Tears and Ketchup

(trigger warning: sadness and possible death)

Sweat dropped in beads behind my ear and from my forehead. It was just a typical, very hot day in Jakarta. I wrinkled my nose as I smelled the sharp scent of thick carbon dioxide filling my lungs.

The body protector I was wearing just added to my discomfort. It stuck tight to my front, and I felt as if I were wearing a rather tight corset. I’d promised myself I’d never take it off, though, because I had promised my father that.

My father sent it to me a while back when he found out I got a job as an online delivery girl. He said I have to always use it to protect me from the “harsh winds." He also reminded me to ‘’use it well.’’ I don’t understand; it’s boiling and there’s absolutely no wind.

This was the 12th order of the day since I had been delivering since after Fajr. After this order, I had sworn to myself that I would go home and rest. Why?

Tomorrow is my birthday, and tonight I will spend the night sipping hot coffee and chatting with my parents via video call. My parents always stayed up until 00:00, when it was my birthday.

My engine revved to a stop as I found a space in the parking lot. Thank God, this building was only 11 stories high. I wasn’t fond of buildings in Jakarta, especially ones that had floors anywhere from 20 to 70.

I acted like that for a reason: I had a rather bad experience when I was 12. I was aiding my father, holding the ladder steady for him as he fixed some loose tiles on our house’s roof.

But, curious as I was, I climbed up, and so, with no one left to hold the ladder steady, it wobbled and toppled down, bringing me down with it. Since then, I have hated heights.

Once again, I thanked God that this was only an 11-story-high building, and even more, I only needed to go to the 8th floor to deliver this order.

With my motorcycle parked, I entered the building and met up with security. I smiled at him and gave him my ID card, and in return, he gave me a guest card. Then he nodded, giving me passage.

I stepped in and chose the middle lift of three, and once I was in, I pressed the “8” button. Like many elevators, this one had a display of numbers, showing what floor we were passing. They switched from one to the other very quickly. I imagined I was in a rocket that was about to launch into space.

As it almost reached floor 6, everything stopped. The whirr of the cable pulling me up stopped. The box itself stopped moving. And I knew that there was some error.

My heart stopped for a millisecond, but it pumped harder than ever after that. The elevator was stuck, somewhere between floors 5 and 6. Oh no.

I yelled in anguish, then yelled for help. While I was pounding on the metal doors, the lights flickered and died. Very vaguely, I heard sirens. It’s weird, I thought.

I turned on my phone’s flashlight. I used that light to step to a corner and then arrange myself into a comfortable sitting position. Well, I thought. I guess all I could do now was wait. My phone signals said bye-bye.

I opened a gallery on my phone and saw many pictures of me and my father. From these short clips of my life, I connected the dots to one particular fact: My father loves me. So much.

Without realizing it, I had created a small puddle with my tears as they flowed freely down, with no thumb to swipe them off.

I then switched to the happy task of scrolling through my and my father’s chats over the years. He likes sending voicemails rather than texting.

Suddenly, a notification pinged, and my phone told me there was only 10% left. Oh no. At the same time, my stomach rumbled to tell me, “I’m hungry.”

I frowned into the darkness, lit up slightly by my phone’s flashlight. The light caught sight of the white plastic bag I was supposed to deliver this afternoon. I glanced at my phone’s clock: 6:02.

I had been staring at my screen for 5 whole hours, and I was now famished. I hesitated, but then slowly untied the plastic bag. My movements were so careful that people would’ve thought I was opening a bomb.

As I uncovered the styrofoam box, it showed an acceptable meal of fried chicken, rice, and two packs of hot sauce and ketchup. Even though there was hot sauce, I decided I would only eat with ketchup tonight. Because my father always did so. I’m eating just like him.

I missed him so much. Tonight, I’m eating with my father. I sniffed as I ate, remembering the good old memories.

When I was almost done eating, my flashlight gave up and died. Oh man, my battery is off too. I can’t cry at voicemails anymore.

I sucked my fingers clean and tidied up my meal remains. Pushing the plastic bag into a corner, I took off my jacket and slid the body protector off. Using my body protector as a pillow and my jacket as a blanket, I cuddled up on the floor, my mind racing.

Tears dropped from my eyes, and along with them, my father’s words followed: “Use it well.’’

My watch beeped 12 times, signaling midnight. My heart blossomed, but this was the only year I didn’t call my parents on my birthday.

I am using it well, Father. I hope you're proud of Siti Fathiyya, your daughter, sleeping on an elevator floor, celebrating my 20th birthday. 

(2/12/2021 Gedung Cyber 1 burned, killing 2 people, SF and MRK, the fire was caused by a short-circuit on the third floor.) 

(sorry if this story isnt written according to the prompt, but its one of my best stories and i couldnt wait to share it with y'all, my fellow readers!!)