Daddy
Benefita
Translated into English by Muthia Sayekti
Illustration by Jayu Juli.
After putting the doctor’s coat on me, Daddy sat smiling in the director’s chair before the stage. I tried to act as well as I could—like he wanted. Using the stethoscope, I counted the heartbeats of the mannequin lying on the small white bed. After the examination, I helped the mannequin take a seat in front of the doctor’s desk and I started to read my diagnosis. Daddy’s smile broadened. He crammed a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
For a moment, I lost concentration. Daddy’s frowning forehead seemed to press a button in my head. My heartbeat felt like it was pounding out a melody in allegro across the sheet music of my chest. He spat out the popcorn and kicked the side of the stage.
“Stupid! Can’t you be a better doctor?”
I really wanted to say no, but his swearing became a knife stuck in my vocal cords.
“Try again! It’s so easy!”
The pores on my face had been trained to absorb tears quickly, before Daddy ever noticed.
On the wall of my room, Daddy had hung a mirror as tall as me so I could see myself perfectly. Every time I looked in the mirror, I always asked: who was it, actually, that I saw? I let all my clothes fall to the floor, except the doctor’s coat which I hung next to the mirror. Of all of my clothes, only this coat wasn’t allowed to get dirty. If there were any stains on it, even a little one, Daddy would get angry and accuse me of fouling up his dream.
I had to nurture his dream, take care of it, raise it, as if it were my own.
When I wasn’t face to face with him, all of the pores on my face closed so the tears flowed freely like a flood, slowly turning into a tsunami. Both my hands closed my lips to reduce the sound of my sobbing. My tears loved loneliness. Being alone was the best friend ever.
I wiped my cheeks and wondered, where did I get this face? From Daddy? Or from Mommy?
Mommy. I didn’t even remember what her face looked like. The only thing I had left of her was the big piano in the corner of my bedroom. She spent more time caressing that thing than Daddy.
Daddy. How I remember every single part of his face. His expression when he was mad, his voice which always scared me more than any thunderclap I’d ever heard.
My eyes felt as if they were full of soap bubbles that would burst at the slightest touch.
“Bitch! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” screamed Daddy as he kicked down my room door. Using a leg from an unfinished table, he began destroying my piano. I hadn’t expected he would come home earlier than usual, so I hadn’t worried while I’d played.
“I… I want to be a pianist.”
His face drew close to mine. Then he cupped his right ear with one hand. “What???”
“I want to be a pianist.”
“Say it again!”
“I want to be a pia―”
“Bitch!”
Blind with rage, Daddy kept hitting my piano.
“Do you want to be a slut too? Huh?”
That sound. The table leg slamming key after key until they all lay broken on the floor. He laughed. Maybe it was the best melody that he’d ever heard in his entire life. But for me, it would be recorded immortally in my memory as a requiem.
After the melody reached the last note, all I could hear was silence. Daddy took my coat and threw it on my bed. Without saying anything, he left me so that I could change my clothes.
When the door closed, I picked up the broken keys of my piano one by one. I apologized to them for my carelessness. I also thanked them because they had given sound to what my fingers had only dreamt. After the show, I promised to bury them.
Thank you, my little dreams. Now it’s time for me to make other people’s dreams come true.
Daddy was already waiting in the director’s chair. As usual, every time I went onstage, his smile grew wider until it looked like it was about to split his cheeks. For a moment, I could only stand and stare at the empty chairs behind him.
This was the view my mom faced back when she was starting out as a pianist. Daddy didn’t really understand music, but he always strived to make Mommy happy. His love manifested itself in building a studio next to our home so that my mom could hold a concert anytime she wanted. One could say this was her second home. Of course, Daddy never expected that this space was where my mom would meet her new husband. He was a surgeon who could build a studio much larger and more luxurious than the one built by Daddy from his earnings as a carpenter.
Whenever I performed, scene by scene, with the mannequin, I’d always say in my heart, I am a doctor. I want to be a doctor. However, the more I tried to embed those words inside me, my soul felt like rebelling against Daddy’s dreams. All the mannequins there seemed to have more passion than me in the role I was playing. And then, when he realized it, he would be mad again.
“Do it again!”
And I tried harder.
