Wooden Doll Serenade


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*romantic mode on*

Bermalam-malam sudah aku disini, berhari-hari aku berbaring sendirian disini. Mendengar nyanyian burung hantu yang beruhu-uhu di tepi telingaku, diiringi paduan suara ribuan dedaunan dan hembusan angin.

Selama bertahun-tahun, aku sendirian, di rumah tua ini. Setiap kali kulihat rombongan orang-orang memasuki kamar tempat aku berbaring, yang mereka katakan, selalu sama.

"Ya ampun, lagi-lagi boneka kayu itu."

"Awet banget ya, sampai sekarang masih ada."

"Jelek sekali, kenapa sih Nyonya Lucy Tua tak pernah mencampakkannya ke perapian?"

Hey, aku sendiri heran. Nyonya Lucy Tua, begitulah semua orang memanggil wanita parobaya berambut kelabu dan bergaun ungu yang mengurus rumah tua ini, tak pernah membuangku. Ia adalah kolektor barang-barang antik yang tinggal sendirian. Seringkali, pria-pria berbadan kekar dan kuat memasukki kamar ini, atau yang sering Nyonya Lucy Tua perkenalkan pada tamu-tamunya sebagai "Ruang Koleksi"-nya, datang membawa barang-barang antik indah yang entah darimana datangnya. Sesekali mereka menggotong meja besar berukir indah, yang menurut Nyonya Lucy datang dari kerajaan Denmark tahun 1500-an. Seringkali juga ada ladam kuda berwarna cokelat tua yang dibawa kesini.

Dan aku, aku hanya boneka kayu tua yang terbaring ayu diatas meja kayu ek. Di sebelah kiri ku, ada boneka seorang gadis gembala yang sangat cantik, gaun dan topinya serasi, dan tangan kanannya yang manis menggenggam sebuah tongkat gembala. Ia sangat cantik, tapi seringkali bola matanya yang berkilauan diterangi cahaya bulan Oktober melirikku dengan sinis.

"Gadis pemain harpa? Apa bagusnya," begitu katanya dengan nada meremehkan. Memang, aku kalah jauh dengannya. Rambutku sudah kotor oleh debu, sedangkan harpaku pun sudah berkarat. Aku hanya bisa membalas tatapannya yang sinis dengan sayu. Andai kedua mata itu menatapku dengan hangat dan penuh bersahabat, ia pasti terlihat jauh lebih cantik.

Sepanjang tahun tamu-tamu Nyonya Lucy Tua tak henti-hentinya mengagumi si Gadis Penggembala Domba, dan bukan aku..

---

"Nah, ini kamar barumu, Dave. Semoga kamu suka ya, sayang."

Kudengar langkah-langkah sepatu Nyonya Lucy Tua ke kamarku. Setelah itu ada suara langkah lain.. kali ini, samar-samar, bukannya beriringan dan ramai seperti biasa.

"Haah, iya, Bibi," terdengar sebuah suara dalam menyahuti.

Detik berikutnya, Nyonya Lucy Tua melangkah masuk. Aku mengintip dibalik uraian rambutku. Dibelakangnya ada sosok yang belum pernah kukenal.

Ah, masa, sih?

Sepertinya aku pernah mengenal dia.

Tapi dimana? Para tamu? Tak mungkin. Belum pernah kulihat tamu semuda dia. Anak muda seusia dia, mana mungkin berminat pada bangunan-bangunan tua dan barang-barang antik. Atau kerabat Nyonya Lucy Tua, yang pernah berlibur kesini musim dingin lalu? Ah, tidak mungkin juga, mereka semua hanya orang dewasa dan empat anak kecil.

Jadi, dia, siapa?

---

"Ya, ya, Bibi tau ini bukan rumah mewah seperti di San Didi--anu--"

"San Diego," potong si pemuda dengan nada tak sabar.

