SATANIC SITE

Episode 3

I THOUGHT it was my mother who called me with a stupid call. This unenacted me didn't have a fixed name, ever. If it is not called heh, boy, check, and other mentions that explain my posture, I am called hei goblok. Called a fool, it felt like riding a class above an idiot. Same is low. The whispering voice in my head was like that of a woman, raspy distorted. Exactly like the voice of my mother who has mostly drank and smoked.

My mom's not home, she's gone to the localization this afternoon. The son of a bitch likes to come by at two in the night when my mom comes home whoring. Living in my place, as young as I am this way already understands such things. The adults in my place his mouth cannot be guarded. I didn't know that it was considered blatant until I told the state school that my mother was a prostitute. The principal calls my mother tomorrow. As a result, I was beaten with a broom by my mother after returning home. This young man, I already knew about drugs, because a lot of my neighbors were using them. Sometimes I was offered. But I refused. Looking at those who wear, like looking at the undead. Horrifically. Makes me feel closer to them. That's what ruined my mother. The bastard choked my mother with methamphetamine.

I used to see my mother pat in the bathroom with a spoon and syringe on her hand. I lifted my mother with great difficulty. My mom's a little fat. Weight. His eyes were open, as if being dragged by a life-extracting angel. I was afraid I would lose my mother. I whispered to him, please stop wearing this devil stuff. Even though it was floating so, my mother was still able to push me to the point of falling. Back then my grudge against the bastard had already piled up as high as a pile of trash at the end of an alley that had not been lifted for three months.

Sometimes, but not often, I have a moment of identity crisis. I don't know who my father is. When I was a kid, I believed that I was an eggplant. I asked my mother about my father. Mother replied original. My mother was cooking eggplant balado. He said while showing the eggplant that was still intact. He said I was the result of his actions with a magic eggplant. My mom said I don't need a father figure. Then if eggplants are my father, why did you cook them into balado? From then on I didn't eat eggplant anymore.

My mother would repeat it while fiddling around on my birthdays which is not clear when. Sometimes February, sometimes May. Likes mom. He bought me some abon bread and the original candle he found next to the stall. Moments like that although annoying for me because I was cheated raw when I was a child, was the closest and warmest moment I had with my mother. He's taking a break from localization just for me.

I got Atarjoe's name from Basuki. I like that name. At first Basuki's father called me Tarjo.

He said I was similar to his late friend from a young age, who was killed by an oil truck when he was struggling with styles. Basuki said, Tarjo's name is too cool for me who is this handsome white. Basuki added the letter A in the front and E in the back. Now this is your name, he said. Atarjoe. I didn't know that Basuki was gay. Damnit. It's okay, he's the best friend I've ever had.

To my mother I declare myself as Atarjoe. Good name, he thinks. But then I was called Joe Ngos by him. Mom's joking. It's okay, the important thing is that I can see him laughing.

Well, this woman's distorted hoarse voice led me to try out my hand. Use it to vent anger, he said. It is better when it is still bleeding and heading black smelly carrion. I clenched my hands and did moves against the air. Blood was dripping on the tarp floor of my room. I did it at dawn. Wreak your anger on the bastard, idiot! I was provoked by that formless voice.

Ever since that voice came into my mind, I became angry. I almost became like the Pesek. Hearty. Only to Basuki I didn't do it. The small-statured Basuki with limp hair felt that he had a chance not to be underestimated. Basuki's getting sticky with me. Made me his shield. Crossroad thugs sometimes like to intercept Basuki because his father has their same business. But what do I want? Killing those thugs alone? Yeah, it's impossible. I took Basuki the other way, better.

Ever since the sound of it, I've loved to curse. Calling the name of the bastard over and over again if the bastard is playing at home. The disturbed bastard dragged me out and slapped me until my nose was bleeding.

The voice in the corner of my mind said to be patient. Just plant your anger first. Not time. You'll love it when the time comes. A satisfying release.

Ever since the voice appeared, I have often imagined what the Voice would look like. With my limited imaginary power, I drew the figure of the Voice with origin. A mysterious black-and-white figure that was half-faced. Like Batman's enemies, but even worse.

Every day I draw him. What I thought was good I stuck to the triplex wall of the room. So when the voice appeared and led me to plant a grudge, I would face a rough half-streaked face.

Before I made the bastard my second victim, there was an accident on the train tracks. The victim was a distant cousin of Yut Kasmijan. A middle-aged woman. Struck by a car until his body was half. What I noticed was the shape of his head. Half of it, like my picture of the Voice. Unlike people who are not strong enough to see the victim's broken body, I actually get inspiration. The picture of the half-scrawled face using a black pen was added red. I drew a rough line that formed like mohawk hair.

I can't believe the voice approved. Could too.

The ugly image of the horrible figure inspired by the train accident victim gave me a kind of motivation. Strange as well I guess. I stole a clothesline from a compound of shitty people. Plain grey shirts. I borrowed black and red markers from the bridge school. I'll take my T-shirt with a sketch of the Voice.

You're gonna worship me, you idiot?

Just yummy. Lick my ass first.

When I went to sleep, there was a strange feeling in my anal canal.

God fucking. I worshiped him.

He asked me if I would name him. I said, Bocelian Satan.

What a bad name, stupid!

Shut up you, you little boy!

I told him he was just hitching a ride in my mind. So don't fuck around. The first installment of the payment was what happened to the bastard.

As my grudge boiled like mountain lava, the Bocel Demon gave me a green light. Raup his face with your arms!