FICTION: Baby Blue Eyes.

There's always something intriguing about one person's eyes. I always feel like the blue pierced mine so badly, it somehow had a killing act during the moment. While the darker group sense more seriousness in the air, I think grey does it better. The thoughts of eye colours popped in to mine until I decided to walk to the light's direction and everything continues to fall apart. At ease, a lad, slender and well-built, with features framed with a simple manifesto of attractiveness reach out a hand for me. "Are you ready?"

I still have the same bitterness on my tongue and the delicate sweetness all over my mouth from the tea I sipped earlier. The hand that grabbed my hand is soft with calluses, it's like being in the middle of something new and challenging. My feet felt a simple ease in each step so I didn't bother to ask where he's taking me. After the whole eye-color saga, my head is filled with questions like Are you really ready? or Who's the young man leading the way? or What if nothing goes right and you'll broke in to pieces again? I kept asking the same stuff over and over again until the ground feels a bit jelly and funny. I looked down and the ground is red, like a strawberry jell-o, but even better. It's bouncy but it's set. My Repettos float anxiously and the guy told me to sit down on the classic white iron park bench. "Here comes the movie, I hope you enjoy you as the starring actress." He looked at me right through my eyes, and from that second I knew. My eye colour saga... Is a brain worthy article. His eyes are blue, and it pierced through my soul.

The sky was the silver screen and the popcorn he brought me tasted like candy floss. I watched my moments playing, my first step, my first word and my first book I ever read; It was something with bunnies and the words was less than fifty. My first dance recital, I wore a cotton plaid skirt and yellow tank, waving ribbons in the air. And then my traditional dance class, I did one hard move successfully and I was laughing. I was so happy, compared to now. The popcorn can was empty and he stroke a smile, refilling the can and giving it back to me. This time, it tasted like bitter coffee.

I saw my dad throwing things to me, english teacups and his bloodshot eyes leered my mom, standing with zero chance of saving me. He screamed, he was loud. I wasn't crying at all and I sat on the corner. He grabbed one of the plastic laundry thongs and clipped three to my left ear. "Go finish your homework, or the other ear will have another three!" I still remembered his face that night. It burned in the back of my head. I did my math homework alone, it was easy but it was a lot. Thirty numbers of three digit addition and subtraction; I was six. It has come to my mind that my mom dropped a tear as she closed the door to my room. 

During my first attempt on writing a superficial fiction and my first philosophy book, I opened my mouth and asked the guy sitting next to me "Who did this to me?" My eyes gazed and I scooped more popcorn (Tangerine flavoured) and fill some to my mouth. "God sent me to you. He wanted to let you know how much you've improved in your life. See that? Your first Melville. You finished the entire bibliography by now." He point to the book I was holding in my hand. It was the first day of junior high. "Sometimes, all it takes is a simple reminder. Humans are always busy fixing things; living up to their expectation and making more out of everything. They're always either high to the clouds or dead down underground. My job here is to keep you save to hover the land. Not too proud, but not so cynical." He explained and I just feel a little dead inside. The movie is a reminder. It's my life on a track. My life and everything revolving to it. Later I found out that an ex boyfriend was cheating behind my back and someone was using me to abuse another's life. That the most nice girl in class was the most bitchiest person I ever known, and the quiet in the back of the class holds most secrets. The tallest guy next door was on drugs, the young lady I sat next to during the bus trip is sick with cancer. 

The movie ended with a single flashy lights and my canned popcorn ran out. The last flavour I tasted was insipid. It was nothing, a can full of nothing. The guy grabbed my hand again and took me back. He gave me a white paper with fifty numbers on it, next to the numbers are things I might be missing out in life. Number twenty one is the fact that my dad is my poison and my antidote. Number ten is Strapless dresses are reckless. Number fifteen showed me that I only drink approximately five glass of water a day. "Hold on to it, you'll need it. And off the records; there is supposed to be number fifty one: Eyes never lie. See you soon." His piercing blue eyes see through me again, and the next thing I know, I'm in a local coffee shoppe with a half empty mug filled with black coffee. I reached to my left sweater pocket and I have a list of fifty number of things I might be missing out in life. Before I got my head straight and try to figure out what's happening, a tall blonde guy walked in the cafe and place an order. When our eyes met, we locked eyes and I can't believe what's happening. It's the same piercing blue eyes. I lowered my hand and try to distract my head, until I found out that the back of my receipt, scribbled a three words-twelve letters sentence I've memorised earlier. Eyes never lie.

