Little Miss Perfect.[1]Nineteen now—that age when denial becomes a way of life. If you ask me, she's not nearly as cute as she was as a kid. Her once-shiny hair now dry, pulled into a ponytail of pure indifference. Those big, round eyes? Still round, just… more tired now. Dark circles, faint creases—charmingly exhausted. Her only saving grace is her brown skin, still flawless, like a well-kept canvas untouched by acne or regret.
Just like her (father's) [2]dream back when she was little, the girl began her career as a (wall painter)[3] artist. But as I predicted from her very first brushstroke, this mural ended in yet another glorious disaster.
"Asa! How many times do I have to say NO BLACK!?"
That signature screech from the Head of the Bureau of Exterior and Residential Painting (a.k.a. Head of B.E.R.P.) usually made people shrink like roaches under kitchen lights.
But not our intern. No, for Asa, there's always room for rebellion.
"I didn't use black. Since when does this team even own black paint?"
She shot a glance at her fellow wall-painters, who suddenly found something off to the side was very interesting, unwilling to be collateral damage.
Head of B.E.R.P jabbed a finger at the freshly painted eye of a mural mermaid.
"Ooooh... then what color is that, huh?"
Asa went silent. So did every brush-holding soul in that alley suddenly wished they could turn into bricks.
The Head of B.E.R.P tried to smile—a painful stretch of lips that had never once tasted lip balm. She lowered her voice into something resembling "gentle."
"So tell me... am I the one who's colorblind, or did the ophthalmologist at your entry test just completely phone it in?!"
"It... it's black, okay?" Asa shot a glare at Joshua, who'd just answered the question of The Head of B.E.R.P with the kind of courage you'd expect from a squirrel crossing a highway.
Joshua's answer made that woman in her early thirties turn her dagger eyes toward Asa.
"It's not black! I–it's just a mix of red, blue, and yellow." She grinned, showing off teeth that were suspiciously perfect for someone who forgot toothpaste existed.
The head of B.E.R.P., who could be seen "meditating" every morning on social media (complete with inspirational captions and half-filtered selfies), was now forced to actually take a breath and regulate her blood pressure.
Her voice dropped to an icy calm. "Sunset in thirty minutes. Paint it all white. Now!"
"And you, Asa—you're coming in dawn tomorrow. You're repainting this wall by the book.
No black. No hints of sadness. No melancholic undertones. Understood?"
Asa could only nod.
She stared at her best-ever mermaid[4] mural for what she knew would be the last time—just as her fellow (wall) painters it with a wash of white, returning it to nothingness.
She didn't feel like she'd done anything wrong.
What was so criminal about a drop of black?
And even if it was a mistake—aren't mistakes allowed in art?
Aren't they also allowed in how people choose to interpret it?
In just ten minutes, the mermaid mural Asa had worked on for six hours was completely wiped off the face of the wall. But there was no time for grieving, because right then, the first sunset siren sounded. Asa grabbed me, shoved the scattered brushes around me into my mouth, and strapped me to her waist.[5]
In case you're wondering—no, I'm no longer a hand warmer. I've been "upcycled" into a humble fanny pack: a place for brushes, rags, and other painting odds and ends.
Asa turned to her teammates.
"Sorry, guys… looks like we're heading home just before sunset." An apology in name only—greeted with nods and similarly empty acknowledgements from the rest of the crew.
They walked toward the operational vehicle belonging to the National Bureau for Suicide Outbreak Response – Bureau of Exterior and Residential Painting (or in true bureaucratic elegance: NBSOR-B.E.R.P), a title far too long for a van far too old to still be functioning. Since this task force was upgraded to a full agency five years ago, they hadn't received a single vehicle update.
As the only one with a valid license, Asa was honored (read: coerced) to drive the ancient hunk of metal with "power" steering that had long since forgotten what "power" meant..
The second siren rang—sunset in ten minutes. But Asa didn't bat an eye.
Google Maps claimed it would take 20 minutes to get from Arcamanik[6] to B.E.R.P HQ at Bandung City Hall. Asa? She knew she only needed half of that.
During the ride, I actually wanted to introduce each member of the B.E.R.P team to you. But considering their role in this novel is just as insignificant as their role in the eyes of the central government, figured it's better if I just describe the roads instead. The gist is: if you're trying to picture the team, don't imagine a group of bright-eyed fine arts students from The Bandung Institute of Technology[7]. Think more along the lines of your typical sanitation squad—only this time, swap the orange jumpsuits for crusty brown uniforms, generously accessorized with years of dried paint, regret, and low-budget agency pride.
If you're curious what Cicadas[8] looks like now—it still looks exactly like it did back in 2024. The suicide outbreak had halted all public development not directly tied to the crisis. So for the past ten years, no new flyovers. No new roads. Same congested alleys. Same tired buildings. But one thing's changed: not a single gold shop is open. And thanks to the B.E.R.P team's unmatched dedication (boredom), every wall in the district has been coated in colorful murals.
It's not bustling, but a few citizens had started moving back in. Unlike the Arcamanik district, which still sat eerily empty—untouched by Suicide Prevention Facilities.