"San Diego, aku tau itu, sayang," kata Nyonya Lucy Tua mendecak lidah. "Tapi Ibumu sendiri bilang, kamu perlu sedikit merasakan the country life. Mengerti kan Dave?" Bukan hanya seorang Mama loh yang bisa bawel.

"Apa kata Bibi."

---

Kemudian si wanita tua meninggalkan kamar itu. Pemuda itu, yang dipanggil Dave, merebahkan diri di pembaringan, dengan mata terbuka lebar, menatap langit-langit miring kamar itu. Lalu ia menghembuskan napas.

Hembusan napas itu, suara itu, tatapan itu... Semuanya terasa familier. Aku sekarang seratus persen yakin, aku mengenalnya. Ah, rasa penasaran ini benar-benar mengaduk-ngaduk pikiranku. Sialan.

Diam-diam aku memperhatikannya. Rambutnya yang coklat tua acak-acakan sampai ke kening, matanya yang hijau keabuan sama sekali tak berkedip. Jangan berkedip, pintaku keras-keras, walau aku tau ia takkan bisa mendengarku, sebab aku sangat menyukai kedua bola mata indah itu. Pemuda itu kelihatan berantakan dengan kaus tipis yang dilapisi kemeja coklat muda yang lengannya digulung sampai sikut. Bukan hanya berantakan, tapi juga agak, well... sedih.

"Kamu memperhatikan dia, eh?" sebuah suara congkak menyapaku.

"Mmm," kataku ogah-ogahan. Si Gadis Penggembala Domba terkekeh. "Ya, dia ganteng banget. Heran, wanita tua yang nggak laku kayak Lucy bisa punya keponakan sesempurna itu."

Begitu mudahnya si Gadis Penggembala Domba mengata-ngatai Nyonya Lucy Tua yang sudah begitu baik merawatnya. Aku merengut. "Tapi, dia keliatan sedih, ya?"

"Si pemuda? Iya, bodoh. Kamu nggak denger tadi, Lucy berkata kepadanya, untuk nggak sedih-sedih. Berarti, ya dia lagi sedih, tau."

Aku tersenyum tipis. "Rasa sedih itu seperti apa sih, Shana?" Gadis Penggembala Domba itu bernama Shana.

"Mana aku tau?" Shana melotot. "Kurasa sudah saatnya ada boneka yang dilengkapi hati. Atau pikiran. Atau perasaan."

"Sst," bisikku. "Dave melangkah kearah kita."

Memang. Pemuda itu bangun dari pembaringan dan berjalan kearah meja ek. Matanya pertama tertuju pada si Shana. Dengan lembut dibelainya topi gembala Shana. Tapi dengan cepat matanya langsung tertuju kearahku.

"Ini..."

Dave termangu sendiri. Aku bisa melihat air mukanya berubah. Tak disangka-sangka tangan kanannya mengangkatku dari meja, dan ia menatapku dalam-dalam. Lama sekali ia terdiam begitu saja, tanpa melepaskanku dari genggamannya.

Genggaman itu, sentuhan itu...

Semuanya jelas terpatri diingatanku. Ya, aku tau sekarang!

---

Dua tahun yang lalu.

Dave waktu itu menggenggamku dengan cara yang sama, berlari melintasi pekarangan depan. "Harriet!!" serunya kencang. "Harriet!!"

Kami berhenti didepan sebuah rumah besar, kerumunan orang mengelilingi halaman depan. Dave terperangah.

"Harriet..." desisnya khawatir. Ia makin panik sewaktu sebuah tali kuning panjang bertuliskan police line menghalanginya masuk ke rumah gadis bernama Harriet itu.

"Cari apa Anda? Apakah Anda anggota keluarga yang bersangkutan?" tanya seorang pria berseragam biru.

"I-iya," jawab Dave ragu-ragu. "Ada gadis yang tinggal disini... dia, dia kekasih saya."

"Gadis?" polisi itu menatapnya suram. "Gadis berumur sekitar 19 tahun?"

Melihat sinar mata si polisi mulai redup, Dave menjawab dengan lesu, "I..iya."

