that she takes my soul flies.

The next morning I wake up in a boat, floating over a dark shadowy ocean. I rubbed my eyes, pinched my cheek, do everything I needed to confirm reality. It's no use, this is real.

Law is there with me. Sitting on a wooden stool, overlooking the paddles.

"Law... where are we?" I asked.

"Law, must be the name of this vessel." The voice from the figure is not Law's. It's rough, like someone who has been at sea for years on end. "I'm sorry boy, the man you call Law is not here anymore."

"Then who are you?"

"The caretaker."

"Don't joke with me now."

"Your culture named me The Caretaker. Although my duty is not to care, just to take... that was an example of a joke, if you could call it that."

He turned his head slowly to look at me. His eyes a deep blue ocean. Although what he wore and the shape of his body all resembles Law. There is no trace of Law in him.

"I'm sorry, boy named Koda. This is it, your journey ends here. Once you get off, you end," said the figure.

In hindsight I must've looked pathetic in front of him. Babbling and crying about the missed opportunities I had. The Caretaker nodded and listened to every tearful complaints I have. But to him, there is nothing else to do. Crying is a natural reaction to things like these.

"Every time you come here, you always do this. No matter the face, no matter the life, there's always a reason to return." The Caretaker paddles slowly. "I guess it's a benefit of life, to see things in a positive light almost all of the time. To think that time itself is a linear path, and that there is a future to achieve."

I sat there silently after running out of tears.

"You will return again, another name, another chance. You will meet her again, in another sense. Such a shame that no amount of repeat will ever make you remember." Our little boat reaches a shore.

The Caretaker told me to get off of his boat, and that he'll be back waiting for me again. I don't know what it means, but I only have one thing on my mind. Whatever shadow lies behind the light I'm going to, I will see her again.

[bacotri]

There We Are, Pt. 2

There is something that people often call the calm before the storm. Seems like the sea gave that idiom to man. The sea would mask its true intentions of rampage with pockets of easiness. But the sea is unconscious, not knowing of when to dispel storms. It can't choose, rather it's bound to do that by nature. Humans on the hand could.

I awake to Ms. Dawn sitting beside the infirmary window. She looks down at the empty track field. At times like these she might get used to seeing a bunch of people preparing for PE.

My hands feel warm, warmer than last night. So is my entire body. I called out to her.

She looked at me and smiled. It's probably a genuine smile, but I won't know for sure. We talked a little bit to air out the lingering awkwardness. Until today she might find it difficult to look at me with anything but abject disdain. This is the first day where she would see me as another human to talk with.

Our breakfast feels nicer, more fulfilling. I often cursed this meal of the day, because we evolve to to inconvenience ourselves by having us eat so early in our daily lives. But seeing Ms. Dawn enthusiastically talk about her favorite football club while demolishing her can of sardines makes me sort of liking breakfasts.

Then again, we find it easier to spend the day in silence. Occasionally topics would linger, flap its wings and bob its head around, then fly away again. It's just who we are.

Routine would involve something menial that could be autopiloted. Be done half asleep and still would be satisfying for whoever is doing it. This, all of this, shouldn't be a routine. At least I don't expect that she would be part of my daily life.

That night we climbed and took our spots at the rooftop. We were closer than ever before, I could hold her hand and she lays her head on my shoulder. The moon like a cat's eye, sharp and watchful of us.

"Have you ever thought of what happens after we die?" Ms. Dawn suddenly asked.

"Sometimes. Legends has it that they would turn into specters, and fly up there." I pointed at the moon. It feels brighter tonight.

"What would happen if we still carry baggage from our lifetime?"

"I guess the sky won't accept them..."

"And then what do you think would happen to us as specters?"

"Well, they'd have nowhere else to go."

Ms. Dawn pointed at the shadows littering the school grounds. Many of them still walking around and doing things that are routine to them.

"Would they look like that?" Ms. Dawn asked.

"Maybe," I replied.

"Then what difference do they have with us right now?"

The wind is blowing now, but we remain in our seats. It's about to rain soon.

"I thought you liked me now, Ms. Dawn," I said.

"I treasure you," Ms. Dawn replied. "But this is about circumstance, not who we are."

"You also hated this school?"

"No, I love this school."

"Then?"

"Put it this way, if you were to go to an amusement park, and be stuck there with all the rides and arcades open, you'd love it for a while."

"Ah, this is boredom."

"Wrong." She points at my nose. "Boredom is for children, or people who are stuck as children and won't grow up. They get bored of things, places, people."

She fixes her blouse. "Then they leave."

I laughed a little. "Alright, my guess is it's something between boredom and complacency, right?"

She beams a smile at me. Something tells me that her issue wasn't the feeling of routine, but rather the connection we had. She has grown to like our life and change to her is an enemy. Something to hate.

The first rain in a while comes hard. We were already sleeping at that point. I was awoken by Ms. Dawn, standing near my bed. Her body so near to mine.

My arms felt like an automaton, they reach out without my will. She embraces me with all her warmth. It's a cold night, the first cold night that swept my entire body for so long.

Her lips taste like cinnamon, and her hairs tickles my skin. I can feel her tightening her hug on me. My mind blanks and I succumb to my carnal instincts.

I didn't even know how our bodies fit like that. Contorting and moving at such unnatural pace. Her arms all over me, her legs locking me and refusing to let go. The rain masks whatever moans we both slip.

Mornings came as we do.

[bacotri]

There We Are

The school is empty this time of the year. Except for the infirmary. Everyone's gone home for the summer, the heat was unbearable. Out of the entire school only the music room and the infirmary is allowed to open their air conditioner 24/7, naturally the choir club almost barricaded the music room for themselves.

That leaves only the infirmary, right? You would bet some sports club or health club would take the room, yeah? Sadly the room is open only to Ms. Dawn. Her and me.

I can't go back home. My parents live far from here, in some fishing village. I also can't stay at my apartment because we don't have any air conditioning. The city's been in lockdown since I don't know when. Because of the heat.

So one day, naturally, I got a heat stroke. Right after PE. Ms. Dawn forced this story out of me, and now I'm staying here.

"They just announced that we're obligated to work from home, except for essential workers," Ms. Dawn said as I laze around the infirmary bed.

"I can't go anywhere else then," I said, calculating my next move. I probably could squeeze a trip back to my fishing village. Slim chance, but I know some people who could help.

"Don't worry, I mean..." Ms. Dawn has a strange expression. "By some technicality this infirmary is a health facility, and health workers are considered essential."

"It's very flimsy Ms., besides I've hassled you long enough," I said.

"If anything we both are hassling the school for their AC." Ms. Dawn looked at the pile of clothes she brought. "I've already decided to stay here for a while as well, if you're okay with me."

I know what this sounds like. A young nurse and a growing high-schooler in the infirmary together while the city is going on lockdown. But rest assured that both Ms. Dawn and I see this as an inconvenience.

She told me, practically begged me, to stay here until the heat went down. I can't do anything since I am susceptible to the temperature it seems. Her sense of being a nurse and my weakness made us unable to do anything.

A week passed after I got that initial heatstroke, the heat kept swelling up. My apartment became an oven overnight, and so here we are.

The principal at first objected to me dragging my essential items to school. But he softened after Ms. Dawn explained the situation. Principal's a rich man, he already planned to ditch the country for a while hearing about the lockdown. This is a form of sympathy to him.

"I want you to be mindful of privacy though," Ms. Dawn said to me after a while. "As I am."

"Don't worry Ms., your side is yours, my side is mine," I reassured her.

The nights were silent. It feels wrong to spend the night at school, even more so with Ms. Dawn. We both climbed to the rooftop, like scripted, and with the night sky the heat was at least bearable.

"It's like a never ending summer, even though it's September," I said.

"Summers have festivals, fireworks, and a jolly mood," Ms. Dawn replied. "This... I don't know what this is, but it has none of that."

"We didn't get any snow this year, maybe because of the heat."

"Another reason to hate it then."

"Do you hate the heat, Ms. Dawn?"

"I can't go back home to my family, so do you, what else is there to feel but hatred."

"I don't know, even though the circumstances are like this, I find this heat a little calming. Don't you?"

We sat in silence. Watching the sky, the field, everything. Usually this time of night there'd still be activities, people running around home late, students hanging out in convenience stores.

"I used to go up rooftops with my ex," Ms. Dawn said suddenly. She took off her hair ornament to let her hair loose. "Sorry if I'm dumping on you, are you okay with listening to me?"

"Sure Ms., go ahead," I said, curious as to what her story is.

The field below starts to form shadows. They do that, nowadays. Shadows like my friends from school, teachers and staffs. Sometimes their figure is noticeable, like Wayne the buff guy from class D or Marin the tall model from class B.

"On hot days like this, our apartment has a rooftop large enough to put lawn chairs at. So we would go up there, strip down to our undies and just lie together, talking about nothing at all," Ms. Dawn continued.

"What happened?" I asked.

"It was five years ago, he and I just drifted apart."

"A fight?"

"No, it's not a firework or an explosion. Our love has always been a fire, slowly burning and slowly dissipates as well. Maybe the tinder has gone out, the wood's done, end of the line."

"I see."

Back to silence. Metaphors, like Milan Kundera said, are dangerous. Metaphors births love, from metaphors we connect dots easier and read people like poems or stories.