FICTION: Love embellished, star crossed kisses.

It's been a while since my last fiction and truthfully, after the greatness of yesterday, this day? 80% of it sucks. I know it can't rain forever but seriously dude? If there's an award on sucky day, this day would be it. Anyway... I'm trying to put back pieces in fiction so... Here it goes.

---

Love embellished, star crossed kisses.

I know I'm short and fat and half of the population don't get what I'm saying or even notice me. Yep, I'm really good at being invisible and truthfully, I like being invisible. I feel minuscule and it's a good feeling for someone with a bloated, shrunk to an inch body. One thing also, I'm a massive exaggerator and I hate changes. I've worn this stupid round, tinted with brown dye glasses since I was ten and it still fits me well so... No plan to substitute it with something Gucci or Versace. The only theory I believed is that humans are made out of two things: Insanity and madness, sometimes with a dash of gold glitter or a piece of Isaac Newton's brain. My parents said that I'm an idealist and I should keep it that way. I have no idea why, but there's no switching my handmade, beautiful studded jeans to a crappy new pair of Levi's that costs more than a third world labor would make a month.

I took the bus everyday, everywhere. My reason? It's practical. It's 24/7 and even though my house is located in an isolated, godforsaken location, it's the best place to run away and reassemble my thoughts and transferring them to the four walls of my room. Green, envious walls of mine. I've filled them with hundreds of words that run pretty much everywhere, making them my true enemy when I can't catch my sleep or I'm not tired enough to sleep. A yellow painted door and gold handle, covered with baby powder and bits of the glitz of Chanel no. 5 is the only door I leave unlocked. I repeat, the only door I leave unlocked.

One of my future plans is to never get married and to adopt some poor child from a third world country, who has starved long enough to fully appreciate the proper value of a plate of beef stew with heavy gravy and how extravagant bubbled water is. But I'm guessing that would be cliche and I'm going to re-do my family plan. I'm going to get married after college and have two girls. Or two boys. The word boys sounds better. Ok, two boys and an amazing bubbly husband. I want a big spacey house with four, no, make it five, huge bedrooms and a big kitchen. A pool, a rooftop bar. A wall filled with pricey artworks or my own personal shit. The most dreamiest house you've ever seen. I want a cradle of stuffed animals and a fridge full of lactose free products. A carriage of vodka and gin and vermouth and a royal whiskey to serve with an evil, hellish glass from heaven. A wine cellar, a telescope to gaze on the amazing sky and the dreamy constellation.

I've spent seventeen sappy summers and seventeen deathly winters. I think it's only a summer away for me to go pack my things into a very big portmanteau with bunch of stickers on it, throwing yesterday away and getting a label of my own. Filling my brand new pages with another hundred shades of black, getting more butterflies in my tummy and getting new tattoos in invisible ink. Starting new sounds good.

Two seasons to go, and I'm no longer Irina Smiths. I'm Abigail. Abigail Summer.

---

That feels good. Gotta catch a nightie, packed schedule tomorrow.

Jenuh

Lagi mood berbahasa indonesia nih. Mungkin masih tersisa pengaruh Nostalgia yang kemaren baru bikin, dan akhir-akhir ini nggak ada yang bisa di bahasa inggris-in. Anyway, enjoy my bahasa post!

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Terkadang, lari adalah satu-satunya jalan yang tepat. Meninggalkan seluruh kenangan dibelakang dan membuka lembaran baru, meneruskan langkah dan menjadi tak terhentikan. Terkadang, lari adalah satu-satunya jalan yang tepat. Terkadang, bukan.