“It’s still bad! What’s wrong with you?”
I tried even harder.
“What’s the point of having a kid like you?!”
One knife, two knives, three knives. All of them stabbing my body.
I had to find a way to make Daddy happy. After steeling myself, I took a scalpel and used it to cut into my chest. I put my left hand inside and reached around for the heart, which was already torn. Before his eyes, I sliced the heart up and transplanted part of it into the patient’s chest. There. I’d reached the next level. I had become a surgeon.
Daddy stood up and applauded. His laughter filled the studio.
I’d finally found out how to make him happy, although I had to hurt myself in doing so.
Day by day, bit by bit of my heart was transplanted into my patients. They got better. And look at Daddy laugh, I’d think. Then, he would show me off to others. He’d praise me for being a great surgeon. And after the show, he would wipe away the bits of my heart and throw them in the trash.
One night—the night before my special day—something felt strange to me. The moon seemed bigger and was the rich color of a half-fried egg yolk. I took a scalpel and sat by the window in my room. I pretended I was slicing the moon. Everything felt so empty. The moon laughed at how dumb I was. It knocked on the window with its invisible hands. It wanted to hug me, and I wanted to be hugged too. Take me out of here. Take me out.
And its hand, like a soft breeze, uncovered my anxiety, releasing it from me. I felt spoiled within its embrace, my ears covered, shielded from the whisper of the evil walls.
You will be imprisoned forever, the walls said.
The moon sang me a lullaby. Just sleep, my dear, said the moon. Have sweet dreams. You look so tired.
I felt the remainder of my heart, like very thin paper, give up.
The soft, shining hands of the moon were pulling me out of the window.
Among the people who came to my grave, I was the only one who didn’t wear black. I saw myself wearing a dress as white as a hospital bed.
Daddy stood in the middle of the crowd and I saw he was shedding tears. It was the first time I’d seen him cry. I felt so pleased. I was really happy to see him weeping as he held a bouquet of flowers with my name on it. For the first time, he was crying for me.
Slowly, people went away and left Daddy behind. He caressed my gravestone, like it was my hand. After his tears dried up, he stood and went home. I watched his figure from behind, moving away, and I waited there. And I waited.
Nothing happened. There were no other souls around. I was the only person buried on that day. Why didn’t any angel or demon come? I wondered what I should do now that I was a spirit. Even facing Hell seemed easier than doing nothing in this world where I no longer belonged.
I decided to follow Daddy home. The house felt so silent. Daddy no longer had anyone to curse or yell at. He sat down on the director’s chair, looking at the stage with only the mannequins on it. I sat down next to him. I tried to interpret the look in his eyes. What he saw, felt, and thought… I just couldn’t understand.
After he left the studio, he sat down in front of the TV. One by one, he played all the videos that showed me acting onstage. Gradually, I started to understand why he often got angry. My eyes looked so pale, my body so sluggish, and I looked like a robot with no soul. There was no enthusiasm in my expression. Did he get mad because I wasn’t happy? Or because I couldn’t make him happy?
I couldn’t ask. When I tried to open my mouth, I realized I had no lips. I touched my face and found nothing under my nose. I ran to my room and looked at the mirror to make sure. All my screams stopped at my neck and I had to swallow them back down. My reflection looked much scarier than when I was alive. So many knives sticking out all over my body, face without lips, and the hole in my chest.
My anger gathered within me, ready to explode. I glanced around, looking for something to throw. My eyes spotted something in the corner. Something big that I knew too well. But no, it couldn’t be. I tried to get a closer look. And at that moment, I was sure my eyes were telling the truth.
In the corner where my piano used to be, there was a new one. It gleamed. I didn’t know how long it had been there. All I knew was that this piano was different from the old one that Daddy had broken. How funny. He bought a new piano for me after I’d died.
I sat down at the piano and my fingers started to dance over the keys. I hoped Daddy could hear the message I was playing. I just wanted to make him aware of my existence. I wanted him to know me.
Please, Daddy . . . Listen . . .
The door of my room opened slowly.
My fingers stopped playing the piano. I looked at him. Daddy’s hands were trembling as he clutched the doorknob. He looked so pale and his eyes were wide open. I stood quickly to move towards him and tell him I needed his help. However, without my lips, I couldn’t say anything. Before I moved away, Daddy suddenly closed the door and I could hear the sound of his footsteps disappear.
