Short Story: Scream

Short Story: Scream.

Words Putri Prihatini Illustrations Budhi Button

The sound of the scream was faint, but unmistakable.

I was in the middle of my evening prayer when I heard it, and I was so close to the end. I sat with my legs bent under my body, my hands laid on top of my thighs. My head bowed forward in total surrender to God. It was not late, but since my neighborhood usually grew quiet after seven, the atmosphere felt perfect. My eyes were half-closed, my mouth mumbled soft recitations … and the screaming jolted me back into awareness.

Was it really a scream?

Before my mind registered the sound, there was a second scream, which seemed to have come from the same person. It was softer, almost a whimper. I was not really sure, but I thought it came from a woman. I could hear her say something. The words were unclear, but they were thick with fear. I strained my ears, trying to listen to what another person seemed to be telling her, but there was no other voice. Whatever the person did to the woman, he (or she) did not bother with words.

I quickly snapped out of it. My mind returned to its original state, thinking only of my relationship with God. Besides, I was almost done with my evening prayer, it would be rather inconvenient for me to repeat my prayer from the beginning.

To be honest, I did not want to spend extra minutes sitting on my legs. I fell off my bike on my way home from campus earlier in the day. My knee was still throbbing, and my mind was nagging me to get on quickly and complete the evening prayer.

I tried to focus, but I could not help listening. It was quiet outside. There was no more screaming or whimpering. Through the window I saw the sky had turned dark. City lights had obscured the stars, but I was sure the night was clear. Calm and peaceful, as usual, and I was a bit relieved. The silence assured me there was no screaming now, or before.

I realized my recitations had abruptly stopped. I resumed my prayer once more, but the sound of the scream still echoed inside my mind. What if the scream was real? What if the woman was hurt? Why is it so silent? Did someone go out to help her?

In my childhood and teenage years, I used to read news about how the entire neighborhood would run after a thief, men dashing out of their front doors; or how the sound of a woman screaming would send a child molester to the police station, all bruised and beaten-up. Vigilantes were ugly sometimes, but at the same time, I could not help but be grateful I would never be alone if something bad were to happen to me. After I heard the screaming, I expected a kind of clamoring — people rushing out into the street, talking over each other, while going after the bad guy and tending to the victim. But there was nothing.

I prostrated myself and touched my forehead against the soft fabric of my prayer mat. It was not just the ritual; I had hoped to lighten the heaviness which had crept into my belly. In this position of absolute surrender, I often felt calm and collected; but not this time. I felt stuck, as if all that burden was consuming me, like cement blocks attached to the feet of a murder victim and eventually dragging them down underwater.

When I rose to my feet for the last part of the evening prayer, I was almost out of breath. There was still the last part of the prayer, so I folded my hands in front of my chest and bowed my head. But the feeling of heaviness did not go away. It lingered in my mind, then it overwhelmed my eyelids, hands, back and abdomen. I shut my eyes, clenched my jaws and balled my fingers into fists.

Then I shouted.

"I can't take it anymore!"

I tossed off my prayer cloak, leapt off the prayer mat and went to the door. I ran from the second floor where my bedroom was and unlocked the front door on the first floor. Never mind the fact I nearly tripped and fell down the stairs. The house was surrounded by high walls, but through the gates I could get a good view of the streets outside. Even before I left the porch, I could not see anyone. There was no woman. No signs of struggle. No wounded body lain across the rough cobbled surface of the street.

I unlocked and pulled the gate open, and went into the street. I looked at my bedroom window, clearly visible from the street. The source of the screaming should have been close by. I looked around: still no signs of struggles. At the same time, I thought I saw drops of blood in the street, but when I bent down to take a closer look, I was not so sure. Those dark spots could be anything, honestly.

All the lights were on, but the neighborhood was eerily quiet. I wanted to ring someone's bell. I would like to know whether they had heard the screaming, too. I wanted to ask whether anyone had come out and helped the woman. I glanced at the house next to mine. I was about to ring the bell when my own hesitation took charge.

Why should I bother?

Walking back toward the house, I realized there was nothing I could do to help the woman. Maybe she went away. Maybe I had imagined it all. Besides, I still had my prayer to do. This time, I would start from the beginning.

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Putri Prihatini is a writer living in Balikpapan. She has written two books: Wanita Prajurit dalam Sejarah (Bitread) and Kucing yang Membawa Berita Duka (Bitread).

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