Last month, my father asked me why I got angry at him.

I was doing a test and he was the one who accompanied me all along the process.

That day was my second attempt to get it right.

I was so much more familiar with everything.

I was already a friend to the room, the rules, everything. And yet I still failed.

I was so mad at myself, I dug my long nails into my palm, trying to distract myself from the anger growling inside.

In case I needed that to remind myself that after all the failure, I deserved all the bad things in the world.

My breath was so heavy I couldn’t even hear any other voices.

When I got home, I slammed all the doors and locked myself up in my room.

I overheard my mother asking my father what happened.

And he answered with an obvious annoyance in his cold sentence, “Don’t ask me.”

As if he was the one who failed.

As if he gambled everything on my success and I betrayed him.

As if he hated my failure more than me.

And that’s impossible.

Because if i could kill myself that day, I would do it right away.

Failure never feels like a mistake to me. It feels like greeting an old friend, again.

I feel like I inhaled every thought and expectation from my surroundings and have to breathe success out of my soul.

Because I have to.

I feel like I have to win everything. Yet I betrayed myself for I couldn’t win everything.

I never grew taller. The weight I placed on my own shoulders forced me closer to the ground.

Closer to where failures are buried.

Not one of my parents, nor my friends, has ever hated me more than I do.

Not one of them all has ever wanted to kill me more than I desire.

As I hate myself first before they do. As I doubt myself first before they do.

I don’t think that others should waste their time and energy, only to have expectations not even larger than what I have planted in my brain for myself long before they do.

Only to tell me how disappointed they are, after I told myself a long time ago that she deserved nothing but the worst.

Only to doubt me less than I do.

I don’t think that others should waste their time and energy on me.

As I have done everything first for myself, long before they even think of it.

I hate myself before they do.

And that’s how I protect the little soul inside of myself.

That before anyone else can hurt us, I do it first.

Jerit tangis seisi rumah mungkin sudah menjadi teman baik bagi manusia yang tumbuh di bawah atap terbelah dua.

Sebuah rumah beratap satu yang rasanya membelah jiwa menjadi dua, mereka hidup bak dalam perang tanpa bersenjata. Harus ikut siapa? Harus bela siapa? Harus mengerti yang mana?

Dua insan yang dipanggil orang tua, yang seharusnya menjadi pelindung kala tumbuh jadi dewasa. Mereka yang seharusnya mengajarkan buah hati akan kasih sayang tak terbatas, jadi dua orang pertama yang mengajarkan apa itu balas membalas. Yang satu keras kepala, yang satu tak mau mengalah. Yang satu berteriak, yang satu menghajar sesama hingga kalah telak.

Tumbuh dewasa di bawah atap terbelah dua ini sungguh menyita tenaga ekstra. Hidup dengan membawa banyak bongkahan busuk dalam rongga hati yang terpuruk.

Bongkahan rasa bahagia—setidaknya kami masih bersama meski tak utuh seperti yang di luar sana.
Bongkahan rasa kecewa pada semesta—mana seperangkat senjata berupa hati yang tabah dan jiwa yang ikhlas jika harus dewasa di medan perang yang dipanggil rumah?
Bongkahan rasa bersalah—terlalu marahkah kami ini, pada dua jiwa yang juga terluka?

Keras hatinya, pahit ucapnya, dan basah pelupuknya, mohon dimaklumi saja. Mereka tak terbiasa menikmati hidup bak mengagumi senja, sebab sibuk menutup luka yang terus menganga sepanjang hidupnya.

Tertanda,

yang bertahan hidup, dua dekade lamanya.

I was 15. Young and naive. Playful. You know, kids in general joke all the time, not a big deal.

But there she was, sat way back in class, always hiding behind her bright red hoodie.

She was not a total loner and loony as she got herself a friend who was equally, terribly quiet. I almost thought they were mute or sum. What a perfect match.

One time we were assigned to form a group on a History class project. As usual, I was joking around, teasing friends, and collecting bright and warm laughs from everyone.

That time, I couldn’t help myself but tell the truth to her. You know, we should not lie, right?

“Do you know that you are ugly?” I asked her, in my most friendly tone I could produce. Not a single sneer was seen on my face. Well, because I was genuinely asking.

She stayed quiet. I thought she did not reckon that I was asking her.

“With those red braces on, you looked exactly like a monster,” I joked. All of our teammates were laughing. It was funny as I, too, giggled a bit harder.

What? You assumed that I was bullying her? No, no. People always misunderstand me. First, I was only joking. And everyone laughed. Well, she was not laughing, but I assumed that’s only because she was a type of shy, quiet girl. Didn’t have much skill to blend with the society.

That was around 15 years ago. Yeah, I still remember it crystal clear. Who doesn’t?

Oh and you are now asking what I meant about me being dead? Sure, sure, you wanna know.

I was murdered by her. Couldn’t believe my eyes when she, with her straight face, pulled a fucking hammer out of her coat.

It was a gloomy, super windy day. I just opened my coffee shop a month ago. Didn’t really get many customers when you opened a shop near foothills.

As the sky went darker, I was getting ready to call it a day and close my shop. Bloody hell, who knew it would be my last time placing my finger prints on all those things.

The bell rang, someone entered the shop. I welcomed her. Asked her order and the name.

Crazily surprised that it was her! That friend I was just talking about, she came here all by herself.

We chatted. Well, it was more like I talked to a wall rather than a human as she responded with nothing but a smile. Forced one, I believed.

“Did you hear the news? Some of our friends went missing and reported being murdered. That’s so fucked up, man. I mean they are a great bunch of people,” I said as we stepped outside. I was busy with my broken rolling doors when she finally answered.

“Yes, I knew it,” she replied, cold as the weather. She took a sip.

“Alright, then. Thank you for coming. It was nice to see you again.” It was true, I was so happy to finally see her again. I headed south.

“Do you know that you are heading to the place they were murdered?”

I stopped and looked back on my shoulder. Place?

“Funny! Yeah, uhm, the news didn’t say anything about the exact place.” I laughed it off. She is always that kind of person. Weird, but actually nice, but still weird.

“I know,” she continued. She then opened the lid of her coffee. Faint steam waved in the cold air. She poured the brown liquid onto the ground. How dare she! Well, she paid for that, but still!

She tossed the cup with her left hand. I just realised that all this time, her right hand was busy holding something behind that grey coat.

And then a fucking hammer came out of her coat pocket.

And she slammed it onto my skull.

One bang, I hadn’t died yet.
Second bang, my blood colored the boring concrete with deep, crimson red.
Third bang and God knows how many bangs later killed me.

Oh, you should listen to my roar. Begging for her to stop. But she didn’t.

Even until my breath stopped minutes ago, she still went on the same side of my skull.

Oh wait, I shouldn’t know this part because I am already dead.

Well, until this time, writing with my cold hands covered in filthy blood—my blood, I mean—has been fun.

She still got two more to murder. One boy who laughed too loud and a girl who forced a sneer on my joke 15 years ago.

Alright then mate, I will write to you guys again if I have time. See you on the news!