Is he afraid of me?
Not long after that, the door opened again. He came in with his hands full of garlic. He threw it all at me. “Go away, Devil!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare pretend you’re my daughter!”
Once again, I tried so hard to explain—by playing the piano, by causing my photographs to fall—but it just made him more afraid and mad. He prayed. The louder I played the piano, the more he prayed. Finally, I decided to leave.
That night, I took refuge near the trash heap behind my house.
I looked at the sky and I found the moon was smiling at me. I could hear the soft voice of the walls, laughing at my death. Maybe, every grain of dirt on the ground was also laughing at me. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about being laughed at, or scolded anymore, except if it came from Daddy.
I looked at all the wrinkled plastic bundles, the bones of fish and… I found a slightly open plastic bag. It contained something red. I opened it wider and found a slice of my heart. There was no mistake. That slice came from the heart that used to beat in my chest.
Instinct made my hands rummage through the trash—searching, searching, and searching for other plastic bags containing slices of my heart. I didn’t feel tired and I didn’t sweat. Now, I was just a spirit craving freedom. And I was willing to do anything to get it.
After I could not find any more plastic bags with slices of my heart in them, I began to assemble all the pieces. I tried to put them together like a jigsaw puzzle, so my heart could be made whole again. But no matter how hard I tried to join them together, they would fall apart again and again.
My ears heard something—the recording of my performance, playing in Daddy’s room. Why didn’t he watch anything else? I didn’t know whether he missed me or simply wanted to recall his dreams which had now turned to dust.
I returned to my room. The piano in the corner waved at me and invited me to sit. I welcomed its offer and put my fingers on the cold keys. And we sang together.
A moment later, the door was flung open, so roughly that its hinges almost broke.
“Damn you, Devil!”
Daddy folded his hands together and he prayed again. I wanted to show him a fistful of my heart, but he closed his eyes. His prayers became louder. Finally, I decided to continue playing my song. I would wait for him to see me, hour after hour, even until the sun rose.
His eyes opened. His forehead was wet and his lips were covered in spit. His breathing became faster.
“Motherfucker! What the hell do you want from me?”
I stretched out my hands. In them lay a broken heart, although I’d tried so hard to make it whole. His eyes remained locked on that heart for a while. Slowly, he reached for it. After gazing at it for a long time, he threw it into the corner.
“Don’t pretend to be my daughter!”
I almost gave up, but I went back to playing my piano. My memory replayed all the words I’d ever heard when I was on that stage. Daddy’s anger, his scolding, all his compliments, which I’d never wanted… Each cluster of memories turned into the notes played by my fingers. The moonlight illuminated the slices of my heart in a pile on the floor. As key after key sounded line after line, I saw the heart slowly get bigger and bigger, until it became complete when I finished my song.
I took the heart and put it back in my chest.
When I rose and turned my head, I found Daddy looking at me in a strange way. Finally, he could see me!
Those eyes had felt like a closed door to me for a long time. But now, I saw them open. I gazed deeply into his soul and I saw teardrops condensing like dews beneath the wrinkles of his face.
I held his hands carefully, then I guided them to remove all the knives from my body. One by one they were all pulled out. I didn’t even remember the last time I’d held Daddy’s hands. Their bones bulged from behind his thin skin.
I removed the last knife from my body and I brought it close to Daddy’s face. I cut from him the thing that he had taken from me, as a gift for myself, and I pressed it to my cheek.
His face was puzzled and covered in blood. He wanted to say something, but could only stare at me, speechless.
“Daddy…” I said softly with the lips that had returned to my face. When I heard my own voice, my tears began to flow. “Daddy…” I called once again.
I smiled. Every gust of wind felt as if it was bringing me a new language. I felt free to say anything, and to go anywhere I wanted. However, before I left, there was one thing I wanted to tell him.
“Daddy, today is my birthday.”