Aku selalu berlari dan mencoba beradu kecepatan dengan waktu, menggunakan setiap detikku dengan sempurna dan tidak pernah menyesali apa yang telah terjadi di masa lalu. Tetapi ketika aku berlari dan mencoba melawan waktu, suatu yang membayangiku selalu menepuk lembut bahuku dan meminta untuk berlari lebih pelan, dan lebih pelan, dan terhenti. Membiarkan diriku termakan memori dan kenangan yang terus membanjiriku dengan hiasan hiasan lama dan rangkai kata yang memudar termakan umur. Membuatku untuk meraih lebih tinggi, lebih tinggi akan suatu yang tak pernah ada, atau tak lagi ada.

Terkadang aku tak membiarkan suatu itu menghancurkanku lebih parah. Aku menambah kecepatanku dan berpacu dengan waktu, berharap suatu itu tertinggal jauh dibelakang dan meninggalkanku sendiri menyepi. Namun, yang kulakukan hanya membuat duniaku berputar lebih cepat dan membuatku mundur teratur dan kembali pada titik tersebut, dimana seluruh hal yang berada disekitarku menjadi lebih sensitif dan menarik kasar diriku untuk terjun ke dalam kenangan yang terhempas waktu dan warna yang membiru.

Sampai detik ini, aku tak tau bagaimana caranya untuk berhenti terhanyut dalam semu, berhenti berlabuh dalam pilu, berhenti bertemu dengan sendu. Ketika cinta menjadi suatu yang tabu untuk dibicarakan dan ketika hati berhenti bergetar. Ketika rintik hujan menyentuh bumi dan mengedarkan sebuah aroma yang kuat dan menyesakkan. Ketika matahari mengeringkan genangan air dan kita berhenti bercermin. Tempat-tempat yang aneh untuk memulai perjalanan waktu, tapi hanya disitu aku menemukan sisa pembicaraan tengah malam kita, diikuti dengan senyuman yang meleleh dan daun rindu yang berguguran.

Satu demi satu.

---

God, what has gotten into me.

Prolog: Siapa dia?

Kamu. Kamu seperti sepercik api yang tak kunjung padam, setetes air yang tak pernah mengering, sekuntum mawar yang tak akan layu. Kecil, simpel, namun bermakna dan membekas.

Aku masih ingat saat jari kita bertautan. Tidak pada kencan pertama, kedua, atau ketiga. Aku ingat, kita mulai berpegangan tangan di kencan keempat. Saat aku berjalan melewati rak buku fiksi di toko buku lama dan menggapai Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, membolak balik halamannya yang termakan waktu, terlihat lelah dan rustic, memuat bau buku tua yang sangat tajam. "Aku mau ini, aku boleh beli kan?" Kalimat pertama yang aku ucapkan di kencan tersebut. Saat kamu menggapai bundelan tua, meraba kertasnya, "Shakespeare lagi, kamu yakin? Aku nggak mau kamu menggantung harapan aku bisa sepuitis dia. Yang lain aja, yang lebih realistis." ujarmu, mengembalikan buku itu dirak. Nyaris saja kamu berbelok ke lorong buku sebelah, tapi aku reflek menarik tanganmu dan merengek, "Please? Siapa juga yang mau berharap kamu sepuitis Shakespeare, tapi aku mau baca Midsummer Night's Dream?" Dan saat itu aku sadar. Tanganmu ada ditanganku, dan matamu melekat di sentuhan reflek yang kuberikan. Aku menarik tanganku, melepaskannya dari ikatan tersebut, dan berkata, "Yasudah kalau nggak boleh. Aku cari yang lain." Tapi saat aku berbalik arah, menuju rak buku lain untuk mencari Proust, kamu meraih lenganku, menarik Midsummer Night's Dream dari rak, dan menggeretku ke kasir. 

