Chapter 2
If something is written in the lines of destiny, it will happen — one way or another.
BY God, I swear I could not hide my unease when Bada made that confession.
Why I felt that way, I didn’t even know. My heart clenched and twisted painfully inside my chest, my emotions tossed in turmoil. Even after Bada had gone home, I sat in silence, lost in thought.
One by one, the memories I had long buried began to surface — hauntingly vivid, cruelly alive. Each time they did, sorrow swept through me like a storm, leaving me breathless and broken. Why must happiness come at such a cruel price?
I sighed, swallowing the ache. Since childhood, joy had never truly belonged to me. As the eldest child, I was burdened early — not with riches or dreams, but with responsibility. Father worked as a security guard at a gold shop in the town of K.
Mother was a domestic helper in the home of a plantation manager. She left at dawn and came home long after the stars had filled the sky. That was our routine. That was life. Father, too, often took extra shifts to make ends meet. Between school fees and daily expenses for me and my two younger siblings, every sen mattered. We were not destitute, but comfort was a luxury we could rarely afford. My parents lived by a single creed — prepare for the worst, even when life seems kind.
And as long as they could still work, they would, with every ounce of energy and dignity they had left. So I learned not to complain.
I took over what I could — cooking, cleaning, caring for my siblings. At first, I hated it. Coming home from school only to spend the evening in the kitchen while others played outside felt unfair.
But soon, it became second nature. Responsibility no longer felt like a punishment — it became a rhythm of love and duty. Thinking of my parents’ perseverance, I promised myself that I would study hard.
Even when fatigue gnawed at me, I endured. When school ended, I ensured my siblings went to their Quran class before I returned to chores — cleaning, cooking, revising under the dim yellow light of our home.
Then, one evening, a stranger appeared at our doorstep. He introduced himself as Mr. Khairil — my mother’s employer. He was young, polished, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His complexion was smooth, his skin pale-golden, his features almost Eurasian. From him, I learned that Mother had been in an accident — she had slipped while scrubbing the bathroom floor. The doctor said her condition wasn’t serious, but her leg was badly sprained. She would need three weeks of rest.
That evening, Mr. Khairil personally drove her home. It so happened that school was on break — five long weeks. I could stay home and care for her. With Mother temporarily bedridden, I took over everything. Cooking, cleaning, laundry — the house became my domain. I wasn’t helpless; Mother had taught me well. In truth, I was quite good at it. Father often said my cooking reminded him of Mother’s.
One morning, Mother called me to her bedside. “Bahrin,” she said gently, “help Mr. Khairil for a while, will you? He’s all alone. Usually I cook for him, but now… there’s no one to take care of his meals.”
I hesitated. “Doesn’t he have anyone else?”
“He’s not married. And he’s too busy to cook — sometimes even to make himself a cup of tea.” Busy. That word echoed in my mind. How could a man be too busy to eat?
But Mother explained — his plantation was undergoing replanting. The workload was heavy, and his attention consumed by every detail. He was the kind of man who, once focused, forgot the rest of the world. Mother smiled faintly.
“He’s kind, you’ll see. Just help him until my leg heals.” So I agreed.
That afternoon, after lunch, I made my way to his house — a two-storey terrace at the far end of the village, half-hidden behind a line of trees. The walk under the blazing sun left me drenched in sweat. It took a while before he opened the door. He looked startled to see me — his hair tousled, dressed in a singlet and shorts. He had clearly just woken up.
After I relayed Mother’s message, he invited me in. I asked permission to use the kitchen, where I brought out a bowl of banana in coconut milk I’d prepared earlier, and a glass of plain water. He ate with quiet pleasure, savoring each bite. Mother was right — this was his favourite afternoon treat. He preferred it mildly sweet, paired with nothing more than plain water. While he ate, I returned to the kitchen to tidy up. It was spotless — unnervingly so. Clearly, he hadn’t been cooking. Empty takeaway boxes filled the bin, silent witnesses of lonely meals. Opening the refrigerator, I found a few pieces of chicken and some long beans. Enough for dinner. I decided to fry the long beans with eggs and cook soy-braised chicken — simple but satisfying. As I chopped onions, I felt him behind me. He stood close — too close — watching me work.
“You’re very neat,” he said warmly. “Everything you do is… careful. Clean.”
I smiled politely, though my heart raced. I hated being watched in the kitchen. Even at home, my siblings knew better than to disturb me while I cooked. The kitchen was where I could think — where I felt in control.
