cerita zombi 2

•  jatohnya (masih) character study nih.

si ezra kayaknya bukan psikopat, tapi mengidap asperger syndrome. hmmm.

kuberpikir action nanti di chapter selanjutnya.

big thanks buat joce, dhita, abong, dan zetra yang udah baca dan komen dan brainstorm di FB. iseng-iseng aja ini biar otak gak karatan.

• jangan lupa komen yach!

Before this shit went down, Ezra had to go to a psychiatrist twice every month, usually on Fridays right after school with his mom driving his dad’s SUV, making small talks about her colleagues and asking a lot of things about his day.

Ezra’s mom is (was?) a tall woman. She speaks in a low volume and her tinted red lips are always curling up as if she smiles all the time. She only eats chicken and she only reads fictional politic novels. Actually, she’s five years older than Ezra’s dad, who was (is?) an avid comic book reader. Ezra doesn’t even like to read anything, so that’s pretty much heartbreaking for his dad. Now that he realizes his dad’s comic book collection is probably nothing but ashes thanks to the demolition, well, the left side of Ezra’s chest clenches uncomfortably.

“What are you thinking?”

Ezra glances to where his psychiatrist, Dr. Fulan, is sitting cross legged on the cold, tiled floor.

It’s like a deja vu, because Dr. Fulan would ask about what he was thinking before he asked about what he was feeling, back then in his cozy office with the dimmed lighting and a dozen of bronze plaques for his dedication, accomplishment, and recognition as a renowned psychiatrist. The only different thing is, now Dr. Fulan is dressed in a frayed sweater, a pair of turmeric colored chino, and black sneakers, of all things. His hair is longer, too, unkempt, and his frameless glasses are crooked.

“Me? My dad’s comic books.” Ezra answers, shrugging.

“Oh? What about them?” Dr. Fulan links his fingers together, clearly intending to reestablish himself as Ezra’s former psychiatrist.

“Huh, nothing,” Ezra decides to play along. “They’re gone.”

“And how do you feel about them gone?”

“Nothing. They’re my dad’s.”

“Is there any knickknack of yours that you left behind, Ezra?”

“Yeah, my laptop.”

“Would your laptop help you feeling better in any way if you brought it along?”

“Of course not. It’s not a weapon.”

Dr. Fulan nods, and he sighs.

“Do you think help will come?”

“I don’t know, doctor.”

“Do you miss your parents? Your friends?”

“More or less.”

“Aren’t you worried about them?”

“Eh. No.”

Dr. Fulan leaves without another word and Ezra continues sitting down on the cold, tiled floor, tuning out the bristling all around him at the government’s shelter, and falls asleep.

*

Before this shit went down, Ezra didn’t have to do house chores other than keeping everything neat and clean after usage. Now he has to wash his own clothes, learns how to build something other than Lego, and, weirdly, smiles like everything is alright 24/7.

That’s a lot of work for him.

There are boys and girls around his age, too, and they seem to have a silent agreement to always stick together. They’re loud, they’re giggly, and they get angry when they understand that Ezra is not interested to play with their little merry go round circle, by ostracizing him.

Not that Ezra cares.

The Virus is still incurable. Ezra is good with faces but not names, and he’s been in the government’s shelter for five weeks. So far, he counts less than six people are missing. Or, who is he kidding, ha ha, they’re dead because they showed the symptoms and were quarantined and never came back. Ezra is scared, obviously. He doesn’t want to die, no matter what. The shelter is too crowded, and virus, according to his Science class, travels fast. Even breathing in the same air with the virus bearer can heighten the risk of you getting infected. What the heck, right? Nowhere is safe. For now, Ezra makes sure he lives in the separate headquarters from those unfortunate, dead people (zombies?), keeps his own spoon and fork, and ties a handkerchief around his nose and mouth day and night.

*

Before this shit went down, Ezra spent his leisure time watching TV. He watched everything; ancient football matches, music videos, cheap reality shows, the news, detective/horror series, cartoon adaptation from his dad’s favorite comic book, movies, animal documentaries, culinary reviews, talk shows, even the home shopping channel.

At the government’s shelter, he does nothing. When his chores are finished, he sits down on the cold, tiled floor right across his room, and just exists like that. He doesn’t mind. His hobby is not reading or talking or playing half-assed basketball. He liked his 60” high definition flat screen his dad bought only, what, half a year ago. Now it turned to ashes and he doesn’t know where his dad is.

Half a year ago, huh? He wasn’t seventeen yet. He was eight inches shorter, too. But the numbers don’t matter now.

“Hi.”

Ezra looks up and sees a pixie haired girl smiling down at him. Basically, her t-shirt swallows her upper body and her denim shorts are baggy. She wears a pair of pink sandal. Her toes are, somehow, tended beautifully.

Ezra nods, and uncrosses his arms.

“Can I sit here?” she points at the empty space next to Ezra, and her fingernail is pretty, too.

“Yeah.” Before this shit went down, Ezra didn’t think too much about girls in general. They’re alright. They’re easy on the eyes, they smelled fruity, and they seemed to favor his aloofness.

(Which was kinda ironic because his parents didn’t, thus Dr. Fulan.)

The pixie haired girl then plops down next to him, keeping a distance, and her smile is not blinding or what, but it’s a nice smile.

“Hi, I’m Pipit.”

“Ezra.”

Ezra doesn’t want to shake hands. The Virus, remember? Pipit raises an eyebrow as she pulls back her right hand with a giggle.

“What’s your story, Ezra?” she tilts her head and rests it on her folded knees.

“What do you mean?” Ezra has to readjust his handkerchief around his mouth so he can talk like a normal person.

"Who are you, why are you here, with whom, for how long... The usual.” Pipit smiles again, encouragingly.

"Me? I got here with the federal truck. They destroyed my home. I think I’ve been here for almost six weeks now.” Ezra says with a frown because if he were Pipit, he’s sure he wouldn’t want to know anything about himself.

“That sucks,” she shakes her head, and after a minute or two she bursts out laughing. “Don’t you wanna know about me?”

“Eh,” Ezra mumbles. “Go ahead, I guess.”

“Okay then, say it.”

“Say what?”

“The questions, of course!”

“What questions?”

“About me!”

Ezra can’t decide whether he’s annoyed or not interested, so he gets up and walks away.

T B C. . .