© Benefita
English translation © Muthia Sayekti
PAPA
Cerpen karya Benefita
Setelah memakaikanku jas dokter, Papa duduk di kursi sutradara di depan panggung dan tersenyum. Sesuai perintahnya, aku berusaha memainkan peran dengan sebaik mungkin. Dengan stetoskop, aku mengukur detak jantung manekin yang terbaring di atas ranjang putih kecil. Seusai pemeriksaan, aku mendudukkan manekin itu di depan meja dokter dan aku mulai membacakan diagnosisku. Senyum Papa semakin lebar. Dia menjejalkan segenggam penuh berondong jagung ke dalam mulutnya.
Sesaat, aku kehilangan konsentrasi. Dahi Papa yang berkerut seakan menekan tuts dalam kepalaku secara sekaligus. Jantungku menjadi pengeras suara yang mengeluarkan melodi alegro dalam baris paranada di dadaku. Papa memuntahkan berondong jagungnya, lalu mengentak-entakkan kaki ke sisi panggung.
“Goblok! Kamu itu bisa jadi dokter nggak, sih?”
Aku ingin menjawab tidak, tetapi umpatan Papa telah menjelma menjadi pisau yang menikam pita suaraku.
“Coba lagi! Gitu aja nggak becus.”
Pori-pori wajahku sudah cukup terlatih untuk menyerap airmata yang menitik sebelum Papa sempat menyadarinya.
Pada dinding kamarku, Papa sengaja memasang cermin setinggi tubuhku supaya aku bisa mematut diri dengan sempurna. Setiap kali memandang diri sendiri di sana, aku selalu bertanya siapakah sosok yang sedang kulihat. Aku menghapus riasanku dan menanggalkan pakaian. Seluruh pakaian kubiarkan tergeletak di lantai, kecuali jas dokter yang kuletakkan di samping cermin. Dari semua pakaianku, hanya benda itu yang tidak boleh kotor. Jika ada setitik pun noda menempel bahkan di lipatan kerahnya, Papa akan marah dan menuduhku mengotori mimpinya.
Aku harus menjaga mimpi Papa. Merawatnya dan membesarkannya seolah aku memelihara mimpi sendiri.
Saat tidak berhadapan dengan Papa, seluruh pori-pori wajahku menutup sehingga airmata bebas mengalir. Banjir. Perlahan menjadi tsunami. Kedua tanganku memberangus bibir, supaya isakanku tidak terdengar. Airmata ini mencintai rasa sepi. Kesendirian adalah sahabat.
Aku mengusap pipi dan bertanya-tanya, dari manakah wajah ini terbentuk? Dari Papa? Dari Mama?
Mama. Bahkan aku tidak bisa mengingat wajahnya dengan baik. Satu-satunya kenangan yang ditinggalkan dirinya hanyalah piano besar yang mengisi sudut kamarku. Benda yang lebih sering merasakan belaian dan kehangatannya daripada Papa.
Papa. Aku terlalu mengingat setiap detail wajahnya. Rautnya ketika marah, gelegar suaranya yang bagiku lebih menakutkan daripada segala jenis petir yang pernah kudengar.
Kini, mataku bagai dipenuhi gelembung-gelembung sabun yang jika disentil sedikit saja akan langsung pecah.
“Bajingan! Kalau kayak gini mau jadi apa kamu?” bentak Papa sambil menggebrak pintu kamarku. Dengan potongan kaki meja yang belum lama selesai dipahatnya Papa menghajar pianoku. Aku tidak menduga Papa akan pulang lebih cepat sehingga aku memainkan piano dengan begitu santainya.
“Saya mau jadi pianis.”
Wajah Papa mendekat ke wajahku, kemudian dia menarik telinga kanannya. “Apa?”
“Saya mau jadi pianis.”
“Ulangi?”
“Saya mau jadi pia―”
“Bajingan!”
Papa menghajar pianoku dengan membabi buta.
“Mau jadi seperti lonte itu juga kamu?”
Kaki meja itu menghantam tuts demi tuts sampai mereka gugur ke lantai. Papa tertawa. Barangkali, itu adalah melodi paling indah yang pernah dia dengar sepanjang hidupnya. Tapi bagiku, melodi itu yang akan terekam abadi dalam ingatanku sebagai requiem.
Setelah melodi itu mencapai nada terakhir dan yang tersisa hanya kebisuan, Papa mengambil jas dokterku dan melemparnya ke atas kasur. Tanpa berkata-kata lagi, dia pergi supaya aku bisa berganti baju.
