Over the past few months, I became obsessed with horror, mystery, suspense, and other similar stories. It all began because I became a fan of detective tales, which, when aligned with horror stories, shared a certain common characteristic, even though they were actually different. Both were related to mystery. I couldn't remember exactly when horror stories infiltrated my thoughts. Horror stories weren't just about unseen supernatural entities or ghosts or whatever you named them, but they also explored the dark side of human nature, delving into the minds of individuals from unique perspectives. For example, stories about cold-blooded killers, psychopaths, and those afflicted with mental illnesses and abnormalities captivated me. This interest led me to read a short horror story by Edgar Allan Poe published in 1844 in The Philadelphia Dollar Newspaper, titled "The Premature Burial."

I won't retell Poe's story; it is better if you read it yourself. The point was, there was nothing particularly special about the short story, but it succeeded in making me paranoid. The excessive fear I experienced lingered in my mind, casting shadows wherever my thoughts went. This paranoia affected my mental health, weakening my nerves until one day I fell sick. When my illness struck, the pain in my head was excruciating, blinding me to everything except intense light and agony.

The doctor's diagnosis revealed a swelling of blood vessels in my brain. I won't delve into the details, but it was horrifying, and my worst fear told me that I wouldn’t have much time left. Fortunately, I had a wife who loved me very much, she never stopped praying for my recovery despite both of us knowing what was happening. When I saw her praying, I felt nothing but gratitude for having someone who cared so deeply. However, she was the one who prayed, never did I. I never thought about my recovery because my thoughts were consumed by my own paranoia. Haunted by thoughts of what would happen when I died, or when it was confirmed that I was dead, they buried me. Then, after my body was placed inside the wooden coffin in the grave, I suddenly came back to life because I wasn't actually dead, just as Poe wrote in his book? I could imagine the tremendous horror if that were to happen. The Premature Burial is a phrase that poisoned my mind, and as the days went by, my condition became more and more powerless due to the worsening disease. Then a crazy idea struck me, an idea born out of my own fear of the grave. After contemplating this idea for a few days, I finally revealed it to my wife.

I told my wife, that if I died, I wanted her to put a cellphone inside my coffin. In case I came back to life (perhaps, and it seemed Poe's story haunted me), I could immediately call her and let her know that I was still alive. Well, my wife cried and was upset by what I said. She said she was frustrated that I had no spirit to live. Instead of talking about recovery, I was discussing my own death. That made my wife sad and angry. I hugged her, saying that it was just in case it happened later. I begged her to promise that she would do it when the time came.

One day, about four days after I explained my wish to have a cellphone in my coffin in case I died, I suddenly relapsed. The pain this time was unbearable. It was so torturous in my head that I thought I couldn't hold it in anymore. All I could see was a blinding white light. I didn't remember anything else, except feeling someone tightly gripping my hand, probably my wife, I couldn’t see anything. The pain intensified and eventually made me helpless. Finally, I didn't feel anything anymore. At this point, everything went black. I didn't know what happened—maybe I fainted, or, or maybe I died.

* * * * *

I found myself in a vast grassy field and I saw myself healthy and unharmed. I was alone, but soon I realized I was not. I noticed a human figure in the distance waving at me, calling out to me. It was my wife. I could see her very clearly. Then I ran towards her. As I got closer, I could see her indescribable face. I didn't know. It was like the anxious look on her face. She reached out her hand, about to take mine. When I was just an inch away from grabbing her hand, suddenly my head hit something invisible, and I woke up, turned out it was just a dream.

But my head throbbed as if I had truly just bumped into something. I thought I would wake up in the hospital bed. However, I couldn't see anything. It was pitch dark, without a glimmer of light. Moving my body felt incredibly heavy. Then I tried to sit up, but in the process, I bumped into something again, creating a sound and pain in my head. What is this? In the darkness, I groped for something above my head to find out what caused me to bump into it. My hand touched something flat, and I followed it to see where the flat object ended. My hand continued, and it felt like I found a corner. The flat object extended downward, beside my right and left, ending precisely parallel to my bed. I jolted in shock and felt an overwhelming terror. I could already guess where I was. Then, I kicked downward to confirm, and indeed, my foot kicked something flat again. The horror I felt suddenly made me nauseous, an incredible terror realizing that I was inside my own coffin. And, of course, my coffin was already in the ground. I remembered Poe's story vividly, and now I was living it. So, they had declared me dead. I pounded weakly on the wooden coffin lid above me with the remaining strength I had. I couldn't be sure how long I had been inside. I felt incredibly thirsty and hungry. My strength was so feeble. I tried pounding, but nothing happened. Oh God, what should I do? In moments like this, it feels absurd; I suddenly remembered God.

I tried to think, and suddenly, I remembered one thing—the cellphone I had asked my wife to place with me. Yes, she must have placed it here. So, in the cramped space inside the coffin, I tried to find the cellphone. Where could it be? I groped around but found nothing like a cellphone. In the total darkness and cramped space that was suffocating my psychology, I still couldn't find the cellphone. There was no way my wife had forgotten because this was her promise, and she must have placed the cellphone with me. With a strange and mixed feeling (imagine what you could feel being inside a coffin, buried in the ground after being declared dead, and suddenly rising and coming back to life), I kept trying to find the cellphone. The longer it took, I still hadn't found it. I kept searching. Still, I hadn't found it. I kept searching again. And still, I hadn't found it. I was still searching for the cellphone to quickly call my wife and have her get me out of here.

