Terror

By Sori Siregar

When the sound of several gunshots was heard and a cry echoed in the stillness of the night, my friends and I on duty in the guardhouse were playing cards. We were stunned by the gunfire and looked at one another.

"From that direction," Baskoro said, pointing to the south.

He stood up and took the stick leaning against the wall. It was approaching 10 p.m. Seeing that Fikar and I were still seated on the couch and looking at him, Baskoro said: "Come, let's go there right away."

Without waiting for further orders, Fikar and I rose and reached for our sticks. I also took the flashlight lying beside the coffee cup. Hurriedly, we left the guardhouse. On the way to the place where the sound came from, Baskoro used a walkie-talkie to communicate with the other guardhouse.

"We are approaching the site of the gunshots. A white sedan is speeding from that direction. It went to the north. If possible, force the car to stop."

Just as he finished his words, a white sedan sped in our direction. Baskoro jumped to the middle of the road, stretched his arms out and gestured for the car to stop. But the driver did not reduce speed, and Baskoro leaped quickly to the roadside. The car raced through without any hindrance.

For quite some time, the three of us did not know what to do. Later, I heard Fikar say: "You're crazy. Didn't you think that the man in the car could run you down. You'll die for nothing." Baskoro shook his head and rose. After looking at us, he gestured for us to keep walking.

When we arrived at the site, people were crowding in front of the big house. Other guards from the south guardhouse were around Hasan, a security guard who had a head injury. He said nothing, only pointed his forefinger at the house.

We soon became aware that the main victim was not Hasan, but the owner of the house. Without any command necessary, the three of us and another three security guards from the south guardhouse rushed into the building.

Putrana was bleeding profusely as he lay on the floor. His wife and two sons wept and his other son shouted into the phone. The flow of blood and the touching wails; I did not know what to make of the situation.

When I regained consciousness, Fikar was smiling at me. "You fainted just looking at the scene, and had to lie down here for 24 hours," he said dryly.

"Since it is not included in the working contract, you will have to pay the bill of the clinic," he joked.

I had to sign a contract as a security guard at the housing complex after I had not been able to get a job anywhere else. Baskoro and Fikar assisted me in getting the job after introducing me to the head of the security department. Procedures required me to sign a contract, which stated that it could be terminated at any time.

The murder of Putrana was a big blow and really embarrassing for me. I was ashamed, not because we as security guards failed to maintain the security of the complex, but because I had become a burden for other security guards who took me to the clinic. I fainted at the sight of the killing. Was that the expectation of a security guard?

It was for this reason I submitted my resignation. The head of the security department accepted my resignation without saying anything. For me, this was an obvious sign that I was not needed in the department. By quitting the job, at least I could suppress my embarrassment. I was aware that I was nothing for him.

But I felt I couldn't ward off another embarrassment. The shame slowly rose and then reached its peak. The feeling stemmed from frustration and jealousy.

I had been unemployed for two years after graduating from a well-known university. Two years without a job, after having begged here and there, always bringing along my diploma awarded to me for my hard work, was tremendous torture.

I felt I was dragged into this mess by the worsening situation. An unexpected, uncontrollable feeling surfaced. I needed the generosity of others. Once I was aware how humiliating this was, I felt sorry for myself.

This feeling developed into hatred and jealousy for many people. The rich, those who were working, those who caused unemployment for others, became my enemies because I felt as though I had been humiliated. Top of the hatred and jealousy list was the rich.

I did not want the feeling to keep on terrorizing me. I was seriously disturbed and wanted to free myself. I tried hard and did whatever I could. It was such a disappointment when I realized that evil thoughts continued to flourish in my mind. The thoughts pressured me to annihilate my enemies.

Putrana, who hired a number of security guards, became my primary target. He was the most prosperous person living in our area. But the affluence had made him arrogant. He didn't feel it was necessary to pay monthly dues for trash collection as he had prepared a special lot as a garbage dump. He had never paid the security contribution because he had security guards of his own. He enjoyed his wealth for himself and his family.

I didn't know him, not even by sight. But, he was my main enemy who should be killed. Frankly speaking, I didn't know how to do it. Obviously the desire to eliminate him was still smoldering.

When I started working as a security guard, the feeling kept me company all the time. It had become my best friend and continuously urged me. I was waiting for an opportunity, and kept waiting.

Then the tragedy occurred. Putrana was killed in a robbery by several armed robbers. I myself saw the body of my enemy lying on the floor. I didn't believe what I saw. Other people had preceded me in carrying out the act with their own reason and interest.

Whatever their reason, it was not important for me. It was obvious they had preceded me. The chance had been taken away from me. That was what I felt when I looked at the body of Putrana. I was outraged.

Concurrently, the smell of the blood had made me lose my balance. If I had been the one who did the murder, this was the result of my own action. The dead body lying on the floor and the blood was still dripping. And, a number of person, the member of the family who lost their beloved one. What a horrible sight. How faint-hearted I was. I was struck by embarrassment.

The hatred and jealousy continuously pushing me was at war with the feeling of shame which came like waves. I was helpless and gave up. Baskoro, Fikar and other security guards had never known why I was shocked and fainted at the scene.

The embarrassment has never ceased terrorizing me. I have no idea where to run.

The writer was born in Medan, North Sumatra, on Nov. 12, 1938, with the full name Sori Sutan Sirovi Siregar. He is a prolific short story writer, who mainly writes for Horison and Budaja Djaja literary magazines. His formal educational background is high school, but in 1970-1971 Siregar joined the International Writing Program at Iowa University in the U.S. Between 1971 and 1973, he worked in the Indonesian section of the BBC London, and in the next two years at Suara Malaysia Radio Station in Kuala Lumpur.