"Satu. Nggak boleh bete sampai satu minggu kedepan." Mana bisa aku bete, kalo aku punya bacaan kualitas Shakespeare ditangan? Saat aku memekik kegirangan, kamu menggapai sesuatu dipunggungku dan mengeluarkan benda manis itu. "Buat kamu. Aku nggak bisa berkomunikasi dengan kata, but action is better than words." Mawar yang sudah mengering itu masih kusimpan dibagian paling belakang lemari pakaianku.

---

Entahlah, antara mata hijauku yang terlalu cerah atau rambut coklatku yang terlalu pekat. Orang orang tidak pernah menanggapku serius. Namun kamu, kamu percaya ada seorang kutu buku berantakan yang memakai kacamatanya terlalu longgar, yang menyelami buku lima ratus halaman dan mendengarkan Frank Sinatra dengan vinyl dalam diriku. Yang impulsif, yang terlalu sederhana untuk dirusak. Aku sedang menunggumu dibangku kedai kopi klasik, beraroma espresso, bernuansa coklat dengan kontras karamel, berperabot rotan dan kaca hitam yang gelap, misterius. Saat kamu datang, menggunakan sehelai kemeja yang lelah dan celana jeans yang kusut. "Ibu, ibuku baru saja terkena serangan jantung."

---

Aku terduduk di bangku rumah sakit modern itu sambil mencengkram segelas kopi berwarna hitam pekat. "Aku terlalu muda, aku nggak tau ibu kenapa." "Kamu kira aku juga tau?" Aku menguatkan cengkramanku pada gelas kopiku. Gelas kertas itu nyaris saja tertekan dan menumpahkan sebagian isinya diatas rok pastelku. Dia hidup tanpa ayah. Sesaat setelah ia lahir, ayahnya mengalami kecelakaan di jalan tol dan meninggal di ambulans. Aku lupa apa rasanya dibelikan mainan oleh ayah, diajari memanjat pohon dan menerbangkan layangan. Saat dia mengatakannya, aku langsung memotong dialog tersebut. Kamu nggak lupa, kamu nggak pernah merasakan. Ironis. Dan saat ini, ibunya terkulai didalam cardiac intensive care unit. Aku tidak bisa membayangkan berada di posisinya sekarang. "Kamu sudah telpon Mommy?" tanyanya saat aku memutuskan untuk memesan segelas kopi lagi. "Sudah. She sends her love. Mungkin besok dia datang dan menjenguk Ibu."

"Keluarga Ibu Ararya?" seorang dokter pria berkacamata keluar dari balik pintu putih berkaca bening. "Saya anaknya. Bagaimana keadaan Ibu, dok?" tanyanya. Aku menahan diriku untuk turut berdiri dan mengajukan sepuluh pertanyaan tentang kondisi ibu sekarang. "Ibu sudah semakin membaik, walaupun masih butuh beberapa hari untuk pemulihan." kata Dokter Stolin, membolak-balik kertas dipapan jalannya. "Beberapa saat lagi ia akan terbangun, kamu bisa mengunjungi ruangannya di kamar 254." Ia tersenyum tipis dan kembali menghilang dibalik pintu putih itu. "Kamar 254 adalah kamar ekonomi. Aku tidak bisa membiarkan Ibu pulih diruangan yang tidak kompeten. Aku akan coba bicara pada suster." Namun aku sudah tak bisa melihat wajahmu yang memucat dan terlihat pias setiap menit. Walaupun ragu, aku membiarkan kata-kata yang menggantung diujung lidahku itu bebas, mengalun hingga telingamu. "Pergilah ke kamar Ibu, aku akan mengurus kepindahan ibu."