Her likening the love she experienced to a flame means there's shadow being imprinted on the walls, if there's any. Right now, between me and her, there's a sturdy wall of student-teacher relationships. But to her, a shadow is dancing to the tune of old flames.

That's maybe why she insisted on us going to the rooftop. To her, this is symbolic, something she grasped dearly out of her wreckage. To me, this is just two very lonely people watching the sky.

"Do you see them too?" She perked up suddenly. "Down there on the school track field."

"A bunch of shadows? Seems like they're preparing to do a race," I said.

"I've been working here for a while, there are stories about the track field. Some years past, this school has a promising standing on the local relay and 100m race scene. It's said that this school goes as far being scouted by the national team." She rambles.

We watched the shadows run. Ethereal, like smokes. That was a history, long ago, when the town was small and there's less competition.

"A few years before I got in, the previous school nurse told me, one of the racers passed away due to exhaustion. Right there on the tracks." Ms. Dawn idly plays with her blouse's buttons. "I wonder if they're replaying that scene."

"Whenever the time comes, Ms. Dawn, do you think..." I scooted closer to her, she didn't object. "That they would replay our little chat too?"

"Are we that significant?"

"What makes something significant, you think?"

"Well, it has to be more than the usual, right? Like the racers, or the exhaustion, both are significant."

"But I see a shadow kicking the school gate vending machine, that's not significant."

"Maybe it is to the machine."

We laughed a soft laugh, one taken by people worrying that their neighbors might hear. Ms. Dawn told me that the night's starting to drag, and it'd be better for us to spend it downstairs in the infirmary.

Nights became a blur after that. We watched the TV in the lounge, no sign of the government lifting that quarantine yet. Ms. Dawn said that her family evacuated because living so close near the ocean is becoming more and more dangerous.

Hostile winds, they call it. Winds carried by the heat of the ocean. They do nothing but rampage what little houses small villages has.

My parents also messaged me the other day urging me to read or watch the news. Keep them informed if there's any pattern to these winds. But I know that they're doing fine, since there's no way a generational line of seafarers would succumb to mere wind. They'd know what to do.

The town we're at is far from any large bodies of water. Only a small river trickles down to a lake, theorized to be made by a prehistoric meteor. Because our land is flat, and there's no indentation on the ground.

Point is, we're far from being victims to these winds.

One night, Ms. Dawn asked me to accompany her to the convenience store nearby the school. Usually this place is crowded by students, especially at night. Now only one or two is hanging around, trying their best to appear and act the usual.

We bought canned food, ready-to-eat meals, and generally miserable looking supplies. The store is slowly depleted of normal food. Vegetables can't stand the heat as much as we humans can, so does meaty products.

The school is no longer a sacred day-only place for me. The night halls and classes have been perverted by the two of us. The choir club left a long time ago, there's only so much they can do to hold on to this school. We got by because of technicality.

"I've been mulling over the shadows and what they're doing, Ms.," I said nonchalantly. We were preparing that night's meal.

"About the significance thing?" She asked. "Why mull over that? It's just a passing comment, not an actual theory."

"There's nothing else to think about, no classes, homework, anything that made this building a school."

A shadow run past by, seems like it's holding a bunch of books. It then nudges another shadow which caused the figure to drop what its carrying.

"I guess yeah, schools are made so that you guys think, that's the gist of it anyway." Ms. Dawn cracked open a beer.

"Some shadows act like regular high schoolers, going to class, raising their hands, going to the bathrooms together. Some act like delinquents, athletes, science nerds. If you're correct, these might be the most significant points of their life," I explained while serving her portion.

"Depressing to think about how many of it is here, not in some higher education or a workplace." She sipped on the can.

"How so?"

"High school isn't supposed to be the grand finale of your life, the 'most significant' moment. It's just a school phase. After that, now those are real life..." Ms. Dawn paused, observing me, sighed, then continued. "Shit. Real life moments which would be fair to call significant."

"You seem to think low of the high school experience."

"I don't, but there's so much more out there."

I noticed her hands are trembling as we continue to eat. Her tonal change, her expression. This isn't hatred, this is longing.

We agreed to do a shift on dishwashing. Today was her shift, but I snatched her plates and carried it to the sink. She protested, but I quickly shot her down.

"My treat," I said. "But I want something in return."

"What could a high schooler possibly want something out of me?" She said, clearly affected by the booze she's been gulping down. "You like me, don't you? Ogling my body every time we're together, you don't think I noticed? You want to have your way with me right?"

"I want none of that, Ms. Dawn, but it is something similar to that," I said, paying no mind to the awful connotation she just spat out.

A soft grunt that could be translated to "I'm listening" was heard. Alcohol is such a gateway to vulnerability. Maybe, besides the warming effect, that is why people socially drink. Because in one way it masks the need for actual trade-off of having your self esteem in line with being vulnerable. Replacing one mask of social norms with another of drunkenness.

"Please tell me why you hate me," I asked, sitting down next to her.

"You noticed." She smiled an awful smile. Is it defeat? It's definitely not shame, though. Like this is something that's supposed to be out there.

I don't think it's the alcohol. But it helped unveiling that hatred she tried so hard to hide. More than enough for me.

That's it with alcohol, though. The effect is so different person to person. I saw it with my own eyes, my uncle and my dad both drink a lot. Only one of them, my uncle namely, got in trouble. He became an angry abusive drunk. My dad instead latches on to my mom like she'd die tomorrow, refusing to let go.

I remember whenever I took a leave in junior high, my dad would ask my mom to open "that cabinet". In my mind, I'm giving them a space to enjoy whatever it is they're having. Alcohol is an archaeologist with a shovel, and it's trying to dig our truest selves.

"He was so good at wooing me, a true wordsmith, way beyond his years. He even left that mark on me, listen to how I talk, you hear it too right?" She said, clutching her blouse buttons. "I don't know how I talked before I met him, before he said all those things."

"I honestly don't hear it," I said.

"That's because..." she stopped before holding my hand again. "Don't hate me back for this, but that's because you're like him."

"How so?"

"One of my friend said it's flowery language. Only some people can speak like that, and you're one of them."

"I don't mind being described as flowery."

She inches closer to me. Her hands still clutching mine.

"I want us to lie closer, if it's okay, let me... let me hold you."

"Sure, Ms. Dawn."

"Call me Dawn, please, drop the Ms."

I didn't respond, I just hugged her. Nobody else but me, and maybe the ex, knows how her voice is when she's drowning her own tears. How she would involuntarily kiss my forehead and how rhythmic her sobs are.

Am I guilty when I'm doing this? Is it guilt or pity? This feeling is something so foreign to me.

There's a constant hum that permeates the air nowadays. I don't know when it starts. But the droning sound complements Ms. Dawn's heartbeat.

"He wasn't the best guy around, wasn't the prettiest, he's mediocre if looked from the outside. But when you hear him speak, it's like..." Seems like Ms. Dawn is searching for a metaphor. "I don't know, enchanting."

I kept my silence, letting her continue.

"But that's all he has. Words, promises, excuses. I can't be with someone whose vocabulary only consists of those. He tried to be better, but it never came to be."

"That's not hate, that's just disappointment," I mumbled.

"It's both. One is brought by the other." She started stroking my hair. "And I don't hate him for leaving, or for promises he wouldn't keep. Those are natural to him, like breathing."

"You hated yourself," I said.

"For accepting him, for all those years wasted on him. Now I see him in you, and I still..." She's practically pulling my hair now. "I still want this. I want you. What am I? It's been years but I still hear his voice every time you speak."

"But I'm not him, Dawn."

"Stop. Don't... don't say my name, I can't help myself if you do that."

"The way I say your name is different, Dawn, I'm not him."

I couldn't remember exactly what happened afterwards. All I know is the shadows around the school started floating around us. They seep from cracks on the windows, beneath doors and air vents.

I could recall how nice Ms. Dawn smells at that moment, her perfume. Something to latch on to. The most potent tool in the humans' body pertaining to memories are the olfactory system. That way, I could make Ms. Dawn an anchor.

The room spins, I can see her smile. She pulls me deeper into her embrace. The part of me that is me, and the part of her that is her, the walls we built around each other melted. Into nothing, a single grain of malt, a pathetic atom ready to be set aside.

She seems so far away, even though her corporeal body is right there. I tried my best to call out to her, but every shout is another tears falling onto her cheeks.

Mornings never seem so beautiful to me.

[bacotri]

Ink on the Wall, Pt. 2

The dripping stops, and the figure, now fully formed, stands before me. A cacophony of hums embraces me as her head is held up high. Little by little, her gaze locks on mine; an icy and melancholic stare.

"I have to let you go," I said. "I can't stay there forever."

"There? But you're here, aren't you? You shouldn't deny the floor on which you stand," the ink said. "Else you will fall with it too."

As her voice rang inside my head, the tiles beneath me fall. I grabbed him, on instinct, his voice now echoes and vibrates inside me. It is like the first breath I took after the coma, the final gasps and murmurs from the room I'm in.

The hospital bed feels so calming. In its sheets, I felt her warmth. Surely, if I am not in such a cold, dark place, the shadow that I left behind must have looked so harsh. I want to stay like this forever.

I screamed. I have to scream; the shadow is all over me. In whichever form the ink now retains, I can see a glimpse of his smile, his wonderful and beautiful smile. I have to find an anchor to everything. I am no longer in the hospital. I am home.

