Yogyakarta, RSUP Dr. Sardjito, Paviliun Cendrawasih
Satria's eyelids fluttered open, heavy as if weighted by invisible chains, reluctant to part from the thick fog of unconsciousness that clung to his mind. A harsh glare stabbed through the haze—fluorescent lights overhead, buzzing with relentless persistence, their sterile white glow casting sharp, unforgiving shadows across the room. The ceiling above was an endless grid of white tiles, sterile and unforgiving, an alien sky that offered no comfort, no escape.
His vision blurred, raw and unfocused at first, as if his eyes were struggling to adjust to a brightness far too intense. The cold, clinical smell invaded his senses—antiseptic chemicals mingled with faint traces of medicinal creams and the faint metallic tang of blood. It pressed down on him, heavy and unyielding, as if the very air conspired to remind him where he was. A hospital room. A place of pain, waiting, and uncertainty.
He tried to move. A simple motion—just a twitch of a finger, a lift of an arm—anything to affirm that he was real, that he still belonged to himself. But his limbs betrayed him. They felt as though invisible weights had been tied to them, anchoring him mercilessly to the mattress. His arms and legs lay heavy and numb, unresponsive to his commands, as if they belonged to a stranger. The effort to will movement sent sharp waves of exhaustion crashing through his body. His heart began to race, a frantic drumbeat beneath his ribs. Panic surged — what was wrong with him? Why couldn't he move?
His breath caught, shallow and quick. He wanted to call out, to scream, but his throat was dry, and no sound emerged. The room was oppressively silent, save for the faint mechanical hum of monitors and the soft whisper of filtered air from the vents. The contrast was jarring — inside his mind, a chaotic storm raged, but outside, the hospital room lay cold, still, and indifferent.
Fragments of memory flickered across the edges of his consciousness. Screeching tires, the sickening crunch of metal on metal, and a darkness pierced only by blinding lights—like a nightmare filtered through broken glass. He tried to grasp them, to pull the pieces together and form a clear picture, but the images dissolved as quickly as they came, leaving only confusion in their wake.
What had happened? How had he come to be here?
A dull ache throbbed in his head, an echo of trauma too deep to comprehend. His chest tightened, a heavy band squeezing around his ribs, making every breath a struggle. The sterile scent filled his nostrils again, mingling with the faint but unmistakable smell of disinfectant, a scent that was both alien and hauntingly familiar. It pulled him backward into memories long buried—waiting by his grandfather's bedside, the same antiseptic smell, the quiet beeping of machines measuring a fading heartbeat, the soft touch of a fragile hand slipping away.
The memory was bittersweet, a tender ache in the midst of his own bewilderment. Was this hospital a place of healing or a quiet tomb for broken dreams? The question clawed at him, feeding the gnawing fear deep inside.
Satria's gaze shifted, sweeping the room with growing clarity. The walls were painted a dull cream, punctuated by medical charts and a clock whose hands moved steadily but without concern for the turmoil unfolding below. An IV drip hung beside the bed, its plastic tubes snaking toward his pale arm, an endless reminder of his helplessness.
Outside the door, muffled footsteps echoed softly, distant voices carrying fragments of conversation. He was not alone, yet despite this, an overwhelming loneliness enveloped him, a cavernous void where connection should have been. Would anyone come for him? Did anyone know he was awake? Questions burned in his mind, but answers remained stubbornly out of reach.
His eyes closed briefly, exhaustion pulling him back toward darkness.
The soft click of the door opening sliced through the sterile silence, and Satria's half-closed eyes flickered toward the sound. A woman entered the room—a nurse, moving with quiet confidence and calm professionalism. Her footsteps were measured, deliberate, never rushing but carrying purpose. She wore a pale blue uniform that softened the harsh white surroundings, and her face, framed by loose strands of dark hair, bore an expression both composed and kind.
"Good morning, Satria," she said gently, her voice a soothing balm against the harsh buzz of the machines. "I'm Nurse Amira. Can you hear me?"