That's why the Head of B.E.R.P., whose childhood home happened to be in Arcamanik, insisted that all buildings in the area be painted by the end of the year.
She claimed that only then would the NBSOR director approve building suicide prevention infrastructure there. Apparently, they didn't want construction projects leading to casualties.
Based on the official data, only 14 people throughout the course of this outbreak have taken their own lives because they were depressed by the sight of dull, unpainted walls. Asa always says that even if it's "just" 14, those are still lives worth saving. That's why she agreed to fast-track the Arcamanik mural project.
Personally? I'm pretty sure what's really motivating the Head of B.E.R.P. isn't the memory of the fallen—or even the value of life—but property value and inheritance portfolios.
Right on cue with the final sunset warning siren, their battered excuse for a government vehicle rolled into the city hall parking lot. As usual, the prime spots were already taken by the fleet of official cars belonging to the Stand up Comedy Division. Knowing this would happen, Asa immediately steered toward her usual backup: the space under the giant banyan tree, conveniently located and perpetually available thanks to the pigeon coop above it. No one else ever parks there—for obvious, droppingly avian reasons. But that's hardly a problem for B.E.R.P vehicle's.
Unfortunately, Asa forgot today was the mandatory monthly festival. Her go-to spot was now blocked by a collapsible canopy shading an Audi A8L with license plate D 412 ANG. And of course, it wasn't just any luxury car—it belonged to none other than legendary comics, Dadang Menel[9]. Had it been anyone else's car, Asa would've happily double-parked and left them boxed in out of sheer protest.
"D 412 ANG—Dadang! Is Dadang performing at the Festival today?" Joshua suddenly broke the silence of the ride, his eyes glowing with pure, unfiltered excitement.
"You seriously didn't know, Jo? Aren't you, like, a hardcore member of the Church of Dadang or something?" said one of the B.E.R.P crew members—whose name I won't bother mentioning because, frankly, it's not worth remembering.
"No way! I didn't hear a single word about this! This has to be a surprise set—I have to tell my parents!" Joshua immediately whipped out his phone to share the news with his mom and dad. For him—and his whole family—Dadang was more than a legend. He was a hero.
Ten years ago, on the very night the outbreak began, Dadang was the opener for a major stand up comedy special. That same night, families across the country were torn apart. But not the 30,000 people at Gelora Bandung Lautan Api Stadium… and not the 10,000 others watching the live stream from home. They were spared.
The only casualty? The headliner himself—found face-down in a public restroom sink, having ended his own life mid-tour.
Dadang's set that night? It was so good, it's now canonized in the The Official Handbook or Suicide Prevention.[10]
"Sa, you sure you're not staying for Dadang?" Joshua, now dressed in casual clothes, looked baffled as Asa managed to sneak a Permission-to-Sleep-Early slip just seconds before the Head of the Bureau of Exterior and Residential Painting (B.E.R.P.) left the office.
"I have to leave at dawn tomorrow. If I go to the festival, I might not wake up in time."
"Want me to record it for you? It's Dadang, Sa! Dadang!"
"No need. The full show will be on YouTube eventually. The material's all the same anyway," Asa replied while unstrapping me from her waist. She grabbed her backpack from the locker and stuffed me inside its damp-smelling interior. "Heading out first, guys," she mumbled to her teammates before walking off.
The truth is, Asa didn't hate Dadang because of his repetitive material. It wasn't about the punchlines or the timing. No, it was that one night. That one night when her parents gave away their tickets to Dadang's special show—to a friend who'd missed the sales window. If only they hadn't.
If only…
If only…
If only…
A thousand "If only"s echoed through Asa's head, a chorus of unasked questions haunting the only person walking alone out of Bandung City Hall that night.
And just like that, without noticing, Asa found herself already at the gate of her boarding house complex, being stopped by the security guard. Without a word, she flashed her Permission-to-Sleep-Early slip. The guard nodded, and let her through.
"Hey, miss… hold up a sec."
The security guard glanced at Asa's empty stare, maybe trying to lift her spirits—or maybe just doing quality control on his spotless record of zero suicides on duty.
"You know what my favorite machine is?" he asked.
Asa paused, already halfway to her kosan. "Uh… what?"
"The photocopier," he said, nodding sagely. "Because I always say copy that!" He dangled his walkie-talkie dramatically, as if it were a mic drop. Asa gave a tiny smile—barely a curve, but enough to register. A smile of respect, if not amusement.
"That's more like it," the guard said. "Keep frowning like before and you'll wake up tomorrow as a ghost."
Asa's kos was located in the farthest block of the complex—a house that looked like it had lost a fight with geometry. Obviously built for profit, it was stuffed with tiny boarding rooms crammed onto an undersized lot.
Ironically, her actual family house was just a few streets away in the same complex. But Asa chose to rent that one out and use half the income to live in this kos.
According to her, living alone in a house that big only made the emptiness louder.
"Chocory~ Chocory~ Don't forget to be happy with Chocory~!" "Remember! Two boxes of Chocory a day keeps suicide away!"