“Please, go rest first, sir,” I said softly. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.” He chuckled and, perhaps sensing my discomfort, retreated to the living room. Half an hour later, dinner was served.
The aroma filled the air — soy and garlic, a hint of spice. I prayed he’d enjoy it. As I made to leave, he looked up from his reading, his eyes following me.
“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.
“Seventeen,” I replied, trying not to sound nervous.
“Ah, still in school then?”
“Yes. Sitting for SPM this year.”
“You must be a hardworking student.” I smiled faintly.
“Just doing my best.”
“If you ever need help — English, Mathematics — anything, tell me. I was top of my class once,” he said, smiling proudly.
“Thank you, sir. I’m not very good at English and Maths, to be honest.” He waved dismissively.
“Don’t call me sir. Makes me sound old. Just call me… abang.” The word — abang — lingered strangely between us. I nodded, smiling awkwardly.
When I was about to leave, he walked me to the door. As we shook hands, I felt something slip into my shirt pocket — a fifty-ringgit note.
“For school,” he said simply. I wanted to refuse, but his tone was gentle, fatherly. I thanked him, and walked home with a heart oddly light — unaware of how much heavier it would soon become. “
************
At first, it was all very normal,” Brian said quietly, his gaze distant.
“I’d go there sometimes to cook, to clean. Sometimes he wasn’t even home. He travelled a lot. But everything changed one night…”
I waited for him to continue, careful not to interrupt. “It was about a week after I started helping him. That evening, after teaching me English, he asked if I had any plans. I said no. He looked… excited. Too excited. Then he asked if I could stay the night. Said he had a surprise for me.”
“And you agreed?” I asked softly.
“At first, I hesitated. But he insisted. And you know me — I can’t resist surprises,” Brian said with a hollow laugh.
“So that’s how it happened?”
“Maybe it was fate,” he whispered.
“Or maybe a choice disguised as fate,” I countered. He smiled faintly.
“To me, fate and coincidence — they’re not so different. If something is written, it’ll happen anyway.”
He fell silent. The air between us thickened with things unspoken.
“You were too young,” I said finally. “Too innocent to see what people are capable of. Some wear honesty like a mask — while their hands are busy writing betrayal.”
“Maybe,” Brian murmured.
“If I hadn’t stayed that night, maybe none of it would’ve happened.”
That night, sleep refused to come.
I tossed and turned, restless beneath the thin blanket. The small room held only a single bed, a wooden wardrobe, and a window without curtains. Through the glass, I could see the shadows of trees swaying — silhouettes that looked almost alive. It was a simple room, but clean. At nine o’clock, when I arrived, he had welcomed me with a bright smile. We ate dinner together — I was hungry, so I didn’t decline. He talked a lot, mostly about his life. I learned he was an only child. After finishing his studies in Malaysia, he went to the United Kingdom for four years, earning a degree in Business Management. “I wanted to be an entrepreneur,” he said proudly.
He showed me an old photo album — his life abroad. But what caught my eye was how many photos there were of him with another man. Always together. Always… close.
“Who’s this?” I asked. “Where?”
“This one — the man with you in all these photos.”
“Oh, that’s David,” he said casually. “My best friend from university.”
“Best friend? You look… very close,” I said, studying the photo of them embracing. “It was cold there,” he replied with a short laugh.
I didn’t press further. David was handsome — tall, fair, confident. Standing beside him, Khairil looked even more striking. “If you’re tired, you can sleep now,” Khairil said, gesturing toward the guest room. I nodded, relieved. His nearness made me uneasy.
He was too friendly, too physical — a pat on the shoulder, a hand brushing my arm when he laughed. It was harmless, perhaps, but my instincts whispered otherwise. Inside the room, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
From next door, his lights went out. The house fell silent. Just as I began to drift, there came a soft knock at my door. My heart froze. Who could it be at this hour? A memory flickered — whispers I’d heard from friends.
They said the house was haunted. The previous owner had hung himself right here. A chill raced down my spine. The knocking came again, followed by the creak of hinges. The door slowly opened. Footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Approaching the bed. My breath caught. My body stiffened. Then — a voice, low and almost tender: “Are you still awake?” It was Khairil. But why? Why now?
“Can I… sleep beside you?” he asked, his tone laced with something strange — something between plea and desire. And before I could answer, I felt the weight of a body pressing against mine. The blanket was torn away. My heart stopped.
“Oh God…” I whispered. “What is this?” Was this a dream — a nightmare — or had the monster come not from the grave, but from the heart of a man I thought I could trust?