Satria's lips parted slightly, but no words came. His throat felt raw, his voice trapped somewhere beyond his control. The nurse pulled a chair close and sat beside his bed, careful not to startle him. Her presence was a small island of warmth in the cold, sterile room—a human connection that felt like a lifeline.
"Let's see how you're doing," she murmured. Her hands were steady as she reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead with delicate care. "Can you try to turn your head for me? Just a little."
Satria blinked slowly, eyes narrowing with effort. He willed his neck to obey, feeling the invisible resistance as if his muscles were filled with lead. With a slow, laborious effort, his head shifted—barely a turn, but enough. A faint, hopeful smile flickered on the nurse's lips.
"That's good," she encouraged softly. "Now, blink when I say so, okay? Blink twice." Her fingers fluttered in front of his eyes.
Satria's eyelids moved, heavy but responsive. Each blink was a small victory, a signal from his body that it had not completely betrayed him. The nurse nodded, satisfaction clear in her gentle eyes.
"You're doing very well, considering," she said quietly. "I know it's hard, but you're not alone. We're here with you."
Her words, soft and sparse, cut through the chaos swirling in his mind. The panic—the desperate feeling of being trapped inside his own body—eased just enough to allow a fragile hope to take root. Someone cared. Someone was watching over him.
She lifted his wrist carefully, checking for a pulse beneath the thin hospital bracelet. Her fingers were practiced but gentle, as if afraid to cause him pain. "Your pulse is steady. That's a good sign."
Satria's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, each one a small triumph. The nurse's quiet reassurances wove a delicate thread of comfort through his confusion and fear.
"I'm going to fetch the doctor now," she said after a moment, her tone serious but calm. "He'll come and see you soon. We want to make sure you get the best care possible."
Her words carried a weight of authority and care, signaling that his condition was serious enough to require a specialist's attention, but also promising that he was not forgotten. The knowledge that help was coming, that professionals were working behind the scenes to pull him back from the edge, gave Satria a fragile thread of hope to hold onto.
The nurse stood, smoothing the blanket over his body with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the coldness of the room. "Try to rest now," she said softly. "We'll be right here when you wake."
She turned to leave, pausing at the door to look back with a smile that was warm and human. It was a small gesture, but for Satria, it was a beacon in the darkness—proof that even in his weakest moment, he was seen, cared for, and not alone.
As the door clicked shut behind her, the mechanical hum of the machines returned to fill the silence. But now, it is different.
The door opened with a quiet hiss, and a man stepped into the room. Tall, mid-fifties, his white coat crisp against the dull lighting. Silver streaked his temples, and his gaze, calm and steady, swept over the room with the efficiency of someone who'd done this too many times. Yet his presence wasn't cold — it was composed, like a surgeon holding both a scalpel and someone's future in his hand.
"I'm Dr. Hendra," he said gently, approaching the bed. "You've been through something very serious."
Satria's head shifted slightly toward the voice, his eyes dragging open. He stared, bleary but alert. Every motion was effort. His lips parted — no sound came. Just a dry gasp.
Dr. Hendra reached into his coat and clicked a small penlight. "Can you follow this?"
Satria's eyes fluttered, tracking the beam with slow, jerky precision.
The doctor nodded. "Good."
Satria blinked heavily. Then, through a rasping throat, he croaked, "What… happened…?"
Dr. Hendra hesitated. But Satria wasn't done.
His brow twitched. His throat worked, scraping words from someplace deeper.
"What happened… to me…" he whispered, and then pushed, each syllable like broken glass on his tongue. "Why… can't I… feel…"
He tried to lift a hand — a phantom motion. His shoulder barely twitched beneath the blanket. Confusion flooded his expression, dull panic rising.
"Tell me," he croaked again, voice cracking. "Please. I need… to know. I—"
His breath caught. "Please."
The doctor inhaled slowly, then exhaled — the kind of breath people take before they deliver something that cannot be softened.
"You were in a major traffic accident," he said, voice calm but deeply grounded. "Your motorcycle collided with a truck at high speed. It was catastrophic."
