The Witch of Jakarta

Chapter 8: Syncope

    The sky was as red as the fire. Amo’s eyes snapped open, though she knew she was no longer awake. Like second nature, her body slumped over her ash tainted bed sheets, the numb feeling in her head growing as the clock by her bedside ticked backwards. She held her head high to look over to the window, which now seemed to tower over her in height. It was 2001, and the witches are burning.

    ‘MOM! DAD!’

    The cobalt haired girl screamed; her voice akin to a wounded dog. Her eyes darted the room, finding nothing but ash and flames. Her vision trailed downwards, it had always surprised her how little and frail she was when this had happened. Still, she ran towards the door, praying she’ll be able to break down the firm oak in one try. The screams were getting louder, as well as the chant. That god-awful chant.

    ‘Burn the witch!’

    Her eyes darted towards the bedroom window, where sticks and torches were held high beyond the fire’s lick. Then there were the motorcycle gears, the cleavers and hooks dripping with blood of who they thought were heathens. Her legs were burnt and torn from the falling debris, but they wasted no time sprinting towards the door.

    ‘MOM!’

    Her ribs slammed on the thick wood, fractured. She coughs out the thick coating of ash out of her mouth, now mixed with a familiar red hue. She must try again, even if her legs give out. As it always has been, an ear-splitting scream pierced through her bedroom walls. They had taken her outside.

    ‘NO!’

    She ran back a few steps, planting her unfed body on the floor before dashing once more towards the wooden door. Frail skull hit the stocky wood, emitting a sickening thud before her body slumped on the ground. One more time.

    Thud…

        Thud…

            Thud…

    As it always has been, her third try was the one that broke the door. The brass hinge snapped open, letting the bulky wood fly down to the floor. Amo falls with it, unable to keep her balance with the persisting throb invading her ribs. Her head bounced on the stocky door, earning a painful yelp from the little girl.

    Dragging her body up, she rests her hand on the broken door frame. It was only then that she had realized the blood dripping from the side of head. The runny red liquid had dripped down the side of her neck, skipping and trickling down her earlobe before tainting her egg-white pyjamas.

    ‘…M-mom?’

     The scream had gone faint, replaced by cheers of victory from the monsters that had stolen her away.

    Still, she dragged her legs across the hallway, hoping for any sign of life. Of course, like most of their kind, she hadn’t known why the good people of her neighbourhood had decided to set their home ablaze. She merely knew the smell of smoke and the colour of burning embers, though she had foolishly mistaken it for the sun rising above her decorated window.

    Still, her eyes wandered through the burning hallway, her blurred and smoky vision guiding her aimlessly as she searched for her parents. She must find them, they cannot disappear. It had taken a while, but she had finally made her way to her father, who was sitting by the couch in front of the telly as he always does. She had saw the red liquid dripping from the back of his head when she had made her way to the kitchen, though she had managed to sing herself a high hope until she had reached him by the couch.

     ‘Dad! Dad! They took mommy!’

    The man in front of her merely laid still, soot black ash and half-dead embers floating down his face and hair, resting on his unmoving eyelids. She quickly shook his body, refusing to acknowledge the tiny hole burrowing her father’s forehead. Her tiny hands made their way to his arms, rocking him back and forth. It wasn’t until the blood from his head splattered onto her face that she cried.

    ‘Dad…Please wake up.’

    ‘There’s someone else inside!’

    Her head quickly swung to the front door, the overwhelming red color creeping through the creaks enough to send her blind for a couple of seconds. Her instincts acted faster than her mind, and she quickly ducked under the couch, making sure to conceal every bit of herself behind her father’s legs.

    A loud bang signaled that the front door had been broken down. Quickly, her hands clasped what little voice she had. She wouldn’t dare close her eyes, though she had wished she had never been able to hear.

    ‘Get the child!’

    ‘Where’s the child!’

    ‘Kill her too!’

    The little girl covered her head, fearing the dread in her eyes will attract them. But she won’t close her eyes, praying she will at least get to keep her father’s corpse to bury. Her mind wandered to a safer place, simpler times where she hadn’t known such evil. Her thoughts burrowed to events from yesterday morning, where the sky had glowed with its amazing morning blue, sparing just enough of the previous night’s rain in its air.

       Her eyes glanced at the clock on the wall, its glass shattered and the frame melted under the house’s heat. Just a few seconds before six. She sighed, not knowing how much longer she can breathe under the smoke. Yearning for yesterday, she pictured her mother looking down from the TV to her as she head to school. She stirred harder in her thoughts, finding that the pin in her head and ribs had grown numb with it.

    ‘Hello honey, what do you want from breakfast?’

    5…

    ‘Nothing mom, I think I’ll skip for today.’

    4…

    Her father looked up from his newspaper, speaking in a teasing tone, ‘Well that’s not good! You need to eat so you can concentrate in school!’

    ‘I’ll just get something by Alfamart, dad.’

    3…

    ‘Well okay then honey, I’ll see you after school,’ Her dad replied, looking back into his paper.

    ‘Don’t forget to take some money for the train, sweetie,’ Her mom added.

    2…

    ‘I have to go now.’

    ‘Goodbye sweetie,’ Her dad replied.

    ‘Remember to be good honey, goodbye,’ Her mom added.

    1…

    It had been exactly six o’clock in the morning that she left for school yesterday, and it had been six o’clock at noon where the raiders and witch hunters had left their house. They were replaced by a young man, who had entered the burning house with nothing but the clothes on his back. Tall and trim, yet seemingly craven under the suffocating smoke. His hands rumaged through the roots of his tangled soot-black hair, seemingly prickly to the touch.

    The girl kept herself hidden as best she could, shrinking further into the back of the couch. However, the man’s eyes glowed in an unatural white hue. The light had been so bright it had pierced through the ash and smoke. Then, as if it were second-nature, the man ducked to see under the sofa. The man’s eyes seized to glow, a deep set of coral-black iris now staring back at Amo. The man reached his hand out, glancing at the her. No, not at her, but her head. And it was only then that Amo had realized the deep c***k on her head was no longer gashing blood. The man placed his hand on her hair, combing the blood off as he said only one thing:

    ‘You poor coward.’