Aku ingat benar. Tangan Dave yang menggenggamku erat, melemah.

"Maafkan saya, Sire. Rumah ini baru saja mengalami kebakaran hebat dua jam yang lalu. Ibu rumah tangga yang sedang di dapur, sudah diangkut ke rumah sakit, luka ringan. Tapi gadis muda yang sedang di kamarnya, tak tertolong lagi."

---

Sekarang tangan Dave yang menggenggamku basah oleh air mata. Ia meletakkanku diatas dasbor mobilnya. Cukup ajaib bagaimana ia berhasil menyetir mobilnya dengan benar, padahal wajahnya begitu kosong. Pucat. Tatapan matanya pedih dan menyakitkan hati.

"Aku nggak percaya," gumam Dave pelan. Seorang gadis pirang disebelahnya hanya tersenyum prihatin. "This is life as you know it, Dave. Some things go right some things go wrong..."

Dave tersenyum pahit. "Proud to call you my sister, Jade," katanya, mengangkat sebelah tangannya dan menepuk tangan adiknya itu dengan sayang. "Tapi ini... sama sekali diluar dugaan. Nggak mungkin Harriet meninggal secepat ini.."

Ia terdiam beberapa saat. Kemudian, suara Jade yang tenang dan menyejukkan mengisi kekosongan itu.

"Boneka itu cantik," kata Jade, tangannya menunjuk kearahku, yang dengan diam memperhatikan mereka berdua.

"Sewaktu aku masih belajar di Spanyol, aku beli boneka itu buat Harriet," terang Dave datar. "Tau sendiri, Harriet gemar barang-barang antik begitu. Apalagi, boneka gadis pemain harpa, sama seperti dia."

"Kalau boleh, aku mau menyimpannya!" seru Jade bersemangat. "Kau tak pandai mengurus barang antik."

"Jangan main-main," tukas Dave. "Tak akan. Aku akan mengabadikan boneka itu,"--Jade langsung mencibir saat itu--"tau nggak? Aku membeli itu, udah lama banget. Aku menyimpan boneka itu di kamarku setiap harinya. Kalau boneka itu manusia, pasti boneka itu udah terpesona setengah mati," sambungnya pede, tak sadar bahwa perkataannya sungguh tepat.

"Kau tau? Hari ini hari ulang tahun Harriet. Seharusnya boneka itu jadi hadiahku untuknya," Dave setengah berbisik, menahan air mata yang mulai menggenangi pelupuk matanya.

"Ngomong soal Harriet lagi, siap-siap," ancam si pirang, mengepalkan tinju. "So, dimana kamu bakal 'mengabadikan' boneka itu?"

Dave tersenyum misterius, melemparkan pandangan lagi kepadaku.

"Rumah Bibi Lucy."

"Bibi gila kita yang salah masuk keluarga?" hina Jade. Dalam. "Penyuka--atau, maniak--barang-barang antik itu?"

Dave mengangguk. Mobil berhenti di sebuah bangunan tua, suram, dan terlihat setengah tertidur, dan kesepian. Mirip sebuah kastil mini.

Dave naik ke ruang atas. Di ruangan sebelah, terdengar suara bercakap-cakap seorang wanita dengan serombongan tamu.

"Lukisan ini dibuat pada jaman Raja Louis VII. Buatannya antik, dan..."

Dave menyelinap masuk sebuah kamar, dan mendekati sebuah meja yang berwarna cokelat gelap yang berdebu. Ia meletakkanku tepat diatas situ dan mencium tanganku yang mungil.

"Maaf," bisiknya pelan. "Takkan mungkin aku membawamu ikut denganku saat aku kembali ke Spanyol nanti. Membawamu ikut denganku beserta seluruh kenangan tentang Harriet..." ia menggelengkan kepala keras-keras. "Suatu waktu aku pasti kembali."

Dan tanpa menoleh kearahku sedikit pun ia bergegas meninggalkan kamar dengan kepala tertunduk kebawah.

