Accident
Raka did not immediately realize that he was still alive.
The first thing he heard was rain pounding on the car roof. The second was the repeated beeping of an alarm somewhere near his head. The third was his mother's short, labored breathing, like someone trying to stay conscious inside a room slowly filling with water.
He opened his eyes.
The windshield was cracked in a spiderweb pattern. The airbag had deployed in front of his chest. The smell of burning rubber mingled with the scent of wet earth and something fishy.
"Mom?"
There was no answer.
Raka tried to turn his head. His neck felt stiff. His mother lay slumped in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window, a thin line of blood running from her temple.
"Mom."
The woman's fingers moved.
"Raka?"
"I'm here."
"The car..."
"We had an accident."
He did not need to explain. The final impact still reverberated through his entire body. A few minutes earlier, they had been heading to the hospital. The rain had been falling lightly, the road was slick, and his mother had been silent ever since Raka mentioned Ardi's name.
Then the car's brakes had failed.
Raka had pressed the pedal twice. There had been no resistance. No slowing down. Only the sound of the tires skidding across the wet asphalt.
And in the middle of the road, a student had been waiting for them.
A thin student with wet hair covering his face.
Raka could still see him whenever he closed his eyes. He had stood beneath a streetlamp, wearing an old university jacket. He had not tried to get out of the way. He had shown no fear. As if the car speeding toward him were nothing more than something that had already been scheduled.
Raka had yanked the steering wheel.
The car had slammed into the road barrier.
Now they were trapped inside the tilted cabin. The engine was still running, but the indicator lights blinked like dying eyes.
"Don't move," Raka said.
"Why?"
"I don't know. That's what they say to do in an accident."
His mother gave a small laugh, but it turned into a cough. Raka reached into his pants pocket for his phone. The screen was cracked but still lit. He was about to call for help when a tapping sound came from the back seat.
Knock.
Raka froze.
The rain kept falling. The alarm kept beeping. Outside, someone shouted that an ambulance was being called.
Knock.
His mother slowly turned her head.
"What was that?"
Raka did not answer.
Knock.
The tapping was coming from inside the car. Not from the window. Not from the door. It sounded like a fingernail tapping on metal from the other side.
His mother grabbed Raka's hand.
"He's here," she whispered.
"Who?"
"Ardi."
The name made the air inside the cabin feel colder.
Raka stared at the back seat. His bag lay there, open. Books and the folder containing the records were scattered across the floor. There was no one inside.
Yet, between the two seats, the edge of black fabric was visible.
Raka recognized it.
The cloth he had used to wrap the trophy.
"I left it in my room," Raka said.
His mother did not answer.
Raka slowly released his seat belt. Pain shot from his knee to his waist. He turned slightly to reach for the bag.
"Don't," his mother said.
"The trophy is in there."
"Don't touch it."
"If that thing really is in the bag, I have to get rid of it."
"Raka, don't touch it!"
His mother's scream made Raka stop. The woman stared at the back seat with a pale face.
"Ardi had an accident too," she said.
Raka stared at her.
"What?"
"It wasn't the accident that killed him. He survived. Just like us."
"When?"
His mother shook her head.
"After he received that trophy."
A shadow moved across the rear window.
Raka turned.
The thin figure was sitting in the back seat. His hair covered his face. His clothes were soaked, but no water dripped onto the seat. Both hands rested on his knees. His head was bowed.
Raka could not move.
The figure raised his face.
His skin was pale. His sunken eyes stared at Raka through the reflection in the glass. His lips moved without a sound.
Not yours.
Raka spun around.
The back seat was empty.
Only the bag, the black cloth, and a small puddle of water seeping across the car floor remained.
"Did he leave?" Raka asked.
His mother looked at him with a deeper fear than before.
"No."
A scraping sound came from inside the bag.
Raka took out his phone and turned on the flashlight. White light illuminated the back seat. The black cloth shifted slightly, as if something were breathing beneath it.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The hair on Raka's arms rose.
"How long did you know Ardi?"
