Agus Firmansyah, College Roommate

I might have been the very first man who knew Jay’s attachment to Fanny. Four straight years at the university, we lived in a four-bedroom apartment with the other three students. He turned a tiny space between a living room and a kitchen into an open bedroom blocked by a cabinet. That way, we agreed upon his paying half of the housing fee.

Not only creative, he was also a man of discipline. He tidied up the kitchen every night, no matter who plunged dirty dishes into the washer. He always made eggs for breakfast and dinner (sunny side up). When I teased him about never seeing him out with women, he replied that he wanted to find a woman whose characteristics are just like the eggs he cooks: “Simple and soft, yet cheerful.”

I laughed at the absurdity of those characteristics and also at the probability of finding his dream girl when all the time he had was fully allocated to attend classes, make sketches, and tinker with the computers.

One rainy day in our sophomore year, he brought home a slender girl, soaked to her bone as if she had just been drowned in an ocean. Holy moly! She was really like the sunny side up egg. She had a bright face, soft smile, large round eyes, and crystal clear skin. Oh boy, I had never seen Jay so delirious and in love before. Fanny, or Sunny, as we two discreetly called her, had totally changed Jay’s characteristics, from a gawky lad to a vigorous young man. He became, in a way, a different person.

Unfortunately, good things always come to an end. Jay stopped cooking eggs and grew to despise them. In fact, he always skipped breakfast. When he came home to our shared space, he’d go straight into his bedroom and miss dinner on purpose. To make matters worse, he neglected his duty in the kitchen. The sink turned into a mountain of dirty glasses and plates. This prompted us to draft a schedule to do dishes — something that we had never had to do.

No one had said anything; but we could tell from his general aura of negativity and demeanor that Fanny had broken off the relationship. Jay didn’t even bother attending his own graduation ceremony. Later that evening, following the event, I went into his bedroom and found torn sketches of Fanny. After college, we parted ways, and I didn’t hear from him or anything about him until now — when I receive this appalling news.

So, I am here to ask you why you did what you did. How could you commit such an act of unspeakable brutality? He might have done you wrong, but he does not deserve this. You had a choice, you could have left him. Now look at what you’ve done.

Rebecca Jacob, Executive Editor of Fun Life Magazine

Without disregarding your position as Mr. Jayanto’s wife, being his colleague for more than twelve years gave me some kind of privilege to be declared as his closest friend in the workplace. We were recruited at the same time; I was a reporter and he was an illustrator. Right on our first day of working, he had already shown his strong determination by being the first to show up in the morning and the last person who left the office. He said he wished to have a fun life for himself by working there.

Many would find him perfect: sharp brain, attractive appearance, dynamic personality, and always in buoyant spirits. When he was a bachelor, many female coworkers fell for him and inevitably were in silent competition with each other to win his heart. Even though he clearly enjoyed their attention, no one, in particular, was chosen to be the special one. Then one day, he shocked the whole office by telling us he was going to marry you, a woman whose name he had never mentioned. I thought you must have been the one he had always been waiting for until we hired Fanny Aurora one year after your marriage.

I was convinced she did not know your husband had been working here. Both of them looked surprised and behaved clumsily in their first encounter during the orientation meeting. No one at the office knew of their previous relationship. To another extent, had we known it, we did not suspect anything would go wrong since they mostly talked about work at the office. Also, both of them were already married.

You need to excuse my lame reason; as long as they did not create any professional problems, and performed their jobs as expected, I could not just prevent them from seeing each other. I just realized they went too far, too often, and too close when it was too late to set them apart. I should have told you earlier about this, but I was afraid since it was not my domain to interfere with domestic affairs. Therefore, even if it would not change a thing, I would like to beg for your forgiveness for such carelessness.

Now, we have lost a bright coworker. Losing him has significantly impacted our magazine’s content and appearance, as if the magazine knew its greatest illustrator was gone. I know, I should not have talked about our loss when I am fully aware you are suffering a greater loss than us. Please, stay strong. I hope the judge will hear your side of the story.

