COMPLETELY FUCKED
(UNDER EDITING)
“I can die… like, right now, if you both consent.”
I look at my parents one after the other. My mom. Then my dad. They both looked speechless. They both seem like they’re about to toss a slipper at me.
So I quickly rectify the problem.
“I mean… pretend to die.” I chuckle nervously, my shoulders tensing until their murderous gazes evaporate.
Okay. Let’s go on.
“That could be the only solution we have right now. I need this year’s university tuition fee or else the school will say bye-bye to my ass.”
“Language.”
“Anyway, Dad has asked all his friend. Mom has met hers. And I have no one to call. No one WANTS TO give or lend us money. But most people will squeeze out something to support a corpse. Ha-ha. Can you imagine? Which is why I’ve come up with this concept.”
Mom and Dad stares at me sternly. They don’t seem to be getting the idea. Don’t worry. They’re both educated. They both understand English. They just don’t understand MY language sometimes.
“All she’s saying is; she has a two-days deadline to pay her school fees or she’ll be dropped from the school, which we all know. So to get the money, she’ll pretend to be dead, we’ll put her in a nice little coffin, where she can go ahead and sleep for the next ten or so hours. While she’s there, we’ll watch the money growing as consolers stop by.”
“Now I just need your consent to go ahead.”
“You don’t need their consent. Come on, you’re just asking for formality. You would go ahead and do it if they said no.”
“This is a very shameful and saddening idea, my daughter.”
“I know it is, but…”
“But… we have no choice at this point.”
“I know, right? All solution is a solution, by the way. There’s no bad solution. So since we’re poor, and we don’t have the money to buy coffin, what do people who cannot afford a coffin use here in our culture?”
Mom looks at dad. Dad looks at mom. Dad and mom looks at me. And Terry glowers at my devastatingly pretty being.
Anyways…
Rewind to history.
I’m Jom, a girl, by the way, a citizen of the big ole rascal country at the western side of the continent shaped like a lopsided ice-cream cone. Some say it looks like a question mark… or whatever.
My school’s pride is overbearing. They recently published my name in the warning list of students that will be dropped out of the school for owing. My parents have tried to borrow money to no avail. So this is my last resort.
All I know for sure is that since I’m still twenty, I’ll be buried like a chicken. That literally means that I’ll be covered in sand between ten to twelve hours of death—that is if I should die now.
Because of my immature age, it won’t be necessary for my parents to get me a coffin. They can bury me with a bamboo platter for all they care. However, some people may take pity and contribute to construct a DIY coffin. Ever heard of that?
So… back to the previous question of what people who cannot afford a coffin use.
“They must use a coffin,” Mom replies. “But in deaths of younger people, a coffin isn’t compulsory. We can lay you on…” Mom sighs. I believe she doesn’t imagine the head or tail of the idea. “We can lay you on a mat with some plantain leaves. People will come in to see you while you’re lying there.”
“Which brings the question of how do we make them believe you’re really dead.”
“I have some natural makeup skills to make her looks pale,” mom responds.
“And I—”
“Yes, sis, you will hold your breath for 10 or so hours, we know, considering that the last time I fell ill, it was because you held your breath while talking non stop about your favorite kpop group for fourteen hours, thereby chasing away my peace.”
Right. I forgot that one detail, didn’t I?
I am OBSESSED with a Korean boy bond of seven members. Literally. They changed my favorite color from black to purple, so…
That’s to say how much effect they have on me.
“I know you’ll find peace in these few hours that I’ll be inactive, Terry, so try not to gloat about it.”
“If it extends to forever, I will buy you your favorite boy band merch and place it on your coffin… with the money raised from your burial. That will be my first and last gift to you.”
“Terry! Watch your words. Evil spirits are roaming, or else they’ll catch it.”
Evil spirits. Yeah… that’s the wrongest thing to mention in the presence of someone who’s about to feign her death.
ACTION!
First of all, a local mat spread on the parlor floor. Then mom does her magic on me to make me look pale. Then I lie flat, catching Terry slumping into action in a couch before closing my eyes and holding my breath.
I’m still not sure of how long I will hold my breath for, but let’s try. I mean, no one is going to be looking at a corpse long enough to decipher it’s breathing, right? RIGHT?
Mom’s wails pierces through my senses. Boy, I nearly scrunched my nose at the shrilling effect. But I gotta keep my cool. Yeah. First rule of corpses: one ought not to move.
Mom’s wailing continues. And here I am wondering just how people know when one dies in my place. I mean, they gather like flies the moment a person dies, like how they’re doing now.
I can hear their footsteps as they hurry into the house to console mom. I can also hear dad conversing in low tones with the men outside.
Then, for the good part, I’m hearing the cash coming in, though I abhor the way they exclaim when I feel their eyes on me.
Some even shrug while snapping their fingers—a culture to shrug off abomination—I can feel it.
“It is unfortunate. Such a fine girl,” they say.
“She’s even ripe for marriage.”
“What killed her? I saw her last night!” one particular woman cries out, louder than mom even.
I can hear some people trying to console her as she rolls around on the floor.
Dramatic.
“Death is inevitable, my dear,” their voices keep coming.
“Life and death are like light and dark. They’re opposites but they agree on one thing—they cannot be predicted.”
Well, this quickly turning into a motivational speech show. Who the hell are these women, by the way?
I try to peep with one eye, but then I find out I can’t. It’s like some sort of glue has kept my eyelids stuck.
Ha ha.
That’s a joke, right?
Terry is playing a joke, I’m certain. He put the glue on my eyelid. Definitely.
I try to whimper low key, but that meets a wall as well.
Now that… that is no Terry.
HELP!
“You should not have done this, my dear. There are certain spirits that automatically attend funerals. Fake funerals or not, they grasp who they can,” the same voice that spoke seconds ago says. I mean the one that said those two motivational lines.
And now I know I had breached into the land of the unlivnig since that ‘Death is inevitable’ speech.
I’m completely fucked, am I not?
Mo ni fẹ́ re
