Bima is about to die: if she fires that handgun in her mouth, her brains will splatter on the walls and she will never see the boy who’d one day marry her; she’ll never hear her first child’s cries; she’ll never win that talent hunt show; she’ll never speak courage and hope to a room of depressed teenagers; she’ll never taste the sickening sweetness of her 77th birthday cake; she’ll never be more than this moment, where she is nothing but fleshed turbulence.
Nobody will ever hear her sing, in the silence that will come, after she pulls the trigger.

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