The government-sponsored chocolate jingle chirped from the TV as Asa flicked it on. A live broadcast of the festival at city hall followed, but she barely registered it. Turning the TV on was just part of her routine—just another sound to fill the kos room, especially tonight when all the other tenants had gone off to attend the mandatory festivities. The artificial voices were better than silence while she showered and prayed.
At 7:30 PM, her smartwatch buzzed on the desk, politely reminding her to put it on. As a citizen holding a Valid Early Sleep Permit, Asa was now being monitored. The watch would track her heartbeat and breathing, to ensure she was actually asleep. If she wasn't out cold by 8:05 PM, a squad from the National Bureau for Suicide Outbreak Response—specifically the Bureau of Hypnotherapists, Psychologists, Therapy & Recovery (a.k.a. HIPSTeR)—would be dispatched to evaluate her condition.
The options weren't ideal: they might sedate her, hypnotize her, or worse, talk her ear off until morning. But the unluckiest outcome was if HIPSTeR staff were short-handed—because then, the smartwatch would simply tase the wearer into unconsciousness.
Asa lay down on her bed and shut her eyes immediately. No way she was starting tomorrow with twitchy hands and the taste of batteries in her mouth. She was pretty sure the HIPSTeRs had all bailed to go watch Dadang Menel live anyway.
"Good evening, Bandung City Haaaall!"
The faint echo of Dadang's voice seeped from the TV as Asa slipped closer to sleep. She wasn't remotely curious about his set—she'd rather dive into her subconscious and search for tomorrow's mural concept, hopefully something between her team's bland city-approved sketch and her own chaotic style.
She took a long, deliberate breath. Dadang's set always started at exactly 8:00. Which meant she had five minutes to fall asleep or get zapped—for the seventh time in her life.
The lavender scent from her mosquito repellent fogged the air, lulling her deeper. The TV's sound faded. Her smartwatch glowed a soft green. Success. She was out.
But peace is never permanent.
In her dream, the violet haze of lavender began to darken. It turned crimson. The soft aroma twisted into something sharp, metallic—blood.
BEEEEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The smartwatch blared. Asa was no longer asleep. Her eyes opened—but her body wouldn't move. Sleep paralysis. She stared helplessly at the glowing screen of the television.
What she saw couldn't possibly be real.
A tilted camera feed from city hall. People—real people—were slicing their wrists open with branches, with stones, with anything they could grab. The crowd screamed and surged in chaos, blood mixing with the mountain-cold air of Bandung night.
Mass suicide.
Asa fought against her body, hoping it was all just a hallucination. But no. Her fingers twitched. She managed to sit up.
The TV didn't change.
It was real.
Then, as if on cue, the broadcast cut to a generic error message:
"We apologize for the technical difficulties."
Accompanied by analog static and a dull electric buzz.
Asa sat in silence.
She didn't know whether to be grateful she wasn't there—or devastated that anyone was.
[1] You can Google the definition yourself. In this explanatory note, I’ll just clarify that it’s my subtle way of mocking the kid—because she’s literally the exact opposite.
[2] To this day, she insists this was truly her calling.
Never mind that back then… she’d rather fake sleep than show up to painting practice.
[3] Her official title is literally “painter” — as in, house painter — but Asa insists on calling herself an “artist,” and even threatened to withdraw her support for this story if I didn’t revise that part.
So, fine. From here on out, we’re calling her an artist. Happy now, Asa?
[4] Honestly, she looks more like a shapeshifting catfish to me. I mean, her dad’s a renowned painter, she’s been trained since she was basically a fetus, and yet — if you ask me — the only decent part of her work is her signature.
[5] If you're wondering how all that stuff didn’t fall out — YES! That little brute sewed shut the hole in my butt! It used to be wide open, you know. Sadly, the laws protecting citizens from sexual violence don’t seem to cover plush toys like me.
[6] a name that sounds like either an ancient wizard or a knock-off perfume brand, but is actually a district in the city of Bandung, Indonesia.
[7] once the nation’s undisputed trendsetters, known for their effortlessly edgy style, thrifted masterpieces, and the belief that tote bags and existentialism could fix society.
[8] not to be confused with the insects that scream in trees during summer, though honestly, both can be equally loud and overwhelming. This Cicadas is a bustling area in Bandung, Indonesia, ironically nicknamed the Street of Gold. Not because the roads are paved with dreams or opportunity, but because there are more gold shops per square meter than there are functional traffic signs.
[9] "Menel" is a Sundanese word that technically means “baby elephant,” but people also use it to mean “small.” Because, of course, when you think “tiny,” your first thought is a creature that weighs 200 pounds at birth and can already knock over a motorcycle.
[10] Pffft… you know what’s funny? Out of all 327 pages in that government-issued handbook, the part about actually painting walls only takes up six whole words: “Paint the room’s wall with bright colors.” That’s it. The rest? Half the book is crammed with Dadang’s stand-up bits and other second-rate jokes we’re legally obligated to read every single day.