Aku dan dia, tidak berpacaran. Namun, tidak bisa disebut teman. Kami berlaku berlebihan untuk disebut sahabat. Kami tidak berpacaran, tapi kami berkomitmen. Untuk bersama disaat tipis dan tebal, disaat bosan dan terhibur. Kami sudah berkomitmen sejak aku umur tujuh belas; Aku berumur sembilan belas sekarang. Dan kamu, tidak terlihat seperti laki-laki berumur dua puluh. Kami berkenalan di kampus, cliche. Aku jurusan komunikasi, dia jurusan teknik mesin. Kami adalah dua individu yang sangat berbeda, tapi punya banyak kesamaan. Orang tua kami selalu mengira kami punya tujuan yang statis, sayangnya, tujuan kami cuma satu. Bahagia. Dan terkadang, bahagia hanya ada di kondisi tertentu, dimana semuanya berubah dan akan menyerang waktu.

---

Aku mencoba membuka mataku. Aku terbangun diatas ranjang empuk berbantal bulu angsa yang dilapisi sarung sutera. Aku mendengar derap dentum sol sepatu beradu dengan lantai parkit kamarku. "Selamat pagi, Aleafea. Air mandimu sudah siap."

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Satu pertanyaan; siapa lelaki itu?

Tugas Berujung Pilu

Hari ini dapet tugas bikin puisi dari Bu Ani. Puisi apa aja, yang penting ada citraannya. Citraan yang paling aku suka itu citraan penciuman, karena bau-bauan tuh paling sensitif buatku. Jangan jangan aku manusia setengah anjing-_-

Btw, puisinya sebenernya agak random, dan sedih/galau juga. See? I have proven that I can be galau, just like you guys!

"Nostalgia

Sebersit layang alis tebalmu dibenakku

Kerut matamu saat tertawa

Bariton berat menggema kelam di setiap jejak langkahku

Aku menemukanmu di tiap rintik hujan

Saar rinainya menyentuh bumi

Semerbak aroma hujan memenuhi nafasku

Segenggam kenangan menyusup anganku

Terseret hatiku mencoba mengejarmu

Terluka diriku mencari engkau

Dibalik pintu-pintu memori

Yang tersibak di balik malam gelap"

Sebenernya disitu mau ngejelasin kalau aku selalu dikejar bayangan, bayangannya semu, nggak pernah ada sebenernya. Dikejar memori, yang nggak mungkin terulang kembali. Disitu juga aku sebutin hujan, karena bau kulitnya si subyek pembicaraan ini tuh bau hujan, hence the 'aku menemukanmu di tiap rintik hujan'.

Don't we all have that bits of pieces that still love the past all over us?

Family Values

There I was, in New Years Eve, carrying my youngest half-sister to sleep. Between the humming I did to keep her lids closed, the body rocking I made, and the pain that grew in my arms, the seedy underbelly of my family story I grew into never bore people. And that point, the cynical side of me kept making lines that I finally put into action, now that I’m writing this piece, about my family background.

My first appearance, was somewhere between late 1995. The news my mother brought was shocking for both side of family, because my mother and father was not married, and was not planning to be. Yes, I am, well, was, those ‘accidental’ kids that people prevent to getting in to. The marriage was done in mid-January 1996, and I was born in April 27th 1996. It was the night before the holy sacrificial day to Moslem in the world, Eid Al-Adha. I guess I wasn’t that bad, don’t you think? 

Growing up wasn’t a hard thing to do, since my mother kept the accident thing from me until I have enough logic to realized that I am in the situation. I was that perfect kid who stopped using bottles for milk at the age of 1 and smart enough to read at the age of 3. I was also diagnosed of ADHD, a sort of mental sickness that occurs to young children that affect his/her motoric ability, separating them from other young children. Every child has a different symptoms and mine was tip-toe walking, the inability to catch a moving object, and the out focused side of me that kept me moving all the time. It doesn’t equal to hyperactive or autism  but it is quite similar.