---

"Harriet."

Suara Dave membangunkan lamunanku. Tangannya masih tetap menggenggamku erat-erat. Kemudian ia meletakanku lagi diatas meja dan berbaring. Matanya langsung terpejam.

Dengan sangat perlahan kugerakan jari jemariku, memetik senar harpa kecilku. Shana, si Gadis Penggembala Domba, menoleh kearahku. "Lama nggak denger kamu main," katanya, sedikit tersenyum. "Itu bagus."

Aku menggeleng. "Itu yang terbaik," kataku. Kuharap, Dave bisa terlelap dan mendengar laguku ini. Good night, my prince, this is my best serenade for you...

Art Museum


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Note to Angga : I know you're bored, but all my fans never get bored of this story *fans?* akakak. Enjoy!

“And if you look closely over there is a painting of Paul Livingston IX in 1802. The sculpture on your left is—“


Blah.. and blah.. and blah. The words which sounded more like barfing sound from Elaine—the museum guide—‘s mouth just bypassed me like (un)pleasant breeze. Phbbtt—just half an hour in this art museum tortured me like hell! I still can’t believe I gave up skateboarding to attend this stupid museum tour.

“Knock knock, Trevor?” another barfing sound approached me. I jumped in annoyance and frowned. “What now, huh?”

“Put your head on, Mister!” she scolded me in front of the others. “You should be proud being able to visit your family’s museum to learn about the fascinating history of the great vendetta between your family and Bachelors 200 years ago, young man! And I—“

“—will be very glad if you go home,” I continued that freakish woman’s sentence in a woman’s tune, as if I was her. Then I continued in my normal voice, “Okay then Elaine, I’ll run home. Chop chop!”

“No you’re not going anywhere Mister. Your father ordered me not to let you go until you can write me one piece of summary about what you learnt today. And I’m not going to give up my 200 bucks this time!”

“Oh what does that old man know,” I muttered, walking away. “Okay I’ll do my work—see ya!”

“Trevor—wait.”

“What now?”

“Be sure to meet me at the museum lobby before 6 p.m later,” said Elaine in a deep tune.

“Riiight… the museum closes at 6?”

“Actually they close it at 6:06.”

“Weird much?” I commented. “Why?”

“Pathethically people still believe that spirits of the dead Bachelors often wander around this place at 6:06—the time which is believed when the Livingstons defeated them. Just… follow orders, Trevor.”

“Funny.”

---

Wandering alone in that museum, I kept on grumbling about that wacky thingy guiding me around this suckish museum. Man!



I stared at the paintings framed in golden (which I guarentee was fake gold) borders in amazement. Yeah.. maybe the paintings here weren’t that bad after all. Another voice in my head told me—hey, I should’ve been proud being a Trevor Livingston—a Livingston whose family history was noted a 3000-bucks-a-day-profit museum.

Most of the painting kinda bored me. Buildings, houses, churches, and castles. But one of the paintings kinda showed an exact picture of the vendetta between our family and the Bachelors long time ago—a story which almost got me collapsed when Ma recited it to me.

As I gazed at the paintings, my eyes fell on the words carved below the painting.

1798, the bitter and endless vendetta between two families began—a vendetta which ended with despair and death on one side of the family—a vendetta which caused the Livingstons seem to be the richest family of Arizona today and the Bachelors to be gone—all vanished forever. The death of the Bachelors was kept unknown-- swept under the rug until today. Signed, 2002.

What the heck, I thought. Poor Bachelors, hahah. If they were still alive today, I bet they’d be around to seek revenge.

I continued walking in the empty corridor filled with paintings. Until I reached a kind of hallway, leading me to a new room in that museum.



Now why did the temperature get cooler? Ah, don’t be too paranoid Trevor—it was just the AC. I zipped my sweater and kept walking inside this narrow room.

Woosh, woosh, woosh.

Heyy, it sounded kinda like the paintbrushes in stupid Mr. Linton’s art class. Was anyone painting here? Oh, please. Put a sock in it..