Saat pintu tertutup, aku memunguti satu per satu tuts piano. Meminta maaf kepada mereka atas keteledoranku. Juga berterima kasih untuk segala mimpi jari-jariku yang pernah mereka suarakan. Setelah pertunjukan nanti, aku akan mengubur mereka.
Terima kasih, Mimpi-mimpi mungilku. Sekarang aku mesti mewujudkan mimpi orang lain.
Papa sudah menunggu di kursi sutradara. Seperti biasa, setiap kali aku menaiki tangga ke atas panggung, senyumannya begitu lebar hingga nyaris membelah pipinya. Sesaat aku hanya berdiri memandangi barisan kursi kosong di belakang Papa.
Dulunya pemandangan ini adalah apa yang dihadapi Mama ketika masih menjadi pianis. Papa tak peka soal nada, tetapi dia selalu memperjuangkan kebahagiaan Mama. Cintanya diwujudkan dalam bentuk studio di samping rumah supaya Mama bisa sering mengadakan pertunjukan. Bisa dibilang, tempat ini adalah rumah kedua Mama. Tentu saja Papa tidak pernah menduga tempat ini juga menjadi tempat perjumpaan pertama Mama dengan suaminya yang sekarang. Seorang dokter bedah yang kata Mama sanggup membuat studio yang seratus kali lipat lebih mewah daripada yang dibangun Papa dari penghasilannya sebagai seorang tukang kayu.
Saat melakukan adegan demi adegan bersama manekin, aku selalu merapal dalam hati, Aku seorang dokter. Aku seorang dokter. Aku mau menjadi dokter. Namun, semakin aku menanamkan kalimat itu, jiwaku memberontak semakin jauh dari harapan Papa. Manekin-manekin ini terlihat lebih punya nyawa dibandingkan peran yang kumainkan. Kalau sudah begitu, Papa akan marah lagi.
“Yang bener!”
Dan aku berusaha semakin keras.
“Masih jelek itu! Gimana sih kamu ini?”
Aku berusaha lebih keras lagi.
“Sia-sia punya anak seperti kamu!”
Satu pisau. Dua pisau. Tiga pisau. Semuanya menikam tubuhku.
Aku harus mencari cara supaya Papa senang. Setelah memantapkan diri, kuambil sebilah pisau bedah dan kugunakan untuk menyayat dadaku. Kumasukkan tangan kiriku ke dalamnya. Merogoh-rogoh sampai menemukan hati yang sudah lebih dulu koyak. Di depan mata Papa, aku mengiris hati itu dan mencangkokkan irisannya ke dada pasien. Kini, aku sudah naik level menjadi dokter bedah.
Papa berdiri dan bertepuk tangan. Suara tawanya memenuhi studio.
Aku sudah menemukan cara untuk membahagiakan Papa. Meski dengan cara itu, aku harus menyakiti diriku sendiri.
Dari hari ke hari, irisan demi irisan hatiku aku donorkan supaya pasien-pasienku sembuh. Lihatlah, Papa yang sedang tertawa. Di luar nanti, dia akan memamerkanku kepada orang-orang. Memujaku sebagai ahli bedah yang hebat. Dan seusai pertunjukan, dia akan membersihkan serpihan-serpihan hatiku, membuangnya ke tempat sampah.
Malam itu tidak seperti biasanya—malam sebelum hari yang istimewa bagiku. Bulan terlihat jauh lebih besar dan kuning kental, seperti telur mata sapi yang masih setengah matang. Aku mengambil pisau bedah, duduk di dekat jendela yang terbuka di kamarku, dan berpura-pura mengiris bulan. Hampa. Bulan menertawakan kebodohanku, tapi tangannya yang tak kasat mengetuk kusen jendela. Dia ingin mendekap. Aku juga ingin didekap. Keluarkan aku dari sini, bisikku. Keluarkan aku dari diriku sendiri.
Dan tangannya yang serupa angin-angin halus menyibak tirai kegelisahanku. Dimanjakannya aku dalam pelukannya dan ditutupinya kedua telingaku dari bisikan dinding yang jahat.
Kamu akan terkurung selamanya, ucap Dinding.