My mentally sick condition was needing the right therapy from eligible psychologist, but the economic condition my mother was into wasn’t helping at all. My father was (is, actually) always gone and he left very modest money to my mother that time, so, any addition outcome won’t make it to the list. So she therapy me by herself. It still burns in the back of my mind, her doing to make me healthy again. She’d kept me in a desk for a full 20 minutes doing nothing (It is hard for young kid to do this, it is even hard for us teenagers, sitting around doing nothing), and another 25 minutes drawing and writing stuffs. Another one was playing what my mother called ‘a rolled game’ because she’d passed me a plastic small ball you’ll find in a ball pool, and I have to catch it on time, before it passed the line my mother made from duck tape. That went on and on and on until I was approx. 5, and it stopped because I finally can control my movements and as I get older, I got a little bit mature too. 

Graduating from my kindergarten (Well, isn’t this thing weird? Graduating from a kindergarten when you’re not officially graded for something other than coloring and bead-working), I managed to find myself getting accepted in an ivy public school and aced myself out there. I was always in the top 5% of my class and getting 90+s in subjects that need 90+ scores.

But it all stopped because my mother decided to move out of the current house we’re living in. She didn’t do it automatically, but she did move out eventually. First she would took all of her belongings, like her jewelries and her important papers, followed by her clothes stack and pairs of shoes getting smaller by amount, and then her make ups, and well, me. I remember her putting all of my clothes in the only suitcase I have back then. It was pink and has a picture of barbie on it. She put some on her bag because my suitcase was very very tiny for a move out, and she put me in a pair of jeans, my favorite white t-shirt (even back then I know what a style staple is), and my double sided wind breakers. She pulled me out of the house, said something to the maid, put all of our stuff in the back of the taxi, and headed for the airport. All I know back then was... I’m in a vacation to Jakarta, because my twin grandmothers misses me. And I did have a vacation. I visited Museum Nasional, went to Dunia Fantasi and everything. But my, I am not going back to Surabaya, my ever lovely hometown.

My exact reaction was... Nothing. I was too little back then to even rebel, even screaming did not passed my mind. It was a habit living without my father, and the school I got in to was a very good school. The only question I had back then was, “So I’m staying here?”, which followed by a good nod from Mom, and followed by my “Ok.” That’s it. No “Why?”s, no “How?”s, nothing. Until now, I haven’t got a simple explanation why this is happened. I figured it out on my own, and asked my Mom. “Is the reason you were leaving is that dad’s a jerk and you shouldn’t be married at all to him in the first place?” Her face muscles tighten and said “I don’t want to marry your dad at the first place. But it was an obligation, I guess? And one of the reason that I didn’t ran away because I need his name for your birth certificate, and you kinda need a dad.” Emphasized on the word dad. “It would suck to grow up without having a father, even though you don’t need one. For the sake of the status.” that’s it. She needed his name for my birth certificate, and for my reputation.

And now, 2012, it’s been.... seven gaudy years from the divorce, eight from the runaway. I’m perfectly in shape as the other teenagers, even though my family are more fucked than theirs. Seeing Mom in her wedding picture was bland, she had no smile on. My family was messy, but it taught me the most wonderful things I won’t get with a happy joyful family. The strongest person who’s ready for anything did not actually ready for anything, but s/he’s been through everything and s/he knows the pace of everything, s/he’s used to it, and s/he’s hanging there.

My family now is perfect. Picture perfect. I lived with my Mom in a tiny homy home, with my step father who’s rarely home because his work needs him in the field. He’s an engineer on mining, and he’s the smartest person on earth. He listens to me every time, and check on me more then my mom. I have asked for a baby brother but they’re still both too busy for another kid, so... I’m being patient here. My father had marry a wonderful, nicest step mother could be on earth. They lived in the city, and my father still went away to far far away places to resolve his projects. He’s a contractor. My step mother works in an IT company. They gave a lovely baby sister, whom I named Marcya. Originated from Latin, meaning a warrior; warlike one. Is it ironic to name her that way after all I’ve been through? Hahahaha. She’s three, pretty, so daddy little girl, and her passion is teddy bears.

I have learned my lesson, give me another phase of my life I need to conquer.

P.S. It's actually parts of the phase; I didn't write it all:p

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