Soon I saw a young girl, about my age, painting on a canvas. I couldn’t really see her face with the canvas covering part of it, but she sure was—ehmm—pre-tty, he-eh. Her crimson eyes seemed to glow in that dim-lighted room as she kept on painting.

I couldn’t really see the painting, tho. Those two crimson eyes centered at the canvas. She didn’t even seem to realize someone was watching her.

“H-hey,” I greeted. “Excuse me?”

Aha—now those two eyes were moving. However her velvetty right arm kept on moving gracefully (ahh, hyperbolic) on the canvas—she didn’t stop painting.

“Hi,” she said softly. “I don’t know you’d be interested to visit such a museum.”

“Lol,” I grinned. “Well actually I don’t. It’s just—my dad forced me to be here—he kinda—err.. grounded me.”

She didn’t seem to have any interest on what I just said so I continued, “And you—whatcha doing here?”

“Me too—following orders,” she replied without stop waving her brush here and there.

“What orders?”

“You’ll see,” she gave a thin smile.

“So—what are you painting?” I asked her again.

“You’ll see,” she said again. Patient, Trevor… try again.

“So!” I said, trying to make a cheerful tune. “The paintings and sculptures in this museum are—awesome, eh? I heard all of them were made based on what has happened in the past.”

“Correction,” stated the girl. “All the paintings here describe what has happened and what will happen.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.. the Bachelors were said to be much of genius fortune-tellers.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” I decided to agree on whatever she said, though for me, I wasn’t even sure if the Bachelors were born with sufficient brain capacity.

“Anyways—I’m Trevor Livingston. And you are--?”

Cold breeze seemed to swept over my two feet—although I was wearing sneakers and thick socks back then—as the window behind the girl shockingly wiped open. It began to get darker outside—and oh, my, God, I am so scolded by Elaine. I guess it was already 6 and I hadn’t went out!

“Violet…” she said, turning back her canvas so I could see it, reaaaal slow. Dramatic much, eh?

“…Violet Bachelor.”

I gasped in terror as all of my body felt like freezing. No matter how I tried to walk away, I simply couldn’t. My two eyes caught that painting—a picture of a girl who looked just like Violet holding a sword, pointing the sword to a boy who looked even more alike like me.

All of a sudden Violet’s words she just said began echoing in my head, repeatedly, again and again. From a soft, gentle tune as it was, it turned deeper—fiercer, meaner, and crueler, like a hissing snake.

"...spirits of the dead Bachelors often wander around this place at 6:06."

“All the paintings here describe what has happened and what will happen.”


Slowly, her voice, her face, everything, began to fade away. Somebody must have turned the speaker in my ears to a lower voice—until nothing was left to hear, to see. end

Poems


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This is actually, well, a task given to me forcibly (jokes!). I wrote, like, two papers of poems today and I guess there are some that are quite okay. The rest.. don't mention them.

---

For.. a lot of people. Who are far away from me. Especially my beloved teacher (and mom) haha

* If stars could rain down from the sky,
If the sleepy wind could whisper good-night,
If I could walk up the radiant rainbow
To see you again and say hello.

---

This one, is for all my mothers. My real mother, and my other mothers (3 of them) hahaha

* What the storm will never ruin,
What the waves will never crash,
What the skies will never separate,
Is a mother's loving hand encircling her daughter's
Holding on together through the weary night
Casting away all her fears.

---

For all my friends. <3>

* Just let go
A crystal butterfly in your hand
She wants to break out
And spread her wings through the amber sky

Just let go
That teardrop on your cheek
Things won't be okay
If you keep on weeping

But don't let go
A true friend
Because a true friend is the perfect remedy
To wipe out all those tears.

---

Those are my 3 favourites, and the rest are, well, a bit pathetic.
What do you think? Hahaha

^^


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Yuhuuu ~

This blog will be a blog for my writing works.. Mostly stories, I'm not into poems, geez..

Enjoy.. =)