Bulan meninabobokan aku. Tidurlah, katanya. Tidur yang lelap. Kamu sudah cukup lelah.
Hatiku yang tinggal setipis kertas resep obat pun menyerah.
Tangan-tangan bulan yang lembut bersinar menarikku keluar jendela.
Di antara semua yang datang ke sebidang tanah yang ditandai batu bertuliskan namaku ini, hanya aku yang tidak mengenakan pakaian hitam. Gaunku seputih ranjang pasien.
Ayah berdiri di tengah kerumunan dan kulihat airmatanya turun. Baru kali ini aku melihatnya menangis sambil memegang karangan bunga. Namun, aku malah senang. Sangat senang. Karena untuk kali pertama, aku melihat Papa menangisi diriku.
Perlahan, kerumunan itu berangsur-angsur mengecil. Makin lama makin sepi sampai yang tersisa hanya Papa. Papa mengelus batu nisanku, seolah itu tanganku. Setelah airmatanya mengering, dia berdiri dan berjalan pergi. Aku memandangi punggungnya yang semakin menjauh. Aku menunggu. Dan terus menunggu.
Tidak terjadi apa-apa.
Aku masih menunggu. Tidak ada arwah lain. Hanya aku satu-satunya orang yang dikubur hari ini. Mengapa tidak ada malaikat atau setan yang datang? Aku bingung harus berbuat apa kalau sudah jadi arwah begini. Bahkan menghadapi neraka sepertinya lebih mudah dibandingkan luntang-lantung di dunia yang bukan lagi milikku.
Aku memutuskan untuk mengikuti Papa ke rumah. Rumah begitu sepi. Tidak ada lagi diriku untuk dimarahi. Papa duduk di kursi sutradara, menonton panggung yang hanya berisi manekin. Aku terus duduk di sampingnya. Berusaha memahami isi matanya. Apa yang Papa lihat, apa yang Papa rasakan, apa yang Papa pikirkan… aku tidak bisa menerjemahkannya.
Selepas dari studio, Papa duduk di depan televisi yang menyala. Dia menyetel video demi video berisi rekaman diriku ketika berada di atas panggung. Perlahan aku mulai memahami alasan di balik kemarahan Papa. Sorot mataku pudar, tubuhku lesu, dan aku lebih terlihat seperti robot yang tak memiliki perasaan. Tidak ada setitik pun kebahagiaan dan semangat terpancar dari garis-garis wajahku. Apakah Papa marah karena aku tidak bahagia? Ataukah Papa marah karena aku tidak bisa membuatnya bahagia?
Aku tidak bisa bertanya. Saat mencoba membuka mulut, aku baru sadar bahwa aku tidak memiliki bibir. Kuraba wajahku dan tidak ada apa pun di bawah hidung. Aku bergegas ke kamarku dan menghadap ke cermin untuk memastikan. Jeritan yang bergumul dalam tenggorokan hanya dapat kutelan kembali. Pantulan diriku terlihat jauh lebih mengerikan dibandingkan diriku semasa hidup. Pisau menancap di sekujur tubuh, wajah tanpa bibir, dada yang berlubang.
Amarah bergumpal dalam dadaku, siap meledak. Aku memandang berkeliling, mencari sesuatu yang bisa kulempar. Mataku menangkap sesuatu di pojokan. Benda besar yang sangat kukenali, tapi sepertinya mustahil. Aku mendekat, mencoba melihatnya dengan lebih saksama. Kemudian, barulah aku yakin bahwa mataku masih berkata jujur.
Di sudut tempat pianoku dulu, ada sebuah piano besar baru. Masih mengilat. Aku tidak tahu sejak kapan benda itu ada di sana. Yang jelas, ini piano yang berbeda dengan yang dihancurkan Papa. Sedikit lucu. Papa membelikanku piano setelah aku sudah tiada.
Aku duduk menghadap piano dan jari-jariku tanpa ragu menekan tuts. Semoga alunanku menjadi surat yang diterima telinga Papa. Aku ingin dia mengetahui kehadiranku. Aku ingin dia mengenaliku.
Papa, dengarlah.
Pintu kamarku terbuka, berderit perlahan.
