Moral Bengkok, Prosa

Three Men and A Woman

She was screaming and yelling, throwing things from upstairs

“No men in this house is a man!”

There were three men in the house: her husband and her two teenage sons. None, she said, is a man.

The three men tried to calm her down, but she got more berserk.

Some people just came last night taking the car and things from the house.

In a few weeks, the mad woman and her family must moved out.

You see, she had debts. A lot of debts. All those money were used for her underpaid husband, sons education and her altruistic lifestyle.

Three men were weak. She was the breadwinner therefore she had all the rights to be mad.

Her youngest son left, probably tried to find weed with his friends then fuck his 14 years old girlfriend.

The mad woman still screaming. Her husband went downstairs to the dining room, and just sat there, staring blankly at the window.

Backyard was green. Soothing. He planted all those trees himself. He was about to lose all of it.

The Mad woman bought the land, he built the house and the garden. He was the true man of the house, literally: he doesn’t work outside anymore since his little brother died under his watch–a heart attack, leaving two kids and a wife. He was never fortunate enough to be a successful businessman. After all, he was a simple man. He didn’t need that much money because he didn’t have a high standard of living.

And the eldest son, almost seventeen, usually lived with his uncle cuz he went to school far away from home. But at home, he always felt this darkness: the terror of debts. Loansharks. Bad business! Bad! And now they all trapped, but mad woman endure the most: her business, her debt, her land and house, and she might be arrested and nobody could do anything about it, especially three men in the house. Useless men. Financially and politically impotent.

Therefore, the oldest son, sweared he will never have debts that he don’t know how to pay. If he’d be poor, he’d rather beg for charity than asking for a loan. After all, being a beggar is simple: for beggars cannot choose.

Three men and a woman used to lived in that house. You can still hear her screaming during the twilght, if you put your ear on the wall. You can see his shadow on the garden. You can still read the first son’s cursed words beneath the paint below the stairs. And in the first floor bathroom, there’s still specks of blood from an attempted suicide of the youngest son, for the guilt after he aborted his unborn child, with his 14 years old girlfriend.

A pain like that, stays.

English, Memoir, Racauan

Listen to Me, Norman

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.

You are in a bad dream.

A group of women, their face painted, naked, bosoms bouncing in their dance, as the twilight sets in blue and purple. They are surrounding a big fire, with yellow and green smoke. You are just lying there, helplessly bared. You can’t move. Your penis erecting. The women starts to hold that little tower of yours, your manhood, your God-given power. And you just lay still. One of them took a knife from inside her cunt, a black and rough, blade like an ancient tooth of a fossilised beast. The others, licking your body, kissing you passionately–no, hungrily. Sucks your tongue out till it hurts like she will ripped it out of your throat; her saliva tastes like the ocean, salty and bitter. The rest touching you, biting your body. You can feel all of these pain.

They  are lining on your right and left side. One of them lifts your head so you can see your erecting mojo, then the one with the knife, caresses your penis, and slowly slicing it. You can feel the slow intense pain of every cut, you can hear the friction of your skin and flesh to the blunt blade. Heart pumping blood gushing tears flowing; you’re screaming in silence. In this dream, you have no voice. No control. The only thing left is senses. The woman holding your head won’t let your eyes close. As your blood splashing and streaming, you pray that your life will be over soon, you believe it will be over soon, you know it will be over soon but somehow it feels like a lifetime.

You see the knife woman ripped your penis and holding it up high. The others hold you up, tie you on a cross, and force you to watch a ceremony, in which they started to sing a lament. The knife woman, touches the fire and walks toward a spike in the middle of the flame, she pierces your penis onto the spike, with its bald head facing up to the purple sky. You starts to feel a new kind of pain, like a million needles impedes your toes, feet, then all over your body. You’re dying but not yet die. The God of dreams wont let you die. Your eyeballs catching fire as cold as immortal ice. Then you see…

Your ceiling. You can move again. You touch your penis, and like you it is afraid and hiding beneath your skin. In a split second you think you really lost it. But no, it is still there, peeping through your prepuce. You’re breathing fast, your chest hurts because your heart is running wild. Then you starts to hear that sound; a slow breathing of the woman you love, sleeping beside you. Your heart knows it has to stop running. You are home. Everything will be alright. Everything. Will. Be. Fine.

So you keep pace with her easiness. Ease your anxiety. You see the clock in the dark, 4.05. Damn. You’re just being asleep for less than ten minutes. And yet it felt like infinite hell. You takes her hand and kisses it. She smiles in her sleep. She must have a good dream. Good.

Then you close your eyes again. You are tired. The whole day people are talking endlessly about insignificant things. And you cannot escape that lightness, small things. These people, wasting emotions for futile emptiness, like debts, gossips, religions, heaven and hell, poverty, ambition of the material world–shits like that. And you think you are the most significant being, the overman who is above everything. Your mind is GOD. You think all the trouble in the world are nothing but noises that can be shut, equalize, filtered, composed. You know what you want, you know that you are a composer of art, you can catch those noises and turns them to music. In that music, you are safe. And you can save other people. You can inspire. You think that you are a painter, taking blood of the innocents, war and terror, happiness and sadness, all this useless chaos, putting them in your palette and locks it in a frame. Structured, balanced, the golden ratio. You feel them, understand them, and yet you separate yourself from them. Taking what you need, and put it in song, in a frame. And you can do that because she’s around. The woman you love. She will keep you safe.

Then you sleep again.

You are in a bad dream.

A group of women, their face painted, naked, bosoms bouncing in their dance, as the twilight sets in blue and purple. One of them lifts your head so you can see your erecting mojo, and then the other, the one with the knife, caresses your penis, and slowly slicing it.

Listen to me, Norman. Do not sleep. Do. Not. Sleep.