The Witness
I was once called to be a witness in court. It was a murder case. The victim was my neighbour.
She was a Malay housewife. She was unlucky in marriage and her husbanc was a good-for-nothing who always got drunk. He would come home and beat her up. Even the children were not spared.
They were sad, thin little creatures. I pitied them and always gave them food and clothing. They were very poor and could barely afford the necessities of life. It was all because of the husband, who also took drugs and wasted away the wife's earnings.
One night, the quarrel was especially violent. I was watching Live on TV, when the noise next door caught my attention. I could hear things being thrown against the wall. There was the sound of porcelain getting smashed and metal objects clattered loudly. I was very disturbed and went over for a look.
I was not the only one. Outside their flat, a group of people who lived nearby had already gathered. Some were peeking through the window, trying to get a glimpse. Others were standing near the door, trying to understand what they were shouting. The housewife's voice was shrill and screaming, while the husband kept shouting and pushing the furniture. I could hear the poor children crying inside.
Suddenly, there was a howl of agony. It was the husband. I could hear one of the neighbours exclaim, "She is using the knife! Quick, call the police!" I was quite alarmed when I realised what the housewife must be doing. I started yelling, "Mas, stop! Don't do it, he's not worth it!"
But a loud scream interrupted my pleading. Her voice sounded terribly strange, and sort of faded into the distance. Then all of us outside couldn't hear her any more. My instincts told me something horrific had happened. I knocked urgently at the door, but no one answered.
Then someone from a lower floor ran up. He was talking excitedly, saying "She jumped from the kitchen window! She is downstairs..."
I couldn't believe my ears.
It took a few months for the trial to take place. The husband was accused of murder. The case was reported in the newspapers and there was a lot of discussion whether the husband had indeed killed his wife. There wasn't any definite proof because nobody saw what had happened. The children had been locked up in the bedroom.
I was called to be one of the witness. But it wasn't the prosecution who called me. It was the defence. They wanted me to testify for the husband, to prove that he was innocent of murdering his wife. I was very reluctant at first. But the husband came personally to me and begged me to help him on account of the children.
I didn't know what to do. I couldn't tell lies. But his lawyer told me that all I had to do was to reveal the truth. I thought it was okay. I didn't know then, that the truth could be distorted to cover up facts.
It was the lawyer who twisted the facts. He asked me if I saw the husband push his wife out of the window. I had to answer no. Did I hear anything that confirmed, without doubt, the murderous act? I remembered the fading scream; but that didn't mean confirmation. To the best of my knowledge, had the housewife ever contemplated suicide? I remembered a conversation I had with Mas, and she had told me that she would rather kill herself than suffer like this. If not for the children, she would jumpe down and die. I had no choice. I had to answer yes.
I wanted to clarify myself, but the lawyer went on and didn't give me a chance. In the end, the husband was acquitted owing to a lack of evidence. On the surface, it looked as if Mas had injured her husband with a knife and leapt out of the kitchen window in remorse.
As everybody trooped out of the courtroom that evening, I was filled with confused feelings. I rested in my seat, thinking. Was I right to have testified? I didn't like the husband and in my heart, I really believed he had been responsible for Mas' death. Yet my testimony had protected him. Was I right? A chill passed through me.
Cold as ice!
I turned around at the touch of a hand. And there she was, staring down at me with malevolent, bloodshot eyes! I wanted to scream, but not a sound came from my throat. Her hair was straggly and blood was trickling out of her nose and mouth. There was an enormous wound, decaying and filled with maggots, at the centre of her forehead. Her lips moved, as if she was murmuring a curse on me.
The she followed the others, and left the place. I was scared stiff. It took me quite a while before I could move, and rather unsteadily. When I got out, I enquired if anyone else saw the ghost. The police officers and bystanders thought I was mad.
Naturally, I kept quiet after that. I told my family and they suggested that it was my imagination. I must have been feeling guilty, so my conscience created the image to torture me.
I thought it was so at the beginning, but now I know otherwise. Occasionally, I feel the chill again. When I turn round, Mas will always be there to haunt me. Those bloodshot eyes, the trickling streams of blood.
I keep
seeing her at my workplace, and sometimes even beside my bed at night.
It's not likely she'll ever forgive me.