The ink pulls me close; I can hear his breath reverberate through her chest. I haven't even moved the boxes in my living room. Was anybody ever here at all? How strange, as I wake up it feels like a week has turned into mere seconds.

"Nothing ever changes if nobody touches them," said my sister, emerging from my room. "Inertia is a hell of a thing."

"You weren't there," I said.

"No, but you didn't allow me to be there with you," she said.

"I don't want you to have anything to do with them."

"Why not?”

“Because you’re a separate thing…”

The sky above me laughed as stars began to fall. I glanced at the stain, now no longer visible, on the wall. The ink that was never there. Now the flesh before me, how should I know if her smile is real or not.

Suddenly, I got reminded of my best friend, Yan. How he told me that he would have loved me if I were somebody else. That I have the face, the body, and the skin of someone he loved but I wasn't them.

I asked if he was disappointed in me after he tasted how I tasted and felt nothing of that person. He didn't answer, yet he hugged me for the last time. Yan is no longer alive, I think. The last time I found him, he sold his house to someone. I couldn't find him in the town's registry.

A part of me wanted to know why his voice is acquitted into the ink's plea for me to reach out. Has he ever loved me, or is it that I was in love with him?

I should’ve remembered his face, but all I see is blotches of ink. All I could see is his arms and hips all over me. He left the country, sets off to be somewhere else. I shouldn’t feel this guilty.

But whenever I see the ink splatter on his wall like this, I got reminded of him often. He and my sister. How perfect life was for the two of them.

“What was it, the reason why he left?” I asked my sister.

Silence answered me because not even her shadow knows the answer. I mean, what is the reason why anybody left at all. If they have the answer they won’t leave.

[bacotri]

Ink on the Wall

When we first entered the house, I found a small stain on the wall. It was an ink stain, no larger than a young child's fist. It was in the living room, near the door to the bedroom. The contractor knew nothing about it, the previous owner had skipped the country, and nobody else cared enough about the house to ask. It was a mysterious stain on an unassuming wall.

My sister said it looked like the previous owner liked to paint. I asked her how she knew, and she just said that it was "an artist's sixth sense". I believed her, just as I believed that moving into this house might change things.

They all left, and I was alone. Boxes and packages adorned my living room. It's funny how I can finally say that it's my living room. It took three years of reasoning and convincing, but no matter how relentless my parents were, I was more stubborn.

The ink splatter on the wall bothers me, though. It's not oddly shaped. Well, no more of an odd shape than a stain can be. I heard somewhere that a human brain is capable of forming shapes and faces out of blots. It forms the basis for a well-known psychological test.

It just feels like I'm stepping into someone else's room. Every time I look at it, it feels like I'm ripping apart a perverted wall separating the past and the present. Like a shadow unable to pass by without a light. I swear, sometimes it speaks to me.

"Release me," said the ink, taking the voice of a little girl.

"Untie me," said the ink again, now a bit older.

The first week was unbearable. My sister went in and out to help me, but there's only so much two people can do. It seems like the heat is still going forward too. It's unbearable. Boxes filled with stuff that's so heavy I wonder why I even brought them in the first place.

"Maybe you should invest in some kind of maid," my sister said.

"You're kidding, but I might as well," I replied.

"Why do you need all of these anyway?" she said, holding my art supplies. "It's not like you're going to pick up fine art again, right?"

"It's a remembrance thing."

"These are menial objects to satisfy your lust for the past."

"You're a wordsmith."

"It's true! They're nothing but a means for you to feel like you've moved on."

"I have, these are mementos."

"People who have moved on wouldn't take these with them when they move out, get it?"

She said it like it was a joke, like it was funny. But her words tormented me because of how true they were. She was a gentle soul, maybe she did have that sixth sense only artists have.

"Throw them away, you don't need them anymore," she handed me the box.

"I won't throw them away so easily," I replied.

"They have streaks of her," she hissed.

I won't press my sister further. Nor will I abide and throw my art supplies away. She's right, I kept them there as a means to remember. Particularly someone I should've tossed away so many years ago. My sister left, and that day I felt a bit emptier than before.

The nights I have in this new house are slow and silent. A hum is noticeable if you focus, either from the lamps on the living room chandelier or the fan from the air conditioner. There's a theory that, for some frequencies, humans start to develop feelings of dread. Perhaps from noises they heard whenever predators or natural disasters arrived, which dictates that fear is the appropriate response.

If so, I wonder why they made devices intentionally emitting such a frequency?

"Do you hate me?" the voice from the ink splatter asked.

"You kept ignoring me..." the voice now whispered.

I never would've wept for a blot of ink on the wall if it didn't feel so intimate. Fear wasn't the word I would use to describe the shadow it formed. It's been far too long since I felt this happy, to see something else that wants me to look at it.

Should I keep this ink mark riled up, I wonder. What purpose does it have in my life? All these rhetorical questions burn inside me as the swelling heat takes form, a dark cloud overwhelming the sky. Rhetorical, because no matter how I look, the ink never had a mouth to speak from.

My sister didn't come for the next week, or the week after. She told me via phone that something urgent came up in the city, and that I'd be doing just fine by myself. She also told me how they all missed me, and that adjusting to life without me was such a difficult thing to do.

Mother would set up a fourth plate out of habit, father would look at the left side of the car when they left. It was as if I was still there, just sulking in the room like usual. They never wanted me gone.

With nobody else in the crowd to entertain, I sat next to the ink spot. The wall felt cold, like the hands of someone half-dead. I always joked with her that she might already be dead. Her response would always be "you gave me life, then."

"I've been waiting," said the voice of a young boy.

"You finally saw me," said the voice of a young girl now.

I didn't reply. I saw no need to. There were no ears — despite the idioms — to be seen within the ink blot. The walls may be thin, but I am in no way that deranged to talk to them.

In about a month, I finished every bit of decoration I could stand. The heat outside felt so much worse, even the government decided it was too much for people to work in. Again, we must shelter, they said. Again, we work from home.

But I began to wonder what that word meant to me. Home, a place I should've come back to.

Shouldn't that be the next town over? All the sentimentality and the nostalgia, markdowns and cuts on tree barks, rope swinging from branches with my name on them. All the blood spilled and ink stained, on every canvas and dirt, and every lip and every cheek.

Was it too much for me, the selfish me, to call my own house a home? I can't. There's someone else living with me here. This house is a shared space, with the ink splatter on the wall.

Then, the only way I can work from home is to confront this splatter. I would rid it from my house, and finally be free.

That's when the splatter takes form. The heat must've melted its exterior, and the shadow it made sat down next to me.

"Are you planning to do something?" said the ink.

"No, I wasn't," I replied.

"I can read your mind, you know."

"I know."

"You could've asked me to leave."

"I did, many times over."

"But you kept calling me back."

The ink took the form of her, the one with long black hair. Her grin, her eyes, her every movement. It copied her exactly.

"I didn't want to lose you yet," I said, tears welling up.

"You don't have to," she said, dripping with ink.

The humming from the lamp, together with the fan, broke me down. I thought that moving so far away was the answer, but it made me much more alone than I thought I was. Funny how I don't even feel safe at a place that was made for me. In my spitting image, this house was tainted.

When they find me — they will eventually find me — in a room with ink all over the floor, just know that the feelings I had were always there. They were never obscured, and no writing can ever do them justice.

I don't even believe I had a sister to begin with.

[bacotri]

Trains

Boss said that this isn't about me. It totally is. I was caught red-handed, thrashed on the job. It isn't hard to digest and spit out the truth from her words. She said it isn't about me, like it sugarcoats anything. Do they think I'm stupid, that I know nothing of the upper management talks behind my back? I wonder if they ever give a glance at how others are eyeing me.

Maybe this will be the last time I ever take this train. The station goes one way and it's conveniently to-and-from my job. I don't get sentimental about most things, but one day later I might want to reminisce and hop on this train. Then I'll be getting off on the last ever stop, a different person.

"Delayed," said the receptionist.

Dead-eyed, pale skin. Her name's Amara, jotted between a figure that could've been a model. Could have.

"I said it's delayed, you might want to take another," she repeated.

"Heard you the first time," I said.

"What's with that, you're fired?" She pointed at my luggage.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Sucks," she motioned to the screen.

About a few minutes of delay. Nobody else is getting to the train at this hour. Nobody else is taking tickets at this hour. She's like those decorative plants lining the rails, might as well blur into the background.

"I take this route just for my job, you know?" I said, sitting down in front of her.

"Yeah?" She asked, nonchalant.

"Meant I'm not going to show up anymore."

"Yeah, good."

"Good?"

"I see you checking me out every time, dude."

"You hated that?"

Amara eyed the train that finally made it to the station. I looked at her face once again. I'm not a detective, but I know this station isn't made for her. The other way around, she wasn't made to stand around doing nothing.

"Any other schedule for it?" I asked.

"You already paid for this one, hop in," she said.

"That's not the answer."

She sighed, checked the schedule, and told me there's another loop, then closing time. I told her it's perfect, she asked why.

"Nobody's going to be here for a while, let's walk around," I said.

"You're trying to get me fired too?" She said.

"Maybe."

"Haha, yeah, sure why not?"

The station felt much more crowded than empty. All these shadows of past passengers haunt the grounds, and like clockwork, they crawl to their lines. Soon, they will disappear, maybe to the Kisaragi Station alongside their phantom trains. They drink, they laugh, they move like living beings. But shadows are exactly that, a figure that only got caught at a glimpse, out of the corner of your eyes.