Jari-jariku berhenti. Aku menoleh. Papa, dengan tangan gemetaran, memegangi knop pintu. Wajahnya pucat dan matanya terbelalak. Buru-buru aku berdiri, berusaha mendekatinya untuk mengatakan aku butuh bantuannya. Namun, dengan ketiadaan bibir ini, pesanku tidak tersampaikan. Sebelum aku sempat melangkah lebih jauh, Papa langsung menutup pintu dan aku bisa mendengar suara langkahnya yang semakin mengabur.
Apakah Papa takut denganku?
Saat itu juga, pintu kembali terbuka. Papa datang dengan dua genggam penuh bawang putih. Dilemparkannya seluruhnya kepadaku. “Pergi kamu, Setan!” teriaknya. “Jangan kamu menyamar jadi anakku!”
Sekali lagi, aku berusaha menjelaskan—aku memainkan piano, aku menjatuhkan fotoku—tetapi semuanya hanya membuat Papa semakin takut dan semakin marah. Papa membacakan doa-doa. Semakin keras aku bermain piano, semakin banyak doa Papa. Akhirnya, kuputuskan untuk pergi.
Malam itu, aku mengungsi di dekat tempat sampah di belakang rumah.
Aku menengadah kepada langit dan di sana bulan yang sama sedang tersenyum kepadaku. Sayup-sayup kudengar dinding-dinding berguyon tentang kematianku. Mungkin, sekarang butir-butir tanah juga menertawai diriku. Aku tidak memedulikan itu semua. Aku tidak peduli ditertawakan, aku tidak peduli dicaci-maki, kecuali oleh Papa.
Aku memandangi bungkus-bungkus plastik yang mengerut menyedihkan, tulang-tulang ikan yang arwahnya tidak bergentayangan, dan… Aku menggapai sebuah kantong plastik yang sedikit terbuka. Sesuatu berwarna merah menyempil di dalamnya. Kulebarkan mulut kantong itu dan ternyata isinya adalah irisan hatiku. Irisan yang sangat aku kenali dari hati yang pernah aku miliki.
Naluri menggerakkan tanganku untuk mengobrak-abrik tempat sampah itu. Mencari, mencari, dan mencari kantong mana lagi yang menyimpan hatiku. Aku tidak bisa lelah, aku tidak lagi berkeringat. Kini aku hanya sebuah jiwa yang mengharapkan kebebasan. Dan untuk itu, aku rela melakukan segalanya.
Setelah tidak ada lagi kantong berisi hati yang kutemukan, aku mulai menyusun kembali potongan-potongan hatiku. Menyatukannya seperti keping-keping puzzle. Mencari-cari sudut yang pas supaya mereka terpasang seperti sediakala. Sayangnya, setiap kali aku berusaha menyatukan, mereka selalu terpisah lagi dan lagi.
Telingaku mendengar suara rekaman penampilanku dari kamar Papa. Lagi-lagi hanya itu yang ditontonnya. Entah karena dia merindukanku, atau sekadar ingin mengenang kembali mimpi-mimpinya yang telah menjadi angin berdebu.
Aku kembali ke kamarku. Piano di sudut ruangan melambai dan mempersilakanku duduk. Aku menyambut ajakan itu dan menempelkan jemariku pada tutsnya yang dingin. Dan kami pun bernyanyi.
Sebentar saja, pintu kamar menjeblak terbuka hingga engselnya nyaris lepas.
“Setan jahanam!”
Papa merekatkan kedua tangan dan mulai membacakan doa-doa. Aku ingin menunjukkan segenggam hatiku kepadanya, tapi Papa menutup matanya. Doanya makin nyaring. Akhirnya, aku memutuskan untuk melanjutkan melodiku yang terputus. Berjam-jam pun bahkan hingga matahari terbit, aku akan menunggunya.
Mata Papa membuka. Dahinya sudah basah dan bibirnya dipenuhi air liur. Napasnya semakin memburu.
“Keparat! Maumu apa, Setan?”
Kuulurkan kedua tanganku ke hadapannya. Di sana terbaring sebuah hati yang koyak, meski aku sudah berusaha sedapat mungkin untuk mengutuhkannya. Tatapan Papa terkunci pada hati itu selama beberapa saat. Pelan-pelan, agak ragu, dia menggapainya. Setelah memandanginya beberapa saat, dia melemparkan hati itu ke sudut lain.
