Life is a sacrifice. This is all I can think about sitting here bruised black and blue under the dilapidated, gigantic bridge about to fall and shatter to pieces, sneering at me, waiting to slice me to shreds of lifeless flesh.

***

The week before had been living torture as I watched, through a nerve-racking news channel, the prices of oil and rice skyrocket. The tacky television drew lines of abnormality, reminding me of the earth-shattering, elastic economy. "Did you see that, sayang!" chuckled my wife, who was my childhood sweetheart, in her forties and still at her best, except for the extra loss which flaunted every sharp, rounded bone in her once-upon-a-time voluptuous body. Wrinkle free, her face glowed gloriously as she watched my forehead ripple riveting regret.

"Yes. I know what you are about to say. I should give up all my burung dara!" I frowned even harder, pouring rice grain on the faithful birds' tiny mahogany platter sitting in the discoloured and rusty metal cage that looked like a miniature dungeon from the old age.

The dull birds glanced at me with curiosity, and then cooed their way to fill their empty selves up in momentary eternity. One of these mysterious flying creatures caught my eye as I glared at its raven hair, making me swear -- it was similar to mine.

"Don't you get it, sayang?" her voice, competing with the blasting television, screeching like tyrannical tires on the brow of a hill, "You can get some money if you sell these unwanted ones!"

I waved my hands in the air, and retired for the night.

Laying as silent as a hollow tree on my bed made of old cigarette cartons, I listened to the boisterous second-hand pans and cacophonous distorted pots perform their best symphony, with of course, my wife as the conductor.

"Lastri! Please! Stop!" I hollered.

Then came a deafening silence. There was no reply, except for the cooing of the animals. The next thing I knew, she lay next to me, not saying a word. I wiped hot tears flowing from her cheeks and kissed her as she looked away with flaming eyes, hugging the stained thin sheet close to her ailing heart.

A few seconds later, there was a patter of rain, and then the clapping of the thunder came. A pleasant dream it was not.

The next morning was scorching hot, with the undefeated crackle of sable coal and the uncompromising sizzling and simmering honey-gold tahu from the bustling streets. This should be a better day, I thought. I peered through the holes of the cream and cranberry curtain but found no one in the kitschy kitchen.

She was gone.

The heat reached its peak, penetrating my skin, crowning me in this infernal world of misery. I hated everything, anything, anyone. The cracked mirror reflected a broken man, with broken dreams, with broken wings.

Looking at the caged birds struggling to flap their withered wings, I wondered of their freedom which was yet to come.

Cupping the most delicate, raven-haired one in the palm of my hand, I could not help but shed tear after tear, until it came to a point where wailing tears turned into a hail of bullets rushing to my veins.

I opened my welled up eyes, spread my failed fingers wide and let the feathered wings fly to live my dream, my hope, my ambition. Deep in thoughts, I pondered ways to get Lastri back into my life.

Ironically, I found myself in the house of Achong, a man who Lastri detested for his conniving ways and unfair dealings, not to mention his being a fugitive amongst the locals in his kampong. Rumor has it he pretended to be the landowner of several farms for many years, charging rent that was not his.

His house was a magnificent mansion with vast rooms and picturesque antique furniture sprawled everywhere. In every corner stood a hefty man who would not look straight at me as his chin formed a right angle with his neck, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, like faithful genies out from their lamps.

I looked up and admired the wondrous paintings, until I heard the tapping of footsteps.

A man in a black shirt and black trousers led me to another room, where visibility was not a privilege. The place was a smoking chimney.

"My friend, what can I do for you?" he smiled, showing uneven ocher-tinted teeth, and shoved his beefy cigarette onto his crystal ashtray, although, I knew what he really meant was, "what can you do for me?" I studied the scars on his face which were grotesque, hideous as his steel gray heart that whiffed a fetid smell of cheat and lies across his face. "You are my only hope, Pak Achong. I need to earn some fast cash..." I stuttered until I came to a halt, and then continued, "Probably should go. If Lastri finds out I was here..."

"Ah...Lastri, your wonderful wife. How she is?" He came closer, put his sturdy left hand on my crouched shoulder and whispered, "Tell, what you need. I have backup. Why you here? I can help."

He was not one who was good at speaking fluently, but he did have the backup that I needed which was, however, coupled with bad breath that I certainly did not need. Nevertheless, I put on a straight face, and welcomed all the reeking imperfections with open arms.

The next few days of toil and talking to human tarantulas was not how I imagined myself to be. I was not myself -- a fake gangster. I pretended to be a mean and lean, money-collecting machine. Helpless old women and young business amateurs were afraid of us. Yes. We were a menace to society, a plague of the worst disease. I was a part of that plague, that disease, and hated every bit of it. But every time I pictured myself scramming, Lastri's anxious image would come to place, telling me, "earn money, honey".

Until one final day...

"How you did today, Amin? Was it easy?" Pak Achong, in his velvety maroon robe, sang as he danced horribly to the tune of dangdut. I looked at him, estranged, and replied, "That was the last, Pak. I think I'm finished here."

The human incinerator stopped dancing. Next thing I knew, the music stopped. The humongous doors were locked. All my so-called comrades surrounded me.

"No body is out. No one leave!" cackled this scar-faced man, crooking his pinky finger to his heavily-bearded, one-eyed right man. "Your wife is here too, you know. Like you, she ask favor. Of course, I give, and take."

"That's impossible! She will never, in her right mind..." my words trailed off when a rose-cheeked lady, with bunga mawar hung shamelessly on her hair, fully dressed in the most expensive kebaya tip-toed swiftly to the hall with arms locked on each side by hefty men.

"Here she is!" screamed of them as he pushed her onto the floor, leaving her kneeling and scarred.

"Lastri! How could you?! All this for a better life without me? Me? Amin? Who you have known for the longest time? For that monster!" I cried pointing straight at Pak Achong. She, holding her breath, dared not look at me with her smeared make-up and fresh tears.

Pak Achong, taking his dragon-carved stick and standing up, ordered his men, "She stay. He go."

I was kicked, beaten, hit hard. A flying fist went right to my nose, knocking me out of my consciousness, spurting blood out of my soul. Everything was a blur and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pak Achong, the devil in disguise, pulling my Lastri by the hair, forcing her to move to his direction.

And then came another blow.

***

Life is a sacrifice, is all I can remember, of what got me in this situation in the first place. I sit here beaten and bruised, black and blue, not just on the outside, but also on the inside.

My forehead ripples riveting regret as I remember the wife who took my life. She was my wife, my life. I look up at the bridge and watch it crack to pieces above me, landing on my very flesh, slicing what has already been cut with fine and well-defined moments.

All is dark, all is black, and what wakes me up is the flapping of wings and the cooing of my faithful friend, this loyal raven-feathered creature, reminding me of who I once was, a simply decent man who cared for birds, shedding some hope, and thus I ask, *Will there be a second chance?'

Glossary: Sayang: love Burung dara: pigeon Tahu: bean curd Kampong: village Pak: sir Dangdut: dance Bunga mawar: rose Kebaya:traditional Javanese blouse

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