I narrated what I see to her. Sounds like a freak, to be honest, but she nodded. She has to nod, it's her job as a hospitality worker to entertain freaks like me. But a nod can mean so much, even if the meaning I pull from it is imaginary at best.

"I've been wondering if anyone else can see them too," Amara said. "The shadows often repeat actions others took, like a burn on a screen."

"They aren't dancing to a tune I can remember," I said.

"Maybe not, since yours only go one way, and spewed out the other."

"I suppose. You've known some of these people then?"

"More than I wish."

"Any of them still alive?"

"All of them are still alive."

"At least that you know of."

"I keep track of most of them, they will come back tomorrow."

"Not like me."

We both passed the column marked "End of the Line" in silence. After this, there's no more station to walk on. Just grass and fields, miles and miles of empty fields.

In my head, if I were to fly a wayward plane, I'd end my crisis here. The field that stretches far into the fog. I would never have considered the station, no. But to see it as the motion of gravity spelled the end of my name, it would be something.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's my rose-tinted glasses. Amara looked far paler than usual, maybe to compliment the moon.

"End of the line," she said. "Nothing else after this."

"Only way now is to go back," I replied.

"Have you ever thought about going further, out into after the end?" Amara asked.

I glanced at the thin line separating the station from the field. Rummaging through my delicate heart, I found that yearning again, like a boy faced with his favorite toy or a trip to an amusement park. The heartstrings, she tried to reach in.

"I dropped that thought years ago," I replied. "Like I'm dropping my thoughts now."

"Does it feel freeing to drop?" She asked.

"It didn't," I replied.

"Then are you really dropping it?"

"I mean, I don't think about it anymore."

"You're keeping it, not dropping it."

"Because it didn't feel freeing?"

"See, when you drop something, often times..."

Amara took her uniform buttons off, one by one. Her figure, which I am sinful for, is now laid bare in front of me. I asked not for the reason.

"You feel the freedom it brings you," she said, now naked.

I feel the breeze taking over me now. The shadow behind Amara is ever so inviting. But my skin feels the breeze, meant that I'm also naked. I looked below, and I am.

My heart races, but it's not because of her. My hands tremble, but it's not because of her. My knees gave out, but it's not because of her.

The embrace she gave me was one of pity; of detachment from the worries; a blindfold to reality. I see the shadows behind her now gave their eyes to me. Ones that should've acted like background blur now became a piercing howl at me.

She cooed at me, held me in her arms. I reached out, but only winds caught my hands. I tried to ask her, but my mouth is sewn. The station claims its next victim. It smells of bleach now.

"Did you manage to drop it?" Amara asked, letting me go.

The shadows return to their previous duties, and the station now smells of nightshade. Amara's clothes are wrapped on her again, and I am too back on my coat.

"I think I did," I replied.

"Do you feel freed?" She asked.

"I don't know," I said.

We walked, hand-in-hand, across a hall of vending machines and ticket stations. The shadows impersonate workers too, they hand in phantom tickets to each other. I can feel their leering presence, but they mean no harm.

"Where should I go now?" I asked her.

"Don't know," she said.

"Can I go where you go?"

"I'm not saying no."

"What will it take?"

"Find out yourself."

At the end of our trail, a train is waiting. I think it has been waiting for a long time. Amara waved at me, something she never did. I walked, and walked, ever so close to the train.

The last thing I know is how bright everything seems.

[bacotri]

Jendela yang Selalu Mati

Di perempatan Jalan Handoko, tepat lima rumah dari rumahku, ada sebuah ruko. Ruko itu sudah lama ditinggalkan, tidak disewakan, tidak juga dijual. Ayahku kenal dekat dengan pemilik ruko itu, dan memang ia tidak pernah berniat melepasnya. Karena dua puluh tahun yang lalu seorang anak lahir dan dibawa ke sana.

Setiap pagi, sebelum belok ke sekolah, aku selalu memperhatikan jendela kamar lantai dua di ruko itu. Kalau jendela sudah gelap, berarti sudah jam tujuh, dan aku akan bergegas berangkat. Sampai tamat SMA ritual menengok ke jendela selalu kulakukan.

Tidak peduli apapun yang terjadi padaku. Kesulitan apapun, atau keberuntungan apapun, aku selalu menyempatkan diri melihat ke arah jendela. Setiap saat, lampu di balik jendela itu akan mati tepat jam tujuh.

Pernah suatu saat, ketika aku masih SMP, aku mengira melihat sosok di balik jendela. Sosok itu turun dari kasur dan ketika melihatku ia bergegas mematikan lampu. Kulihat jam tangan, masih jam tujuh kurang.

“Alah, paling itu maling,” cemooh teman sebangkuku, Ahda. “Rumah itu kan kosong.”

“Beneran ih, tadi dia turun gitu,” sambutku.

“Cowo apa cewe?”

“Gak tau, cuman liat bayangannya doang,”

Percakapan kami dipotong masuknya pelajaran. Kejadian itupun tidak pernah muncul lagi di kehidupanku, namun bentuk siluet itu jadi penanda bahwa ada saja kehidupan di ruko itu.

Selain itu, rutinitas bersama jendela pun harus dipotong oleh aku yang berangkat kuliah. Aku merantau ke kota yang jauh, menghirup udara yang baru, dan mulai terbiasa melihat alarm dibanding melihat jendela. Ruko banyak di kota, kadang ada yang mematikan jendelanya saat aku dibonceng ojek dan aku teringat ruko di Jalan Handoko.

Manusia itu tempatnya lupa, tapi di sisi yang sama manusia adalah arsip berjalan. Pengalaman yang sedikit demi sedikit kutepikan mengenai kampung halaman demi memberi ruang untuk ilmu kuliah masih ada, hanya saja tersimpan rapi. Maka sebelum aku berangkat untuk S2, aku menyempatkan diri pulang sebentar.

“Mas Bion!” Teriak Sahdi, kawanku sejak SD yang kini berjualan di pasar, melihatku turun dari minibus.

“Di, apa kabar!” Sapaku.

“Baik mas, astaga liat kau, penampilan sudah tak cocok di sini, mana baju partaimu dulu?”

“Ah masih ada, kadang aku pake buat piyama,”

“Pret! Piyamamu di kota mahal-mahal pasti, kainnya enak,”

“Gak seenak itu Di, beberapa barang itu buatku sumber kenyamanan,”

“Halah omongannya kota betul, sudah sana, aku telat mau jualan,”

“Semangat Di!”

Ia melaju sambil mengangkat jempolnya. Aku kemudian berjalan santai memperhatikan suasana kampungku yang ternyata tidak banyak berubah. Sampai di perempatan Jalan Handoko.

Jam tanganku menunjukkan pukul sembilan lewat. Tapi, jendela di lantai dua masih terang benderang. Aku terlalu sibuk memikirkan Ayah di rumah untuk terlalu peduli.

Ayah tahu betul aku akan pulang. Ia masak ayam bumbu kecap kesukaanku. Memang sekian tahun di kota menutup hal-hal kecil yang berkesan. Tapi jika mereka tidak ditutup aku tidak akan bisa menghargainya.

Malam tiba dan aku mendatangi Ayah yang menghabiskan cerutu di kursi depan. Sekarang aku lebih bisa memahami kenapa Ayah suka sekali duduk di kursi ini. Duduk diam melihat malam dan sekitarnya memberikan perasaan tenang yang tidak ada bandingannya.

“Bonsoir,” sapaku ke Ayah.

“Tu parles français maintenant? C'est étonnant, boy!” Jawabnya terkejut.

“J'ai suivi quelques cours de français pendant mes études universitaires,”

“Ada gunanya juga kau kuliah boy, viens t'asseoir sur la chaise à côté de moi,”

Aku menarik kursi dan duduk di samping Ayah. Kami berbagi cerita, Ayah dulu sempat kuliah di Prancis dan lulus sebagai magister teknik, ternyata bersama pemilik ruko di perempatan jalan. Ia memberi wejangan bahwa mengambil S2 berarti menyerahkan diri pada dunia akademik.

“Ayah tidak pernah lupa wajah-wajah profesor di Prancis sana, mereka baik tapi kau bisa rasakan betapa pintarnya mereka,” jelas Ayah.

Aku menangkap ruko di perempatan jalan dan tidak sengaja berkata tentang ritualku. Bersamaan dengan itu wajah Ayah berubah.

“Ulangi lagi, boy?” Ujarnya.

“Setiap pagi saat aku sekolah, aku menengok ke jendela di lantai atas ruko itu Yah,” jelasku. “Setiap jam tujuh jendela itu akan mati lampunya, itu tandanya aku sudah telat atau saatnya pergi, salah satu bagian dari kenyamanan yang membuatku pulang sebelum pergi jauh.”

“Boy, ruko itu kosong,”

Aku entah mengapa sudah menebak yang dikatakan Ayah sama dengan yang dikatakan Ahda tempo hari. Karena hanya itu pembicaraanku dengan manusia lain tentang ritual anehku hingga hari ini, aku masih menyimpannya di memori. Kuceritakanlah kalau aku pernah melihat bayangan seseorang di balik jendela.

