2. Going Back

Bunga survived. And it shouldn't have come as a surprise that she was still alive in the end. Luck would always be on her side, even if she was up against the world's most dangerous monster. How could she still be alive? Actually, it was quite simple.

The spear was a centimeter away when suddenly the Sima man stopped. He was furious. "Bastard!" he said. Then he smashed the window with his spear. He jumped into a row of chairs and ran away. 

Bunga didn't know how that turned out; whether he'd get free or whether he'd die while running away. 

Another group of Butcher Sima's troops arrived in the carriage, explaining why he'd suddenly stopped this one-sided fight. After that? She was rescued. Just like that.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come to see you."

"It's okay, Mom-."

"IT'S OBVIOUSLY A BIG THING, BUNGA!" Bunga put away her flip phone because her mom's voice was too loud. " Don't you think about it?" She began to cry. "You were struggling to find a job, suddenly ... you know you were a victim of that monster ... Mom couldn't stand it when I saw your condition on the news."

Bunga remained silent.

"How are you doing now? And the ears ...?"

It was raining. Embracing heavily on the silent inpatient room. There was only Bunga himself. Her physical condition was much better. All treatment costs were covered by the Sima Safety Program, a government health insurance program for Sima victims. 

However, the surgery to reconstruct Bunga's completely severed earlobe was not covered by insurance. Her uncle paid for the surgery. And with the advancement of technology, the operation, which Bunga little knew replicated Sima's procedure for regenerating severed limbs, was successfully performed without any defects.

Bunga's head was now only slightly dizzy. Silence makes her plunged into a sea of thoughts that are incoherent, while answering all the storm of questions from her mother who is far away there. She explained in her own words; how she survived, until she was taken to the hospital. 

"Alright then, Mom. If there's any news, Bunga will call again," she said.

"Wait, Bunga-."

Bunga closed the flip phone. Automatically stopped the conversation. After not knowing what to do, the TV broadcast became the center of her entertainment.

It's just that, wherever she moved, all the channels on TV told of the massacre of the previous day. 

Thousands of reports at the scene, the hospital, and the tearful voices of the families. On top of that, how Sima's public security topic was being discussed in the political scene ahead of the 2034 presidential election. 

And she was involved in the stories a few times. 

She, who had already had enough of the hospital's lunch, didn't intend to increase the portion of the news that was still cooking the massacre, so she turned off the TV.

Letting the downpour of rain further drown herself in tangled thoughts that only made her dizzy. 

Her both hands moved to cover up the ears.

The sound of screams of terror. The explosion of a mass slaughter. The murder of a mother, an angel who wanted to protect the life of her child. Her head smashed like a piggy bank. Her head split open like a coconut. 

Then the body that shuddered. The axe that broke the boundaries, by the white-bearded Sima. Back to what is the goal. Replies from those who are the hope of humanity. 

The 0.01% of monsters who live from the attacks of those who kill 99.99%. And the rest, is luck. Everything revolves in the mind, like day and night living in the circulation of life.

If she had wanted to, Bunga would have asked her mother why she was lucky to have survived the massacre. Or, ask her why she was always so lucky in her own life. But she didn't. 

Long before she migrated to Depok to study S1 Communication at the University of Indonesia and went to Jakarta to find a job, Bunga always asked the same question. 

Although not more horrific than the massacre that day, she always survived Sima's threats. It's just that Mom would always say that Bunga was a good girl and she should always be grateful for that. Of course that answer didn't settle the question. 

After all, Bunga didn't consider herself a good person; she had gotten drunk in college.

All of this hassle of mind only led to Bunga's head getting hot. She shook her head, staring at the window. She was bored, so she left the room. Down the hallway, which seemed pseudo. 

Looking for something that should never be sought, dragged to the place of disaster assembly. One or two reporters came up to him. Dick! She refused all pairs of faces to interview her. She went to the outside terrace that was deserted. Sat on a bench.

The rain gave Bunga a breath of the ironic scent of death. Then it changed the view, into an endless expanse of headless corpses until the edge of the eyeballs could move, leaving a space that at that time became a sacrifice for the head as well, aiming to be used as evidence for entities named Sima so that they could harvest something more valuable than the head with its thoughts and feature, resulting in emptiness in the human heart. 

They were the life-rippers, literally killing to take the heart, a symbolism of life, which was forcibly taken away when Bunga was shuddering at the blood, flesh, and bones in the cramped room called the LRT train toilet. Also from the hospital room before she decided to shut out the truth.

Fuck. Although Bunga went to take shelter near the small hospital garden to enjoy the rain drenching this place, but eventually rethink about the massacre on the LRT train. Luck has its own time to be licked. 

The dirty raindrops that color the degradation of civilization are much more enjoyable now. "Let the philosophy of life be kicked away! Shit on it! Piss all over it!" said the opposition; the rain lovers.

Then again, there were far more crucial things to think about than those tadpoles.

She had to attend the job interview after she recovered from this. There was a much more important life form to think about. That's why she could get lucky from all these most absurd things. And yet, the ages will forget the death of humanity, so we will return to the cycle of day and night.

One week had passed since that contemplation under the rain. Plus a period of mental treatment, Bunga was discharged from the hospital. No smile on her steps. No joy and victory in the woman's soul. Her mother and uncle, on the other hand, were waiting in a black car with a dozen claps filled the air.

A bouquet of flowers colored the accompaniment. However, all seemed to be wilted by Bunga's passionless presence. Her mother and uncle did not hide their confusion. So Bunga forced a smile. Maybe it didn't matter either.

An expensive steak feast was arranged. Something that was not so important to Bunga, but not to those who welcomed her. Although at the end the meat of hundreds to millions of thousands of rupiah tempted Bunga in pleasure, so that she could feel a little happiness with the people who were the place where she came from. 

And the job interview was successful. There was no more serial massacre that she had to experience. Nor the continuing trauma of Sima smuggling behind the walls of the house, nor the nose of a breathing human being. 

Only from the news interludes, but that didn't bother Bunga at all. She could answer all the HR questions. About knowledge of the marketing associate position she was trying to apply for, salary, loyalty to the company, and so on. 1 or 2 moments he became nervous at that time, but it was not so bothering.

As a result, at the end of the interview Bunga instantly accepted. Happy smile that radiated is not a lie or contrived. Although she sometimes hates luck that feels like a curse rather than a blessing, there are many times when she feels she still needs that luck. 

HR said it was her competence that got her in here. And even though the events of the previous massacre were not a thing to be questioned, that person praised Bunga's bravery, also saying how resilient the woman was mentally despite the traumatization.

Yes, the HR was not wrong.

But Bunga wasn't wrong about the luck either.