12 Badoets
Pitu

The front porch lights blinked a few times. The dimmer headset seemed to confirm that the LED bulb was time to go out. But the host did not have a penny to buy a new lamp. Only a sheet of 50 thousand prints 1991 stored in the cover of his cellphone that Wildan has today. Whether the money is still selling, or not.

Wildan's stomach is rumbling, even this afternoon's dangdutan. A few pieces of boiled cassava can only block his hunger until noon. Although there is a sense of prestige in the heart, in the end Wildan devoured the already cold and oily hammer of eggs given the former.

One plate martabak telor toilet is not restless. Leave the scented chunks of chives and chili sauce. What meal tomorrow? The question swirled in Wildan's mind.

There are two solutions that are thought of. First, sell money 50 thousand edition 1991, if still sold. The second is to sell Jawara, the favorite chicken. Wildan sighed, leaning his body on the living room sofa and looking up at the worn-out ceiling.

"Do I sell this house?" muttered Wildan in despair.

The final solution is unthinkable but difficult to do. The home for Wildan is not just a physical building for shelter. The house is a container of memory and life history Wildan. Every inch, between those shabby wall cracks was a memory.

Selling a house means selling his memories, that's what feels heavy. Wildan may be just a piece of trash to society, but he's actually soft-hearted and sensitive and sentimental. Selling the house won't be easy for Wildan anyway. Moreover, the former house where g*ntung themselves. Obviously, the people around will not be willing to buy it.

Wildan opened his silicone phone cover. He again observed the 50 thousand old money printed in 1991. Wildan flipped through the faded blue paper under the dim light of the living room.

Suddenly Wildan gasped, remembering something. He immediately ran to his room picking up a wooden box under the mattress. He opened the wooden box and once again observed the strange letter that was inside.

"This series of numbers . . ." Wildan was shocked. He just realized the serial number of the old money is one of a series of numbers written in a letter from the Father.

"Keep it where it all started." Wildan went back to reading the sentence at the beginning of the letter paragraph.

Wildan calculated the rows of numbers in the letter. There are 16 numbers written.

"If this row of numbers is a money serial number. Means you save 800 thousand rupiah of old money like this. Stored where it all started. Whatdoes thatmean? What is this money exactly?" the curiosity in Wildan's heart grew more and more unstoppable.

All this time Wildan knew the Father was a man who spent his time daydreaming. Never once did Wildan suspect, the Father had secrets and riddles after his death.

Wildan again kept the wooden box under the mattress. Also refund 50 thousand old behind the silicone cover phone. Then rushed to the late Father's room. Wildan felt the need to check once again the room where his Father breathed his last.

When the door opened, Wildan was surprised to see his closet and drawers in disarray. As he remembered yesterday he closed the closet door leaf again after picking up the wooden box and blanket. Then he realized there was one figure that had come out of his father's room this morning. The figure was Mr. Anwar, who claimed not strong cold air so that he slept in the room.

"Is it possible that Mr. Anwar opened your closet? What's for?" wildan murmured full of questions in his mind.

Wildan dropped his body on the floor, leaning on a couch of teak wood causing a distinctive crackling sound. While rainwater is heard hitting the asbestos roof produces a boisterous sound. November is the rainy season. Sky water spills at any time with high intensity.

Some parts of Wildan's house are leaking. So did the Father's room. Right in the middle of the room, there was a small hole of nail marks on the asbestos roof so that water flowed from there. Wildan hurriedly picked up the bucket in the kitchen and placed it right where the water was dripping.

As Wildan crouched down, from behind suddenly a rope from a used cable snared his neck. His throat was suffocated, Wildan was pulled back into a lull. His feet tried to rebel kicking up to hit the bucket in the middle of the room. The sound of the falling bucket echoed in the room.

"Ughghh ughhhh!" Wildan shouted. His brain was still trying to digest what was going on.

Wildan tried to insert the index end of his right hand in the winding of the cable. When he succeeded, he clutched the cord around his neck and tried to decipher it. But the force pulling the cable felt stronger.

Klackk!

"Armghhh!" Wildan screamed in pain. Fractured index. But he won't give up. Even with his broken finger Wildan continued to grip the cable wrapped around his neck.

Wildan's heel imprinted the floor firmly, making him jump backwards. His head hit something hard. A falling thud rang out behind Wildan, followed by the rope that snared his neck becoming loose.

"Uhuukkk Uuhuukk. . Hoek!" Wildan coughed and vomited. His head was suffering from a lack of oxygen.

Wildan took off the cable wrapped around his neck. Still with a slightly blurry vision as the veins almost burst in his eyes, Wildan observed something that had just fallen behind him. A human figure dressed in all black wearing a shabby white clown mask.

The body of the figure that had just attacked Wildan appeared to be wet with rainwater. The clown mask worn appears to be the writing of the number six that has somewhat faded. Wildan immediately remembered the letter from his father. At the end of the letter is written badoet 2. And now in front of Wildan there's someone wearing a clown mask written in the number 6.

"What do you want?" wildan snapped while rubbing his reddened neck.

The masked figure of the number 6 clown stood up. His feet look wrinkled. Wildan can surmise the person behind the clown mask 6 is old enough. From the way the clown mask figure stood that looked leaning to the left, making Wildan suspect someone in his mind.

The masked figure of a clown reached into a knife folding from his pants pocket. He looked adept and ungainly grasping the sharp object. Wildan stood watchful, holding his broken, swollen right index finger.

With a sudden movement the masked figure of the clown tried to hit Wildan. However, Wildan managed to retreat and dodge. Wildan's right leg lifted and managed to hit the chin of a clown masked figure. That figure fell. The mask of his clown loosened and fell rolling down the bed.

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