Wajah Ayah yang tadinya bingung berangsur berubah. Ia meninggalkanku yang terbengong sendirian dan masuk ke dalam. Selang beberapa menit, suara Ayah seakan mendamprat seseorang dengan bahasa Prancis. Beberapa umpatan kudengar melayang begitu saja tanpa ampun. Ayah kemudian mendatangiku lagi, ia seakan mengeluarkan gestur yang berkata “kenapa baru sekarang kau bicara, boy?”

Besoknya, Ayah, aku, bersama ketua RT dan dua orang preman terpercaya mendobrak pintu ruko yang terkunci dari luar. Ketika kami masuk, aroma busuk langsung menusuk hidung kami.

Benar, ruko itu memang “kosong” dan ditinggalkan oleh pemiliknya. Tapi sebenarnya ada sesuatu yang tidak dibawa oleh sang pemilik: seorang anak yang tidak diakui. Selama sekian puluh tahun ia tinggal di rumah yang terkunci. Tidak pernah ia mencoba untuk keluar.

Entahlah, mungkin ia juga tidak perlu keluar. Mungkin baginya seisi ruko yang hampir lengkap dengan furniturnya ini adalah sumber kenyamanan. Tapi aku, Ayah, dan siapapun yang hadir saat itu tidak perlu berteori banyak. Kami langsung dihadapkan dengan jawaban berupa tubuh yang tergantung lemah di balik jendela.

Jendela yang selalu kulihat setiap pagi.

[bacotri]

Rumah dari Marmer

Di tempat paling ujung dari kampung paling dalam, tersembunyi seonggok bangunan marmer yang tinggi dan sombong. Bahkan setelah ia dipaksa tunduk oleh ribuan jalinan akar dan dedaunan, ia tetap berdiri seakan mereka yang sementara. Meskipun tangan dan kaki yang dulu menjamah tubuhnya sudah lama dikubur, bangunan marmer itu setia berbisik pada siapapun yang melihatnya bahwa ia abadi.

Kami berlima adalah pendengar setia raksasa tersembunyi itu. Gilang adalah pendengar paling pertama, seorang petualang sejati yang menarik teman-temannya ke dalam pencarian berbagai macam harta karun.

“Mulai hari ini, tempat ini adalah base camp kita!” seru Gilang.

Kami semua mengangguk saja mendengar perintah de facto pimpinan kami. Semua kecuali Bagas. Bagas adalah rem bagi pedal gas Gilang, otaknya adalah penghalang alami imajinasi Gilang yang berhamburan.

“Gimana kalo ini tempat sudah jadi base camp orang jahat, Lang?” Protes Bagas.

“Kita lawan,” balas Gilang.

“Kita mau melawan penjahat dengan senjata api?”

“Iya, kita gunakan alam sebagai senjata kita,”

Perdebatan sengit berlanjut sampai Bagas melirik pada Maya. Maya mengerling dan akhirnya seperti biasa, Bagas menghela napas. Harus ada strategi baru, itulah makna tatapan Maya.

“Oke, penjahat bisa kita lawan…” ujar Bagas mengalah. “Tapi gimana kalo ini tempat berhantu?”

“Benar juga!” Sahut Gilang.

Gilang berpikir sejenak. Kepalanya berputar mengamati sang raksasa tidur dari atas hingga bawah. Kemudian ia sekonyong-konyong mengeluarkan titah.

“Kita tidak boleh main di sini sesudah jam lima sore!” Ujar Gilang bangga.

Bagas menggelengkan kepala. Dalam hatinya mungkin ia sadar bahwa Gilang tidak akan melepaskan tempat ini, maka ia lega paling tidak mampu menekan keinginan Gilang untuk tinggal di rumah ini. Ia berbisik pada Maya, Maya tertawa kecil.

Kami dikejutkan Ayu yang tiba-tiba datang membawa seekor kucing. Kucing itu terlihat terawat dan gemuk, meskipun tinggal di tempat terbengkalai begini. Gilang mendatangi Ayu dan menanyakan kemana saja. Ayu dengan santai menjawab mengejar kucing ini.

“Kalau kamu hilang gimana?” Tanya Gilang khawatir.

“Ah nggak kok,” balas Ayu. “Kan ada kamu,”

Gilang langsung reda. Jika Bagas adalah rem kaki bagi pedal Gilang, Ayu adalah rem tangannya. Ayu punya kemampuan untuk menghentikan kegilaan seorang Gilang di tempat karena sejak kecil, ibu Ayu mempercayakan Ayu ke orang tua Gilang sebelum pergi dari kampung kecil kami. Kebetulan saja Ayu lebih gila dari Gilang.

Begitulah dinamika grup kecil kami. Tidak pernah berubah, stagnan hingga kami lulus SMA. Meskipun penampilan kami berubah, sejatinya kami tetap anak SD nakal yang kebetulan menemukan rumah terbengkalai. Hingga kami masing-masing pergi dari kampung.

“Ayu menyusul ibunya di Jawa,” ujar Gilang.

Kami menatap sofa yang biasanya diduduki Ayu. Aku mencatat betul tanggal itu, kuyakini itu adalah hari pertama hilangnya grup kami. Tanpa Ayu, kupikir Gilang akan lepas kendali, ternyata sebaliknya.

Ketika kami duduk berdua di kedai kopi miliknya, Gilang berkata bahwa ia sebenarnya berencana menikahi Ayu.

“Sudah kusiapkan, Li, dari tempat aku nanti propose, sampai tabungan untuk menebus gedung di Kota.

“Aku sudah kontak dengan temanku yang jualan emas, dan ukuran jari juga sudah kuberikan, tinggal go aja. Tapi surat bangsat dari wanita murahan itu harus datang sehari sebelum semua rencanaku berjalan.”

Gilang kemudian menenggak seduhan kopi pahit yang ia buat sendiri seakan di cangkirnya itu air putih. Kekecewaan di wajahnya terlihat jelas, Gilang menerawang ke luar.

Setelah Ayu pergi Gilang menjadi malas bertualang. Kami terakhir kali ke base camp, setahuku, adalah saat Gilang mengumumkan kepergian Ayu. Bagas dan Maya pada saat itu sudah menjadi pasangan sejati, kemana-mana mereka berdua. Kabarnya mereka kuliah di tempat yang sama.

Setahun kemudian Gilang menutup kedainya dan berpamitan denganku. Ia mau menyusul Bagas, katanya.

“Nampaknya aku memang perlu rem, seperti yang kau bilang Li,” kata Gilang memelukku.

Aku hanya balas memeluknya dalam diam. Kalimatnya barusan berarti Gilang tidak menganggapku sebagai apapun. Sekian malam aku tidak tidur karena tahu semua orang dari kehidupanku sudah pergi. Mereka pergi meninggalkanku dengan setumpuk rahasia dan bisikan-bisikan. Perlahan kuatur napas dan kututup pintu-pintu yang mengingatkanku pada semua yang telah kami lalui.

Seakan aku adalah panitia terakhir di festival, aku memutuskan untuk bertolak ke rumah di tengah hutan untuk menutup pintu terakhir. Base camp. Aku ingin menurunkan tirai, melepas spanduk, dan menghentikan musik. Tidak ada lagi Gilang, Bagas, Maya, dan Ayu.

Sesampainya aku di sana, kondisi rumah memang tidak lagi bisa kukenali. Sang raksasa sudah benar-benar mati, tubuhnya akhirnya rela untuk tumbang dan ia menjadi tenang dalam balutan alam. Bisikannya sudah tidak lagi terdengar, bahkan untuk aku yang paling setia. Kucing hitam yang diambil Ayu tempo hari menjadi ratu sementara di belakang rumah, kini anak-anaknya pun memencar meninggalkan kubur sang induk untuk mencari kehidupan mereka masing-masing.

Aku mengamati bentuk kamar di rumah ini dan teringat siluet dua orang yang sedang bergumul. Tentu tanpa sepengetahuan Gilang, mereka berdua menjadikan base camp tempat untuk melepas nafsu. Aku sebenarnya bisa saja menusuk Gilang dengan kebenaran untuk menghentikannya pergi menyusul Bagas, tapi untuk apa? Aku tidak cinta pada Gilang, makanya aku tidak melarangnya pergi. Biarlah mereka semua meledak di tanah orang, aku sudah cukup bahagia di sini. Gilang sudah berkata jangan main setelah jam lima, kan?

“Maaf Li, tapi aku gak tau harus gimana lagi,” ujar Bagas tempo hari. “Kau pasti paham.”

“Aku yang harusnya minta maaf, Gas, aku yang tidak paham bagaimana bisa kau loncat dari Maya, ke aku, lalu ke Ayu.”

“Aku tidak meloncat! Aku mengikuti alur, kau sendiri yang berkata bahwa kita bukan apa-apa,”

Senyumku tak sengaja muncul ketika aku mengenang bagaimana kami semua melakukan hal tidak pantas di belakang sang kapten, Gilang. Aku mengatakan betapa bodohnya Gilang, buta akan semua tanda yang aku berikan sampai aku pun menyerah.

“Hubunganmu dengan Maya sembuh karena aku, Gas,”

“Dan aku berterima kasih, Li,”

“Berhentilah melukai Gilang, tidak cukupkah kau dengan Maya?”

“Kau tahu apa tentang luka? Kau hanya memikirkan Gilang, tanpa memikirkan Ayu kan?”