Julia Kosasih, Mother

I had Jay when I was 15, still in my school uniform. His father left me right after he knew I was pregnant. I had to get through the pregnancy myself, the jerk that-I-do-not-want-to-talk-about accused me of having another affair. Blah! Such nonsense. I spent days and nights with him when we were dating.

Every time I met Jay’s dad at school, his condemning eyes freaked me out to death. I could not concentrate on the classes at all, so it went without saying, I dropped out of school and chose to stay at home. Mom was furious at first, asking me to abort the pregnancy, but I’d have rather killed myself. Finally, she let me do what I wanted.

Now that I am a parent myself, I am kind of feeling sorry for Mom. But I was just a foolish teenager back then, always repeating in my head that Mom also took part in my teen pregnancy. Had she had more time for me, I would not have brought the shame to her.

Good God, always be careful what you wish for. Mom lost her job in the store, got fired for slapping a loyal customer who assaulted her. She got frustrated and we hardly made ends meet. Jay had to wear the same clothes for more than three years. But he was so skinny that those clothes still fitted him well for years of usage.

When we were hungry and had nothing to eat, I showed Jay those junk advertisement papers. A large tray of full-topping pizzas, refreshing ice cream, thick crispy chickens, savory noodles, big round meatballs. I was so proud of him when he could read and write at age five. His first complete written word was “piza,” with only one z. He also drew a big tray of pizza with sausages as a topping. I promised to buy him pizza as a reward. But Mom was so strict with the budget; I could only cook sunny-side-up eggs for him.

I was hired to work at a small restaurant when Jay went to school. In this cursed place, I met a man who promised to take care of Jay and I. Mom promptly disapproved of our relationship. She insulted him, saying he looked like a shantytown gangster. How ironic since we lived in a slum ourselves. I did not listen to anything she said, living with her was hell. I took Jay to live with him.

The story of my life, my man sometimes beat me when he got drunk. I tolerated him because…at least, I had a man. And then one day I discovered Jay had also been beaten. Jay said he fought with his school mates; but I knew he was lying. However, instead of saving him, I chose to save my relationship. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if my man were to leave us.

You could probably guess where his ability in drawing came from. My little Jay spent his time drawing when I was not at home. His room was like a spider web, full of drawings attached on the walls. Most of them were pictures of food he wasn’t eating. I told him to focus on his school lessons, but he wouldn’t listen. He said school bores him. It showed in his exams, which he did poorly. So, I yelled at him. I tore up his drawings and gave him an ultimatum not to draw anymore, unless he wanted to be trapped in the slum forever.

It’s true what people say that what goes around comes around. The next morning, I made him a special breakfast, an omelet with some shredded chicken in it to express my regret for what I had said the night before. But the egg was left untouched. He had gone away. He left me just as I had left Mom. That was the last time I saw him; until I saw his name printed in the paper, described as a “Missing Person”.

I know what you must have gone through. My man beats me, curses at me, abuses me, hurts me; but as long as he comes home and sleeps in my bed, and still considers me as his significant other, everything is fine. This identity means the world for me: there is nothing left that I can be proud of. I don’t understand those highly educated women who talk about freedom, or liberation, or equality. That’s a merely an illusion. In the end, they know better that they need men to fix the plumbing and warm their bed.

So, when he hits you, the wound will heal fast if you mend it right. If he has another woman, you are still the one who gets to carry his name: the world will say you are his wife. What you need to do is play your cards right. Spend the money he gives you. Be proud of your status as a married woman. He has his happiness, you have your happiness, and everyone wins. Now everyone loses. He lost, and now you will lose.

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Imas Istiani is a Fulbright scholar and an English literature lecturer at Semarang State University.

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We are looking for contemporary fiction between 1,500 and 2,000 words by established and new authors.
Stories must be original and previously unpublished in English. The email for submitting stories is: shortstory@thejakartapost.com

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