#*tubuh

That was when everything shook. The sea swept around ashore a great breath of fire. The sky seemed to be splitting from end to end and raining down the sheet of flame. My whole being went tense and I tightened my grip on the gun. The trigger gave, I felt the underside of the polished butt and it was there, in that sharp but deafening noise, that it all started. I shook of the sweat and the sun. I realized that I’d destroyed the balance of the day and the perfect silence of this beach where I’d been happy. And I fired four more times at a lifeless body and the bullets sank in without leaving a mark. And it was like giving four sharp knocks at the door of unhappiness.

I could feel Georgie's stiffness. She seemed with it almost a marionette. She was stiff as a piece of wood with her anxiety to be accurate, to be truthful, to be precise, and to express no emotion whatsoever. In the face of Antonio's dewy radiance, she was utterly closed and cold.

Am I the only person on the face of this earth who's more frightened to live than to die? More terrified to be happy than to be miserable? I look at the cheerful face smiling at me, and I feel desperate and alone, like a still drop of water in a running river. How can these people be cheerful? Don't they know this is a scam? That they are trying to cheat the void? My mind orders me to feel god, but my heart won't obey. Somewhere between two, the nerves has been cut, communication blocked. This heart of mine is empty, no, it's full—of corpses. They are all crammed in it like worms, eating me up, slowly chewing my organs. Nibble, nibble, nibble, there goes my left lung. Is that why I can barely breathe? How much does a heart weight? An empty heart, a non-heart, without the load of love, passion, disappointment, anticipation, affection, ache, excitement, desire, regret, doubt, anger, resentment, warmth, ambition, faith, anxiety, suspicion? Without the load of all these we have lost along the way? An old woman I've never seen before comes and kisses me. I feel a strong urge to wipe the wet sensation of her lips off my cheeks. I feel like slitting my cheeks open with my long painted nails so that they bleed away this lie. Her kiss is a brown stain of my soul, telling me what a dirty fraud I am. She says, "I hope we'll see your children soon." I do not want any children. My wombs is crammed with corpses too. No place for a baby there. The worms would eat it bit by bit. I do not want any children. Not as long as children can die.

With Lan, one of my tasks was to take a pair of tweezers and pluck, one by one, the grey hairs from her head. "The snow in my hair," she explained, "it makes my head itch. Will you pluck my itchy hairs, Little Dog. The snow is rooting into me." She slid a pair of tweezers between my fingers, "Make Grandma young today, okay?" she said real quiet, grinning. For this work I was paid in stories. After positioning her head under the window's light, I would kneel on a pillow behind her, the tweezers ready in my grip. She would start to talk, her tone dropping an octave, drifting deep into a narrative ... A familiar story would follow, punctuated with the same dramatic pauses and inflections during the moment of suspense or crucial turns. I'd mouth along with sentences, as if watching a film for the umpteenth time—a movie made by Lan's words and animated by my imagination. In this way, we collaborated.

Ia berdiri, martirku berdiri, aku melihat punggungnya menjauh. Punggungnya seluas sabana, mungkin ada bekas luka lain di sana, panjang seperti ilalang (aku ingin menyusuri garis ungu itu dengan jariku, dengan bibirku). Pria terluka kembali. Ia berjalan dengan langkah pelan di antara umat manusia, seakan waktu telah dibuangnya, tak ada lagi, tanpa benam matahari bulan purnama. Ia duduk bersandar (seperti lelah), menyulut sebatang rokok. Pemantik menyala sejenak memperlihatkan pipinya biru ungu, rerumputan tundra di rahang dan dagunya, kerut gelombang laut di dahinya. Helai-helai rambut jatuh di gelombang laut dahinya, bagai layar-layar tipis hitam, ia tanpa angin tanpa kapal tanpa pelabuhan tanpa utara tanpa lentera (seperti lelah, ia ingin menepi). 

Aku bersetelan. Aku bercelana panjang, rok selutut, stoking hitam, skarfku melingkar di leher, motif pakis, garis, tartan; baju-baju zirahku menghadapi dunia. Aksesori di telinga dan jari. Serasi. Rapi jali. Bibir dan kuku cat warna bunglon, berubah-ubah warna sesuai setelan, situasi, juga suasana hati (mengapa ada pakaian dinamai blazer, mengingatkanku pada mobil penjelajah gurun pasir sungai lumpur—tak mengena). Aku tampak menarik, metalik. Tapi aku paling manis ketika bangun di pagi hari, tanpa segala rias dan aksesori, rambut jatuh ke mana-mana; di bantal, mata, wajah, senyum. Aku tersenyum, ingat semalam aku bermimpi manis sekali.

Throughout my childhood, I’d had this obsession with having lovely white teeth like the girls in the magazines. When child-welfare workers visited my foster homes and asked me if I needed anything, I always requested an appointment with the dentist, as if my future, my whole life, would depend on the smile I had.