Beberapa tahun kemudian, Bagas rupanya tidak pernah berhenti dari Ayu. Setiap kali ia bertengkar dengan Maya, ia selalu punya Ayu untuk dijadikan pelampiasan. Ayu mungkin merasa bersalah, tapi aku yakin ia tidak membenci keadaan ini.

“Jangan bilang soal Ayu dan aku ke Gilang,” ancam Bagas.

“Peduli apa aku?” jawabku.

Rencana yang ia susun, dengan surat palsu yang seakan datang dari Jawa, semuanya jatuh dengan sempurna. Ia akan bisa melepas diri dari Ayu sambil tetap mengawasinya. Gilang yang polos akan menyusul Bagas seakan itu keinginannya sendiri. Bagas bisa menarik semua orang dari ancaman paling utama dalam pikirannya, yaitu aku. Ia berhasil, memang, tapi keberhasilannya adalah nihil. Lawan utama Bagas bukan aku, tapi waktu. Aku hanya berharap Bagas mampu bertanggung jawab atas janin di perut Ayu.

[bacotri]

Diari

Dear diary,

Pas aku masuk kerja tadi, masih belum ada yang sadar kalo Nurul dan Nia ngilang begitu aja. Pas aku nanya ke pak Hadi soal Nurul, dia melihatku aneh. Katanya gak pernah ada pegawai bernama Nurul di kantor ini. Akhirnya hari ini kuberanikan diri nanya lagi ke Naya, admin kantor.

“Nurul sama Nia, anak-anak administrasi gak pernah dengar tuh Jen,” kata Naya.

“Yakin lo? Udah cek arsip absen frontman kita sejak bulan lalu?” kataku.

“Serius, gue cek di record kantor juga mereka kek hilang gitu aja,”

“Slip gajih? Gak mungkin kan slip gajih ada miss,”

“Gue belum cek sampe ke situ sih, ntar pas pulang gue coba cek laporan keuangan,”

“Makasih banget yah Nay, yang lain gak ada yang percaya sama gua,”

“Don’t worry Jen,” kata Naya.

Terus kami pulang.

Aku sebenarnya gak begitu dekat dengan mereka berdua. Awalnya aku ngira mereka gelapin duit kantor, dan dengan ngelaporin mereka aku bisa dapat kompensasi. I know, aku ini jahat kan, tapi mau gimana lagi? Aku dapat kabar kantor lagi posisi down, proyeksi pak Hadi juga gak bagus buat kuartil ini. Aku gak mau harus nyari kerja lagi.

Diary, aku tadi sore dapat sms aneh. Pas aku sampe rumah baru kebaca. Nomornya gak dikenal, tapi katanya gini.

“Stop gali informasi tentang Nurul, Nia, dan apapun yang terjadi dengan mereka berdua.”

Siapa kira-kira yang punya pikiran sama dengan aku ya? Anak-anak di kantor emang udah pada desparate supaya mereka bisa nyelamatin kerjaan mereka masing-masing. Ya aku gak bisa nyalahin mereka juga sih, aku kan lagi ngelakuin hal yang sama. Tapi paling gak aku gak ngasi sms aneh-aneh ke orang.

Naya juga katanya kemaren diancam dari nomor yang berbeda. Pas dia cek-cek arsip kantor juga akun dia tiba-tiba logout sendiri. Diary, untung aku gak upload kamu ke internet, aku harus mulai hati-hati.

Kayaknya ada sesuatu yang lebih dari sekadar dua karyawan yang ngilang. Aku gak mau terlalu ikut yang beginian sebenarnya, tapi mau gimana lagi. Ini satu-satunya jalan buat nyelametin karir aku.

Tapi diary, seberapa bisa kita percaya sama Naya ya?

Sejauh ini dia iya-iya aja sama yang aku bilang, dan aku emang ngasi dia info tentang Nurul sama Nia. Tapi kemaren, dia ngeiyain kalo Nia biasanya datang pake pashmina, padahal setauku Nia itu gak pernah pakai jilbab. Kira-kira kenapa dia sampe segini ngebantu aku ya?

Terus juga, aku kok ngerasa agak aneh sama si Naya. Aku gak ingat pas orientasi dulu ada karyawan dengan nama Naya. Emang udah lama baget itu, tapi yang bikin aku tau sama si Nurul itu ya karena di orientasi dia aja yang mencolok.

Naya juga bukan pegawai senior, karena dekor pin yang dia pake warnanya perak. Biasanya pegawai senior kayak pak Hadi dekornya emas. Tapi Naya juga bukan pegawai baru banget, dekor pegawai baru itu coklat.

Yang beginian gak begitu bisa diperhatiin. Pas orientasi juga gak begitu dijelasin, dekornya kecil dan gak nampak kalau kita gak bener-bener liat.

Artinya Naya masuk bareng kami kan?

Tapi suer aku gak pernah tau ada anak admin yang seangkatan namanya Naya.

[bacotri]

Dalam Bahagia Hingga Maut

Setumpuk kertas dari Dr. Kazuo mendarat di mejaku, nampaknya lembur lagi hari ini. Pupus sudah ajakan Maya untuk dinner, aku terpaksa menundanya untuk kesekian kali. Selagi aku memikir alasan agar Maya tidak kecewa, ada notifikasi yang menarik perhatianku.

“Km ikut kan Minggu ini?"

Aku memutar otak mengingat ada apa hari Minggu ini. Beberapa hari terakhir aku memang disibukkan oleh pekerjaanku. Akhirnya aku sadar bahwa Minggu ini adalah pernikahan Aya. Notifikasi tadi pasti dari grup kelas.

Benar saja, grup kelas riuh mengucapkan selamat untuk Aya. Hampir semua nama muncul kecuali satu orang yang aku yakin memang tidak mau melihat grup kelas sejak bulan lalu. Andika, mantan Aya.

Andika berpacaran dengan Aya sejak semester dua, mereka awalnya hanya bercanda di kelas tetapi dalam kata mereka sendiri keterusan hingga saling suka. Sayangnya, Andika keduluan teman dekan Aya yang langsung datang ke rumah Aya. Aku bukan menyalahkan Andika, karena aku yang menemaninya menjaga apotek hingga tengah malam demi menyiapkan uang mahar. Aku juga tidak menyalahkan Aya dan pasangannya karena pada akhirnya Aya yang punya keputusan.

Ketika ada notifikasi dari Andika menanyakan apakah Minggu jadwalku kosong, aku tersentak. Maya mengiyakan untuk menunda dinner kami seminggu lagi, dan aku langsung fokus pada Andika. Kubalas bahwa aku bisa saja datang, tapi dresscode Aya biru, aku tidak punya baju biru.

“Kupinjamkan, aku gajian kemarin, beli baju dua biar diskon,” jawab Andika.

“Pap dong?” balasku.

Andika mengirim foto dua baju biru yang kurasa keren. Aku terkesan karena merek baju itu tidak main-main, kutaksir satu bajunya bisa sampai dua hingga tiga ratus ribu. Kutanyakan berapa gajinya hingga bisa membeli baju semahal itu.

“Aturan sembilan, jangan tanyakan gaji pada seorang pria,” jawab Andika melawak.

“Seriusan itu sebiji aja tiga ratusan Dik,”

“Emang, yang ini impor, yang ini aku pesan langsung, dompetku kebakar langsung habis sejuta,”

Hari Minggu tiba, pagi aku bergegas ke rumah Andika. Dia sudah mengenakan setelan yang begitu menarik. Andika mempersilakanku masuk dan menyuruhku mengenakan pakaian yang dibanggakannya tempo malam.

“Bagus?” tanyaku.

“Kalo gak bagus aku yang rugi,” timpal Andika.

“Elu mau pamer di acara Aya?”

Andika terdiam sebentar. Wajahnya dipalingkan dariku, aku mengutuki diri karena mungkin itulah maksud dia. Aku melihat ada wadah pil antidepresan yang dibuang begitu saja di lantai kamar.

“Maaf Dik,"

“Nggak, emang iya aku mau pamer,” balas Andika tersenyum.

“Pamer ya? Mau pinjem Maya bentar?” kataku bercanda.

“Oh iya, kenapa Maya gak ikut?” tanya Andika.

“Kan rencananya kita berdua aja?”

“Ajak aja, dia punya baju dress biru kan?”

“Tiba-tiba gini,”

“Udah ajak aja, nanti kukenalin sama seorang pasangan,” kata Andika terkekeh.

Cara Andika menekankan kata “pasangan” begitu aneh tapi kutepis. Aku terkejut karena selama ini dia tak pernah menceritakan tentang pasangannya. Aku mencoba mengeruk siapakah pasangan ini.

“Aku punya panggilan sayang buat dia,” cerita Andika. “Blue,”

“Blue? Nama dia siapa emang? Barat banget,”

“Dahlah, kamu pasti kenal,”

Kami bertolak ke acara Aya dengan mobil Andika. Untungnya gedung tempat acara Aya searah dengan rumah Maya, kami singgah sebentar. Maya sendiri nampak begitu bahagia dan cantik dalam balutan dress biru.

“Oh, kamu pasti mas Andika ya? Abang sering cerita tentang kamu,” Celoteh Maya saat Andika mengenalkan dirinya.

Ketika kami sampai di acara Aya, beberapa orang memalingkan kepalanya ke arah Andika. Kebanyakan yang hadir memang kawan kuliah kami, mereka yang awalnya memaklumi Andika tidak datang kaget. Tika, kawan baik Aya yang menjadi penjaga tamu, langsung mendekat ke arah Andika.

