INTROVERT LOVE'S
Episode 2
“Sorry mamang yes, Bang ..” I was stuck, my lips were shaking, I looked into the shady eyes of a loving man who had been taking care of me.
“Mang Iwan? Is this really Mamang? Mamang...”.
Byars!
Not done yet I talk a big wood through the car glass, Mang Iwan looks riled. Outside is getting
rowdy, the car swayed violently, screams after shouts rang out.
“Mampus us!” Now the big-looking man is scared.
“This is what I spent, Bang!”
THE PRAANKK!
This time a big rock came into the car almost hitting my leg. A very scary thing that I never thought of.
Mang Iwan's gaze was blank, a second later the gaze was filled with hate, very likeness, “Sial! What is the difficulty of being invited to work together, ha?”
“Mang, what's up? Mama doesn't love Hanan? Let's go home and buy lego ..” I beg.
Buuuk! Buuk!
Mang Iwan was in awe, his hands lightly repeatedly smashed into my face, I grimaced, my gaze darkened, numb from the pain, I felt pain, before the eyes were completely closed I felt a fishy warm liquid rush out from my nose.
Nirvanic
I'm so happy because today
I've found my friends
They're in my head
I'm so ugly, but that's okay, 'cause so are you
We've broken our mirrors
Sunday morning is everyday for all I care
And I'm not scared
Light my candles in a daze
'Cause I've found god
Hey, hey, hey
I'm so lonely but that's okay I
shaved my head
And I'm not sad
If any man who diligently complains that being alone and not having many friends is a sad thing I can assure him that he is the kind of man who never knew Nirvana's Lithium stanzas, no
never read the comic Kungfu Boy while fanning in the room, or never also feel the pleasure of hot chocolate on the balcony when it rains at night.
A copycat suicide, I'm not as fanatic as two French teenagers who follow shot their own head to end life as did the idol Kurt Cobain frontman Band Nirvana very famous
the era of the 90s, although until now the death of the vocalist itself is still filled with controversy.
I got to know him through a pirated cassette of Mang Iwan's legacy, the best Western set of songs of all time written on the pirated CD's cassette cover, there are also some songs from other big bands such as the Rolling Stones, Queen or the Beatles. All Mang Iwan's belongings have been sent to his family in the village, his room was once diverted as an additional warehouse in the house, only the cassette tapes were
I asked for a memento.
The rain had just broken, the flowers in the courtyard seemed to sparkle because the reflection of the light of the terrace that hit the water on the leaves were still wet, the occasional gust of wind made me shudder, The hot milo I just gulped down felt bland, unlike those who claimed to be pluophivile, the rain had bad memories for me.
The rainy city, as the nickname suggests, Curup one of the small towns in the land of Bengkulu, here it rains without knowing the season, a bunch of water it down whenever he wants. A small town of a million memories is another nickname
From the second-floor terrace for the umpteenth time I combined those two things, the rain and the memories that often remind me that death is only as close as pulse. Years have passed as Mama said
a good human being must remember many good parts of others, to make him believe if I have made peace with the past, once I have been forced to visit Mang Iwan in the air, how Mama taught me to be forgiving.
In order to make Mama happy I have become a madrasah santri, he hopes that someday I can become a good religious expert and speaker. I granted his request on one condition, no
living in a dormitory as the distance between the house and the boarding house is not too far away.
Believe it or not Mama's smile day by day strengthens, I grow up to be a brave child, he bought me a big bike so I can use it to commute to school, he said, outside the house I found many new friends; a gentle breeze blowing hair, big trees on the edge
the sidewalk, the street lamp that dies in the morning, the cows in the cage that I always pass in the animal market, and the predicate of a true friend will certainly fall to the backpack of Papa who wherever I go, he's tagging.
The first year wasn't so smooth, I haven't had a single familiar friend at school except for a girl from another class who often throws a smile, once when by chance our gaze collided he looked down embarrassed and then ran away. I think he wants to get to know me better, befriend me. I too, would like to.
Tiara Azzahra, called Ara, a class VIII B student whose cheeks will be hollow every time he smiles, a smile that can vibrate the body for no reason. He was the youngest of three children, a woman
the second beauty in the house besides her mother, aka she is the only daughter owned by Father Suwandi and Mother Nisa, her favorite food is chocolate, a favorite drink unlike humans generally he really likes a glass of milk made from five melted milk candy. Ara lived across the school, after the bridge, the color of her house was light green, her father was fierce but her mother was very delicate and gentle, her fierce father was very afraid of her mother.
Actually we are not familiar at all, I get a lot of information from some social media that he had also from short stories that he wrote on the blog page, he said, it's kind of a diary that somehow makes me feel happy every time I finish reading it. Yet we have not even spoken
directly I like to have known him for a long time, then one secret that needs to be revealed is the loner is the best stalker.
My days are just like that, spending more time at home with a play station or reading some comics and even novels, of course surfing the internet at night, during the weekend mama allowed me to go out of the house longer to exercise, play basketball on the city court even if it was too late to go home mama would immediately call.
***
The sky is cloudy, the people on the field are not as crowded as usual, mass gymnastics on the main field has not started, too, just about to take the ball bouncing off the board a man snatched it skillfully then did a rebound technique, putting the ball perfectly into the basket.
“After all?”
“Iya, Bang. One on one?” I'm offering.
“No, I lose.” He's humbling.
“Looks like I'm going to lose, your movement was very fast,”ujarku. He just grinned, his body was very thin, his hair was long as a shoulder, jeans he was wearing torn in the hanky, looking like loose.
“Satria Sumbogo. Just call Sai, so what's your name?”
“Hanan, Bang.”
“You're still in school? What class?”
“Class of tsanawiyah, Bang.”
“Child madrasah?” ask again.
“He em.” I'm nodding.
“Emang yes, the children of rich people have better nutritional growth,” cetusnya.
“Enough diligent eat same sleep, Bang,” I replied.
People mafhum the popularity of the school, a prestigious modern pesantren until they suspect every student comes from the upper middle class when they are not. For Mama, science is something
it is priceless, while money can be sought.
“Like Nirvana, yes?” he pointed to the shirt I was wearing, the black shirt with the emoticon smile, the icon of the band Nirvana itself.
“Lumayan, why?”
“You are not alone, if you need a chat friend or a hanging out friend you can contact me.” He came closer, gave me a business card, I smelled something stinging from his body that I later found out if it was the distinctive aroma of a brand of liquor.
He shot the ball back from three points, the ball bounced very calmly, before the ball landed he had turned around, waved and then left.
The crasssh!
The ball entered the basket perfectly, I was surprised and amazed how a homeless man could play such great basketball.
