Curup, 2002
Humans are creatures of vast potential, capable of both supre grace and profound evil. If they choose the path of righteousness, they can beco more noble than the angels. But if they fall into darkness, they can sink lower than the beasts.
Beasts, at the very least, have a reason; they lack the capacity for thought and are driven solely by instinct. But what is a human’s excuse for malice?
In a modest yet comfortable ho lived a single mother and her young son. The boy was a quiet soul, not yet ten years old. He rarely spoke and often spent long stretches staring at the world in silence. His mother, however, was a woman of infinite gentleness and patience. She never complained about her son’s peculiar behavior, loving him with every fiber of her being.
Though they lived in simplicity, their ho was a sanctuary of warmth. Unfortunately, a beautiful woman living alone often invited "n worse than beasts" to invade.
The mother tried to resist, but a woman’s physique was not built to match a man’s strength. Even so, she fought desperately to defend her honor. The creature, growing frustrated by her defiance, began to use his fists to break her.
The mother was no fighter, but no one could deny she was a warrior. Even as her beautiful face blood with bruises, she thrashed and struggled. Eventually, the man lost all control; he struck her head with such force that the back of her skull slamd against the floor. Her body seized for a mont before collapsing into limp silence.
The creature cared not whether his victim was dead or alive. For him, the only thing that mattered was sating his lust, indifferent to whether the flesh beneath him still held a soul or had already beco a corpse.
He did not notice that behind him, a closet door had slowly creaked open. The son crawled out from his hiding place. The boy’s face remained a mask of frozen expressionlessness, but his eyes held sothing terrifying. With a slow, deliberate movent, he picked up a fruit knife lying on the floor—the very knife his mother had earlier used to threaten the intruder.
The blade had now passed into the hands of the son.
Silently and without haste, the boy approached the man’s back. The criminal was entirely unaware of the small presence behind him. He was focused on stripping the mother’s clothes, his eyes bloodshot and saliva pooling in his mouth.
The son knew he lacked the strength to pierce a grown man’s back. He aid for a part far softer. Thus, even as he stood inches away, he remained motionless.
Only when the man discarded his trousers did the son strike. In a single thrust that harnessed every ounce of his strength, he buried the fruit knife into the softest part of the man’s groin.
The man thrashed in agony. His screams filled their tiny ho. Blood sprayed everywhere, but the boy remained focused. He wrenched the knife out, causing the blood to fountain even more violently. In the chaos of his pain, the criminal tried to turn around. But before he could see his assailant clearly, the fruit knife was already buried deep in his throat.
The scream was cut short instantly, replaced by a sound like a gurgling, broken faucet. With eyes wide in shock, the creature who was worse than a beast slumped beside the mother. He stared at the ceiling with eyes full of terror and disbelief.
The son paid no mind to the figure that was rapidly becoming a corpse. He approached his mother, shaking her body gently, then with increasing desperation. But the mother remained still. The light in the brown eyes staring at the ceiling began to fade. The son tried to find a heartbeat in her chest—the rhythm that had always soothed him—but now he could hear and feel nothing.
He could only cradle her cooling body in silence. From behind the crack of the closet door, he had seen everything. His mother had hidden him there the mont the man broke in. Their secluded ho ensured her cries for help went unheard. Only the son heard the terror in her voice. He had watched her being tortured, but at that mont, he could only shiver in fear.
The son did not hate the man who already beco corpse. He was too intelligent not to realize that, sooner or later, there would always be evil creature who ca to snatch away what he loved. The world was truly that cruel to the weak—and unfortunately, he was among them.
He hated himself for being so weak.
He hated himself for being such a coward.
He cradled his mother for so long that flies began to circle above them. Finally, the boy stood up and walked toward the bedroom. There, upon the mattress where his mother used to read him stories, lay a toy.
Gatotkaca.
----------------------------------------------------
Life is tedious.
Born knowing nothing, and dying knowing nothing.
So brief that it vanishes the mont we close our eyes.
The son stared at the Gatotkaca toy in his hand.
"He doesn’t exist in the real world," the boy whispered.
If Gatotkaca existed in the real world, he would surely fight these evil n. He would save a weak and terrified child like him. But the boy was too smart to believe that a hero with "muscles of wire and bones of iron" was anything more than fiction.
Why doesn’t he exist in the real world?
The boy was confused. Perhaps his mother knew the answer. He returned to her side, asking softly, "Mother? Why isn’t Gatotkaca in the real world?"
His mother remained silent. The son looked at her body and thought: Could it be that Gatotkaca was actually his mother? After all, she had "defeated" the evil man—because the man was now dead. Even with her injuries, it was as if she were still smiling to comfort him. He decided his mother was the true Gatotkaca; she had won against a powerful enemy to protect him. Yes, that must be it. This world had a Gatotkaca in the form of his mother.
The son walked toward the exit with heavy, swaying steps. But as his hand reached for the doorknob, his movent stopped. His knees shook violently, forcing him to collapse.
He sat there, petrified, his eyes vacant. His mind suddenly went hollow.
"If he doesn’t exist in the real world, why don’t you beco Gatotkaca yourself?" His mother’s voice echoed from the kitchen. She was cooking his favorite al, fried tempeh. The son remained still, not turning to answer.
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