Mereka bicara dengan intens, nada Tika mengisyaratkan ia menyesali Andika datang sebagai tamu. Aku mengisyaratkan kepada Andika agar aku dan Maya masuk duluan. Andika mengangguk dan kembali bicara dengan Tika yang menghela napas.

Kami menikmati jamuan dan acara hingga saatnya untuk bersulang. Tiba-tiba Andika berdiri. Ia ingin mengucapkan sesuatu untuk memulai acara bersulang.

Seisi gedung terkejut, begitu juga dengan pengantin di depan. Ibu dan Bapak Aya yang kenal dengan Andika langsung berubah air muka, Aya pun seperti menahan sesuatu. Pasangan Aya mencoba menahan emosinya tapi aku sadar bahwa ia sedang gelisah.

“Selamat pagi semuanya,” ujar Andika mengawali.

“Kalian semua kenal saya, Andika, dari Kimia 97,” lanjutnya. “Saya dulu sempat menjagakan Aya sebentar, sempat menjadi sesuatu bagi Aya, tapi akhirnya nasib berkata lain,”

Atmosfir gedung masih tegang. Bahkan Maya yang sejak tadi tertawa dengan kawan-kawan angkatanku turut memperhatikan tingkah laku Andika. Tapi Andika berhasil mencairkan suasana.

Andika bercerita tentang betapa baik Aya sebagia wanita, dan pasangannya begitu beruntung. Lawakan dan keceriaan yang dibawa Andika tidak seperti biasanya. Atmosfir gedung sudah turun, tapi benakku mengatakan ada sesuatu yang aneh. Aya memang suka warna biru, pesanannya adalah semua air putih di gedung ini diberi pewarna makanan biru. Keanehan ini disinggung Andika juga, dan ia bersyukur bahwa dalam keanehan Aya ada keindahan tersembunyi. Lalu Andika mengangkat gelasnya.

“Demi Aya, semoga bahagia, hingga maut memisahkan,” ujar Andika menenggak minumannya.

Barulah aku sadar, pasangan yang dimaksud Andika bukanlah untuk dirinya. Pagi tadi ia menenggak pil antidepresan dan tramadol dan ia barusan menenggak pasangannya yang berupa metilen "blue". Metilen blue tidak akan terlihat di balik pewarna makanan yang digunakan Aya. Andika berupaya untuk meraih dosis letal serotonin. Sebuah kebahagiaan sempurna hingga maut.

[bacotri]

Adorable cat getting a scrub

(via)

[bacotri]

Rintik Hujan dan Kopi Senja

Rintik air hujan menenggelamkan suara pramusaji yang menaruh kopi hangat di mejaku. Laptop dan catatanku sama acuhnya denganku, pramusaji itu pun tidak begitu peduli, kopi ditaruhnya di meja dan ia berselancar kembali ke meja kasir. Hujan semakin rimbun dan aku semakin terbenam dalam pekerjaanku. Kepalaku terasa pusing tetapi kubiarkan lewat begitu saja.

Waktu tak terasa lama memang, dan aku sudah menyelesaikan pekerjaanku. Rupanya beberapa orang sudah minggat dan tinggal aku dan sekitar tiga orang lain yang masih tinggal di kafe. Hujan sudah reda dan gelasku kosong. Aku berdiri, membereskan barang-barangku dan bertolak ke pintu luar.

“Mas, gimana kopinya?” Ujar pria di balik meja kasir, di pin kartu namanya tertera “Andi”.

“Ah, enak mas, makasih ya,” balasku sekenanya.

“Oh, iya mas, nanti balik lagi ya kapan-kapan, saya sampaikan ke baristanya kalau mas suka,” sahut Andi.

Ketika aku membuka pintu kamar kos, kepalaku terasa berdenyut tidak keruan. Benakku, mungkin aku terlalu memforsir diri. Aku mencoba tidur setelah menenggak sekeping tablet Paracetamol.

Pagi datang dan kepalaku makin sakit. Aku mencoba meraih meja untuk mengambil obat namun seluruh tubuhku seakan menolak. Sadar bahwa HPku sejak tadi berdering, aku dengan susah payah mencoba mengangkat telepon.

“Dek, dek, kamu gak apa-apa?” Teriak suara yang terdengar seperti Kak Ahda di speaker.

“Kak Ahda… aku gak masuk kelas hari ini ya, bilangkan ke Bapak karena sakit,” jawabku lemah.

“Kelas apa dek, ini hari Minggu kan?”

“Bukannya ini hari Kamis kak?”

“Ngomong apa sih kamu? Bentar kakak ke tempatmu,”

Kepalaku berputar kencang. Aku baru saja bangun pagi tadi, kenapa Kak Ahda bilang kalau ini sudah hari Minggu?

Akhirnya Kak Ahda datang membawa makanan hangat. Aku sendiri baru selesai mengecek sekelilingku, benar saja kalender di ruang tengah yang selalu dilingkari oleh ibu kos menunjukkan ini hari Minggu. Begitu pula HP, laptop, dan semua barang elektronik yang mempunyai tanggalan. Aku bahkan meminjam HP tetanggaku, Andi, yang terheran-heran karena katanya ia melihatku pulang dan pergi kuliah seperti biasa.

Kak Ahda berkata bahwa kelas Bapak Dodi diliburkan hingga waktu tak tertentu karena musibah di keluarga Bapak. Meskipun demikian, Bapak Dodi masih mengawasi mahasiswanya dengan cara memaksa mereka melakukan swafoto dan menunggahnya di grup kelas. Kak Ahda menunjukkan fotoku yang diunggah dari akunnya.

“Kamu gak mau ambil foto sendiri, katamu kamu lupa sama password HPmu,” jelas Kak Ahda.

“Lupa gimana kak, sandi HP adek enak aja kok dihapal,”

“Gak cuman password HP dek, aku mau pinjem uang aja kamu gak mau, katamu lupa pin ATM,”

“Eh, pinjem berapa kak, bentar,”

“Wah gak usah dek, udah kok kemaren, ini aku dateng cuman mau liat kondisimu karena kamu aneh banget berapa hari ini,”

Ketika kuceritakan bahwa aku tertidur setelah pulang dari kafe, Kak Ahda tertegun. Kami berdua merasa bingung dan mencoba berpikir kembali. Tetapi semua teori kami berujung pada kafe yang kusambangi kemarin.

“Kamu ngapain ke situ?” Celetuk Kak Ahda.

“Hujan kak, gak ada tempat lain,” jawabku.

Lalu sebuah sekring seakan ditekan di kepalaku. Gelagat pramusaji, kasir, dan orang-orang di kafe itu tidak seperti biasanya. Karena hari hujan aku tidak mendengar apa yang dikatakan oleh si pramusaji. Tetapi sampai saat itu aku masih tidak sadar keanehan paling utama.

Kak Ahda datang ke kosku?

“Kamu siapa?” desisku.

“Hah, apa sih dek?” jawab sosok yang menyerupai Kak Ahda.

Orang di hadapanku memang benar-benar mirip dengan ketua kelas Kimia Tanah, Ahda Putri Natasha. Setelannya, nada bicaranya, sepaket memang. Namun Kak Ahda yang kukenal tidak akan pernah datang ke kos laki-laki sendirian.

“Jawab! Kamu siapa!” ujarku panik.

“Dek…” suara sosok itu memelan.

Kepalaku pening tidak karuan, pandanganku gelap dan perutku mual. Aku muntah, cairan hitam beraroma manis mengalir ke lantai keramik. Tunggu, kosku kan lantainya semen.

Seketika aku kembali ke kamarku, di rumah yang terletak ribuan kilometer dari kosku. Di hadapanku sosok serupa Kak Ahda berdiri, dan ia berjalan keluar kamar. Aku mencoba naik ke atas kasur, pikiranku tak keruan. Satu-satunya yang ada di pikiranku adalah mengecek tanggal, karena aku tidak mungkin berada di rumah dalam sekian jam saja.

Telingaku berdesing, suatu suara yang familiar, rintik hujan. Dengan lemah aku berdiri dan mencoba untuk duduk di kasur, kepalaku terasa berat namun terus kupaksa untuk menghadap ke arah laptop. Rintik air hujan menenggelamkan suara pramusaji yang menaruh kopi hangat di mejaku.

[bacotri]

Mereka Datang Tanpa Mengetuk

Kulihat jelas wajah Abang di kaca riasku pagi tadi ketik aku berangkat kerja. Aku tersentak, jelas, Abang sudah mati sebulan yang lalu, beserta Ayah dan Emak. Satu-satunya alasan aku bekerja pun karena aku ingin segera pindah dari rumah ini.

Wajah Abang tidak menyeramkan, tidak seperti hantu yang sering kami lihat di TV. Lebih terlihat sendu, muram. Tapi aku sempat bersyukur karena akhirnya aku bisa melihat ekspresi lain dari Abang selain wajahnya yang kaget dan bersimbah darah.

Nia menegurku di kerjaan, katanya wajahku pucat dan bibirku putih. Aku beralasan bahwa aku akhir-akhir ini jarang makan, tidak kukatakan bahwa entah kenapa Abang mengunjungiku sedemikian rupa. Jika kukatakan bahwa Abang mengenakan topi yang ia hadiahkan pasti Nia tidak terima. Ia sedang mencoba sembuh dan mengubur cintanya bersama dengan tubuh calon suaminya.