"It doesn't matter."
"He wrote a letter to Dad."
His mother fell silent.
"He won that competition, didn't he?"
"Raka..."
"Did Dad change his scores?"
"Don't ask questions here."
"Why? Because he can hear us?"
The tapping inside the bag stopped.
For a moment, all that could be heard was the rain and the alarm.
Then another sound came from the broken car radio.
Crackle.
Crackle.
The radio light came on by itself. Its small screen displayed 02:17, even though the car engine was nearly dead. A hissing sound came from the speaker, followed by the very quiet voice of a young man.
"My name isn't second place."
His mother covered her mouth.
Raka leaned toward the radio.
The voice came again.
"My name isn't second place."
"Ardi?" Raka asked.
Hissing filled the cabin.
Then the voice changed into a whisper directly behind his ear.
"Find the person who received my trophy."
Raka turned around.
There was no one there.
On the window beside him, condensation appeared from the inside. Slowly, words formed as though traced by an invisible finger.
HE'S STILL ALIVE.
Raka stared at the words.
"Who?"
There was no answer.
In the distance, the sound of sirens drew closer. Red and blue lights reflected off the cracked glass. Rescue workers ran toward the car carrying flashlights.
"Sir, ma'am! Can you hear us?"
Raka nodded.
A responder opened the driver's door with a cutting tool. His mother was taken out first because of the injury to her head. Raka tried to climb out on his own, but his legs immediately gave out.
Before the responder pulled him free, he saw something beneath the back seat.
An old sheet of paper.
The paper was wet, but the writing on it was still legible. Raka reached for it.
Don't trust the winner.
Below the sentence was a signature he recognized from the old photograph.
Ardi Pratama.
"Sir, don't take anything from inside the car," the responder said.
Raka clenched the paper in his hand.
"It's mine."
"Take it later. Get out now."
Raka was pulled out through the damaged door. The moment his body touched the road, pain shot from his knee to his shoulder. He lay on the wet asphalt, staring up at the gray sky.
Across the road, beneath a streetlamp, the student was still standing.
Ardi.
This time, his face was clearly visible.
He did not look angry. Nor did he seem pleased by the accident. His face held only a sadness that had festered into hatred long ago.
Raka tried to get up.
"Ardi!"
The figure turned his head.
A car passed between them. When it was gone, Ardi was no longer there.
Medical responders laid Raka on a stretcher. He was still clutching the old paper. One of them tried to take it, but Raka refused.
"Take me to the ambulance," he said.
"You hit your head. Don't push yourself."
"I'm fine."
"Every accident victim says that."
Raka turned toward his mother. She had been placed in another ambulance. Before the doors closed, she looked at Raka and shook her head emphatically.
Don't.
Raka did not know whether she meant don't look for Ardi, don't trust his father, or don't bring that trophy home.
Only then did he realize that his black bag was beside the stretcher.
A responder had placed it near Raka's feet.
"Is this yours?"
Raka stared at the bag.
Its zipper was closed.
The black cloth protruded through the gap.
"No," Raka answered.
The responder did not hear him. He had already run off to help another victim.
Raka felt something move inside the bag.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
His phone vibrated.
A message came in from an unknown number.
THE FIRST DISASTER HAS BEGUN.
Raka stared at the screen with trembling hands.
A second message appeared.
FIVE MORE.
He had not yet managed to call anyone when the third message arrived.
DON'T TRUST YOUR FATHER.
From inside the bag, Ardi's voice spoke for the first time without an intermediary.
"If you want to live, find out who stole the victory."
Raka turned toward the bag.
The black cloth slowly fell onto the asphalt.
The old trophy emerged from inside, wet with water that had not come from the rain. Ardi Pratama's name was clearly visible on its black nameplate. Beneath the name, a new engraving appeared, one letter at a time.
ONE HAS ALREADY REPEATED.
Raka stared at the words until his vision blurred.
Behind the sirens, amid the responders' shouts and the rain that kept falling, he heard one last whisper.
"Now it's your turn."