* * * * *

Three days had passed since my husband was buried, and I still couldn't sleep peacefully. Relatives came to our house to support me through this difficult time. Nights were the hardest, trying to hold back tears as memories of our happy moments flooded my mind. Moments before my husband passed away. The doctor's words echoed in my head. I don't understand the pain he went through. Similarly, when the doctor mentioned he might have a mental disorder. What did it mean that the illness drove my husband insane? I couldn't believe that. Several times, the doctor said that my husband spoke strange, nonsensical things, but I didn't believe it until I heard it directly from him, talking about his wish for death. It wasn't the oddities in his thoughts that bothered me. But, as a woman, it was the feeling of impending abandonment that made me angry and sad at that moment. He was in a sick state at that time, why couldn't he talk about comforting things? Putting a cellphone in his coffin when he dies. Like, for real? He said that without understanding my feelings. All I wanted was his recovery.

But it seemed like his own words became a granted prayer for him. That's why I still couldn't accept his death. It was his hurtful words that prevented me from accepting it, not his death. I mourned too deeply during his funeral. I even forgot about the cellphone he talked about back then. He was gone, and for me, perhaps he is now happy with the God. And, of course, would no longer feel pain.

I planned to sell our house and move back to live with my parents. A week after my husband's funeral, was the day I moved back to my parents' house. Before leaving, I visited his grave again. I prayed for his happiness in heaven. I gazed once more at the name written on the tombstone and imagined the face behind that name. I knew he was happy up there. After taking enough time to look at his name for the last time, I stood up and walked away, leaving the grave. Moving on with my life without my husband.

 [a short story]

Jadi, bagaimana nasib mimpi yang dulu pernah mendominasi isi kepala?

Apakah masih menjadi mimpi?

Tanganku bergerak cepat mengetikkan kalimat-kalimat. Berusaha mencari sesuatu yang belum kuketahui sebelumnya. Adalah keajaiban para jenius menciptakan internet beberapa tahun yang lalu, jadi membaca buku hanya menjadi alternatif dengan presentase yang kecil. Jemariku terasa lelah namun tak mau berhenti. Mataku tetap terpusat pada layar 14 inch dihadapanku. Membaca semua informasi yang kubutuhkan. 

Tiba-tiba aku terdiam pada satu sentakan waktu disaat aku sedang mem-browsing hal-hal itu. Pikirannku menerawang pada mimpi anak laki-laki 18 tahun yang menyatakan pada dunia saat itu bahwa ia ingin menaklukkannya. Ia ingin berjalan mengelilingi dunia dan membuat petualangannya sendiri. Anak laki-laki itu begitu optimis dan tak pernah mempedulikan apa kata dunia tentang impiannya. Ia harus melangkahkan kakinya kemanapun ia bisa dan harus selalu menaruh tanda dimana ia telah bersinggah yang dalam pikirannya ini ditujukan untuk anak-anaknya kelak, bahwa ia adalah seorang petualang.

Suatu saat ketika ia sudah mantap untuk mulai menjelajah dan dan berpetualang pada dunia yang sesungguhnya, ia dipertemukan dengan sesuatu hal yang entah bagaimana kekuatannya hal itu mampu menelannya hidup-hidup. Hal itu mampu mengalihkan pikirannya dan perlahan namun pasti ia mulai melupakan impiannya. Ia tak lagi menjadi seorang berjiwa petualang yang tangguh, bahkan ia belum memulai perjalanannya. Hidupnya terhenti disuatu tempat itu saja selama kurang lebih 52 tahun sisa hidupnya kemudian. Hal itu bernama "Cinta"

Kini anak laki-laki itu sudah bukan lagi seorang anak laki-laki berusia 18 tahun. Rambut yang tumbuh dikepalanya tampak mulai banyak yang hilang dan berubah warna putih. Kulit tangan dan muka mengendur memperlihatkan betapa rentanya ia. Tiba-tiba ia teringat impiannya yang dulu pernah ia miliki. Impian yang tak pernah ia usahakan untuk ia wujudkan ketika ia bertemu hal lain itu. Ia bertanya pada dirinya. Kalau saja ia saat itu tetap pergi berpetualang dan melupakan hal yang ditemuinya kala itu, apakah ia akan tetap bahagia seperti saat ini? Apakah saat ini ia bahagia? Lalu bagaimana dengan mimpinya yang lalu? Ia bahkan tak punya waktu lagi, karena esok dia mungkin akan mati. 

Aku tiba-tiba kaget dengan bunyi laptopku yang mengumumkan bahwa sedang dalam kondisi Lowbat. Aku buru-buru membereskan laptopku, mematikannya dan segera bergegas meninggalkan perpustakaan itu. Alih-alih memikirkan lamunanku tentang anak laki-laki tadi, aku menjadi teringat akan mimpiku sendiri. Aku bertanya pada diriku sendiri apa yang akan aku lakukan ketika aku bertemu hal yang sama dengan anak laki-laki dalam lamunanku tadi. Aku harus mempersiapkan diri, karena sepertinya waktunya tidak mungkin terlalu lama lagi.