“Kamu gak apa-apa kan?” Tanya Nia.

Aku menjawab sekenanya. Abang memang kurang ajar membuatku berbohong begini, masih saja mengerjaiku dari alam baka. Tapi jauh di lubuk hatiku, aku memang ingin pulang, menemui Abang.

Kunci rumah berputar dengan berat. Aroma yang biasanya datang dari masakan Emak kini tidak akan pernah lagi aku cium. Kulihat ke dapur dan ada siluet berdiri tegak.

Siluet itu perlahan bergerak menuju arahku, dan tepat sejajar lorong menuju dapur aku melihatnya. Emak, dengan wajah penuh tangis, kini mengunjungiku. Tangannya menggenggam sutil kesukaannya.

Aku langsung berlari ke arah kamar, aku tidak tahan. Jin di rumah ini begitu jahat, aku ditampakkan bentuk-bentuk yang mengundang rindu yang teramat perih. Kulihat meja rias, kosong, wajah Abang tidak ada di sana. Tapi ketika kutengok ke arah dapur, samar kulihat masih bayangan Emak perlahan berjalan kembali.

Kutanggalkan baju dan pakaian dalamku. Ingin kutantang siapapun yang sedang mengamati gerak gerikku untuk datang ke depanku dan menampakkan wujudnya. Sengeri apapun akan kuhadapi. Asal bukan Ayah, benakku. Tolong demi Tuhan yang Maha Baik, jangan kau tampakkan wajah Ayahku di hadapanku.

Entah jam berapa aku tertidur, namun ketika aku bangun mentari bersinar terang dan seluruh rasa sakit di dalam dadaku mencurah keluar. Di sana, tepat di kursi depan, duduk suatu sosok yang tiap pagi memang selalu duduk di sana. Ia mengangkat gelas yang kutahu pecah berkeping-keping. Aku sendiri yang menguburnya bersama topi Abang dan sutil Emak di belakang rumah. Ayah menengok ke arahku, wajahnya suram.

“Kenapa kalian kembali…” bisikku.

Wajah Ayah berubah sumringah. Ia seakan tidak menyangka aku bisa melihatnya. Mulutnya bergerak dan sosok Emak mengintip dari dapur. Emak seakan memanggil seseorang dan sosok Abang datang dari pintu depan.

Aku terisak, aku sendiri yang tidak terima kepegian mereka dan selalu berdoa ingin mereka kembali. Tuhan adalah pemberi doa yang Maha Tahu, jadi ia berikan padaku cerminan atas doaku yang lancang itu. Aku dipaksa untuk memahami bahwa yang mati biarlah mati.

“Maaf Yah, Mak, Bang… aku buat kalian tidak tenang,” ucapku.

Tetapi mereka malah berdiri dan mendatangi kamarku. Aku duduk, diam dikelilingi bayang yang menyerupai keluargaku. Mereka mendekat wajahku dan menaruh tangan mereka di kepalaku.

“Mereka datang tanpa mengetuk pintu,” ujar Ayah.

“Mereka datang untuk menyelesaikan tugas,” sambung Emak.

“Ambil barangnya di kantor Ayah, brankas ketiga, kuncinya minta ke Nia,” jelas Abang.

Bayangan mereka kemudian menghilang, dan aku mengerjakan segalanya sesuai perintah terakhir dari Ayah. Tenang, dan jangan gegabah.

Nia ingin menemaniku tapi aku yakinkan ia bahwa ia akan lebih aman pergi jauh dari kota ini. Aku tidak perlu kawan, aku punya Ayah, Emak, dan Abang. Malam itu aku duduk di kursi favorit Ayah dengan senapan di tangan dan sepotong roti. Aku mengenakan daster Emak dan parfum Abang. Jika aku mati malam ini, aku mati dalam pelukan orang-orang yang kusayang.

Mereka memang datang tanpa mengetuk, namun mereka tidak sangka bahwa aku berbeda dengan Ayah. Aku selalu siap untuk menarik pelatuk.

[bacotri]

Senin Datang Besok

Aku tidak terbangun karena matahari menyinari mataku. Hangat yang kurasakan berangsur muncul dari balik dinginnya pagi sudah menjadi perasaan yang begitu familier. Tidak, aku bangun karena aku mimpi buruk. Kuhitung sudah sekitar lima kali aku mimpi buruk minggu ini, dibanding minggu kemarin aku pikir ini kemajuan. Aku bangun lebih dulu sekian menit dari alarm. Ini adalah alarm kesekian yang mencoba membangunkanku. Pukul sepuluh pagi, dan aku masih menarik selimut seakan hari masih dingin. “Bangun, masuk kuliah” terang alarm di HPku. Alarm yang tidak pernah kuganti sejak tujuh semester lalu. Untuk apa mengganti sesuatu yang tidak rusak? Toh aku sendiri yang membiasakan untuk bangun jam sepuluh. Tidak semua salahku, sebenarnya, ada andil kampusku yang menaruh kelas pertama di jam sepuluh. Seakan dari jam enam sampai jam sembilan kehidupan belum mulai, burung-burung belum berkicau, dan ayam belum berkokok. Puluhan tahun diajari oleh guru sekolah bahwa nanti di masa dewasa bangun pagi adalah suatu hal yang wajib. Alasan pagi dikatakan berasal dari jam enam. Aku mengamati gorden yang sedikit terbuka, sinar matahari mencoba merangsek masuk. Kututup perlahan. Aku beranjak duduk ke pinggir kasur. Kuamati pelan meja belajar menopang lemah laptop tua yang masih menyala. Kursi yang digantungi baju yang baru sekali kupakai sekitar sebulan atau dua bulan yang lalu untuk ke kampus menghadapi meja belajar dengan sayu. Seisi kamarku begitu sedih. “Bangun, masuk kuliah” kembali teks karatan itu menyala di HPku beriringan dengan alarm yang makin nyaring. Tanganku dengan segan mengambil HP. Notifikasi usang muncul dari teman-teman kelas yang merayakan ulang tahun seseorang yang kukenal baik tiga hari yang lalu. Mungkin orang itu tidak lagi kenal aku. Ia pergi sudah lama. Entahlah, aku pikir dengan aku ikut mengucap ulang tahun ada ejekan tersirat di sana, ada sindiran dan satir yang akan dengan mudah mereka baca. Mungkin mereka akan lebih membenciku jika demikian, dan jauh lebih baik bila aku mengucapkan ulang tahun. Tapi siapa yang peduli aku hingga menyempatkan waktu untuk membenciku. Kulempar HP ke kasur. Baterainya menunjukkan angka 44 persen. Persetan dengan baterai, toh aku tak kemana-mana. Aku masih ingat rutinitasku biasanya. Mandi, makan, berangkat, pulang. Mandi, makan, belajar, pulang. Membosankan, tapi aku bahagia. “Ini hari apa…?” aku berbisik. Rupanya aku lupa mengecek ini hari apa. Bodoh, tolol, goblok, bisa-bisanya aku tidak tahu ini hari apa. Sebegitu beratnya kah tugas mengingat tujuh kata bagi kepalaku? Aku kerap menyalahkan diriku sendiri karena aku menganggap diriku sebegitu rendah. Tapi hari ini, entah hari apa itu, aku merasa lebih rendah dari biasanya. Mungkin karena matahari begitu kasar membangunkanku, atau karena aku sadar bahwa besok akan tetap datang menghantamku tanpa ada ampun. Mataku terasa begitu berat untuk melihat pintu yang tertutup rapat. Aku tahu di baliknya tidak akan ada apa-apa, ruang tamu yang begitu kosong hingga aku riskan menyebutnya ruang menerima tamu. Dapur yang penuh tumpukan piring dan bungkus mie, kamar mandi dengan shower yang masih memaksakan diri untuk berfungsi. Bukan hanya kamarku yang bersedih, seisi rumahku tidak lagi punya kehidupan. Tapi aku tetap melangkah ke arah kamar mandi, aku bertekad hari ini paling tidak aku harus mandi. Aku harus bisa mengganti baju dan mengerjakan paling tidak selembar dari naskah yang sudha sekian lama kutinggalkan. Aku harus bisa, bagaimanapun caranya. Tidak lebih dari satu menit aku membuat tekad itu, HPku menyala. “Nak, gimana kabarmu di sana?” Dilanjutkan telepon video dari Ibu.

[bacotri]

Returning to the Future

How long have I sat down? Why did everyone leave? Why can’t I move? Anyone there?

I wish I could return to the future, to a brand new me. Rehashing the same thing, bound by the past.

Like a trashcan in the corner of the room, a chair unused for years, sitting by myself in a class looking, kept looking until I graduate.

So what am I if not this? Everyone else is so far ahead, I know this is wrong, but what can I do? I can’t let go.

[bacotri]

Sol

I think I’ve befriended the sun. Every time she walked through my doors I’m always ready. Even though I was deathly tired every night, all everyone to be happy. I’d embrace her even if it burns me.

It is as if I’m that close to her, and once I hit the brakes I’m going to crash and burn. So why not go straight to her arms again? I don’t really care anymore. How many more ropes I have to burn? What matters is I’m with her now.

I swear it’s really bright outside. It sickens me but people said that, me with the sun is such a perfect thing. It’s good to tan sometimes, anyway.