Terror

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.