“Tidak usah kamu berlagak menjadi anakku!”
Nyaris putus asa, aku kembali duduk dan menarikan jemariku di atas tuts. Ingatanku memutar kembali suara demi suara yang kudengar saat aku berada di atas panggung dulu. Amarah Papa, setiap caci makinya, segala pujian yang tidak kuharapkan… Kubiarkan bulir demi bulir ingatan berubah menjadi notasi-notasi balok di ujung jemariku. Cahaya bulan yang jatuh di sudut kamar menyoroti irisan hati yang teronggok di lantai. Ketika tuts demi tutsku mencapai satu per satu baris nada, aku melihat hati itu perlahan berkembang. Menjadi semakin besar dan besar, dan utuh begitu kutuntaskan laguku.
Kupungut hati itu dan kuselipkan kembali ke dalam dada.
Saat aku bangkit dan menoleh, Papa sedang menatapku dengan sorot mata yang tidak bisa kutebak. Akhirnya ia bisa melihatku!
Sudah lama kedua bola mata itu serupa pintu yang tertutup bagiku. Namun, kali ini aku melihat sepasang pintu itu terbuka. Aku menerawang jauh ke dalam jiwanya, kulihat rintik-rintik airmata mengembun di balik kerut-kerut wajahnya yang dalam.
Hati-hati aku menggenggam tangannya, lalu kuarahkan untuk mencabut pisau-pisau di tubuhku. Satu per satu hingga semuanya tercabut. Aku tidak ingat kapan terakhir kali aku menggenggam tangan Papa. Tulang tangan Papa begitu menonjol di balik kulit tipisnya.
Kucabut pisau yang terakhir dari tubuhku dan kudekatkan ke wajah Papa. Kusayat darinya apa yang telah ia ambil dari diriku, sebagai kado untuk diriku sendiri, dan kulekatkan ke wajahku.
Tanda tanya berlumur darah memenuhi wajah Papa. Dia hendak membuka mulut, tapi hanya bisa membelalak tanpa berkata apa pun.
“Papa,” ucapku pelan dengan bibir yang telah kembali pada wajahku. Mendengar suaraku sendiri, airmataku tiba-tiba mengalir. “Papa,” panggilku sekali lagi.
Aku tersenyum. Setiap embus angin seakan membawa bahasa baru kepadaku. Kini aku merasa bebas mengucapkan apa saja, bebas pergi ke mana saja. Namun, sebelum itu, ada satu hal terakhir yang ingin kusampaikan kepada Papa.
“Papa, hari ini ulangtahunku.”
© Benefita
BENEFITA wrote her first short story in elementary school. She likes to write horror and thriller stories the most. She also enjoys writing romance and fantasy. She falls in love with fantasy after reading a Harry Potter novel, a birthday present from her dad. Her first short story that was published by a national media is titled “Benny and Jessie”, about a doll that falls in love with a human. From 2012 to 2018 Benefita has won one writing competition per year. Currently she is learning to write screenplays. Her short film, titled Jejak (Footsteps), won an award from the University of Gadjah Mada Cultural Studies faculty and can be watched on YouTube.
MUTHIA SAYEKTI is a freelance writer who has penned three books: Berdamai dengan Diri Sendiri (Psikologi Corner, 2017), The Art of Listening (Psikologi Corner, 2018), and Gue Tantang Loe Move On (Psikologi Corner, 2019). Sometimes she also works as a freelance translator, mostly of academic texts, and as an interpreter for various seminars, forums, or other events. Her articles have been published by Voxpop.id, Ublik.id, and Solopos, a local newspaper in Surakarta, Central Java. Currently she volunteers with Difalitera, which produces audio versions of Indonesian short stories and poems for blind and visually impaired people.
JAYU JULI works at at the Gudskul Ecosystem art collective (affiliated with RuangRupa-SERRUM-GHH). As an artist, she also has a studio there, at Gudside. With her husband she creates an audiovisual performance project called PlusMinus. Jayu likes to work with watercolor best. See some of her works on Instagram @jayujuliproject and on her website www.jayujulie.id.