Satria's lips moved silently, eyes fixed and unblinking.
"You were unconscious when brought in. You suffered massive trauma. Internal bleeding. Skull fracture. And your arms…" He trailed off, adjusting his posture slightly. "There was nothing we could do to save them. Both limbs were severely damaged — nerve destruction, tissue loss beyond repair. We had to amputate. Above the elbows."
For a moment, the room felt airless.
Satria's eyes stayed locked on the doctor. But something inside him pulled back — like he was retreating behind his gaze, leaving his body here, empty.
He blinked. Once. Then again. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, lips trembling without sound.
His breathing became irregular, shallow and quick.
Dr. Hendra continued gently. "We'll begin prosthetic planning later. You'll need time — physical therapy, emotional support, a rehabilitation plan. You've survived something few people do."
But Satria wasn't hearing it anymore.
His face twitched — a subtle tic along his jaw. His head shook once, as if to reject the air itself.
Then a low, hoarse moan escaped him. It grew — a guttural sound, torn from somewhere deep inside. Not words. Just pain, raw and unfiltered.
"No—no no no no—" His voice broke apart into ragged gasps. "No—!"
And then the scream came.
It started small — a strangled gasp — then burst out of him in a roar that ripped through the sterile silence. A sound that didn't sound human. Not entirely. It echoed off the walls, sharp and sudden.
In the hallway outside, nurses paused. A distant voice murmured, "Room twelve."
Inside, Dr. Hendra stepped back, giving space. Not out of fear — but respect.
Satria screamed again. A sound that rattled through his ribs and out his throat like something being exorcised. His body shook as if the grief itself was trying to force its way out of his skin.
He didn't hear the machines beeping faster. He didn't see the nurse rushing in. Didn't feel the cool hands trying to ground him. He was somewhere else now — submerged in the first wave of a grief too wide to contain.
And still he screamed.
The hospital room door burst open, Satria's parents had just arrived at the hospital when he started screaming. His mother hurried in first, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy.
Her breath hitched as she saw him — her son, pale, trembling, and screaming on the narrow bed — and the tears broke free, spilling freely down her cheeks.
"Satria… oh, my boy," she whispered, voice cracking with the weight of the moment. She hurried to his side, reaching out trembling hands to cradle his cheek, her touch featherlight yet desperate for connection.
Behind her came his father — tall, broad-shouldered, his face set like stone. No tears fell, but his lips were pressed so tightly it seemed they might split. His eyes held a storm of emotions, locked behind a mask of steel. He stood by the foot of the bed, hands clenched into fists, jaw tight. His silence was a different kind of grief — one that screamed in restraint.
Satria's breath was shallow, and his eyes were unfocused, still caught somewhere between the crushing weight of his shock and the fragments of confusion lingering in his mind. He muttered strange, broken syllables — words that made no sense, a desperate attempt to grasp reality, slipping further away like water through his fingers.
"Mo… ther…" he murmured weakly, voice barely a whisper.
His mother sobbed harder, pressing her forehead against his, trying to anchor him. "I'm here, my son. I'm here." She brushed back the damp hair from his forehead, fingers trembling.
His father's voice was low, rough with emotion he wouldn't let escape. "Satria, son… stay with us, okay? We'll get through this." He spoke firmly but with a hint of pleading beneath the surface.
Satria blinked slowly, exhaustion pulling his eyelids down, his chest rising and falling unevenly. The chaotic storm inside him simmered down into a dull ache — a tiredness that seemed to weigh on every muscle, every thought. His mind recoiled from the noise of grief and worry surrounding him, retreating inward where silence pressed heavy.
His mother's sobs filled the room like a mournful hymn, but Satria barely registered them. His father's restrained presence was like a distant beacon, steady but unreachable. Their love enveloped him, yet it also underscored the distance he now felt from the life he once knew.
Doctor Hendra approached Satria's parents, his voice gentle but clear. "The road ahead won't be easy," he said, looking at Satria with something like quiet determination. "But there is hope — with time, therapy, and support, recovery is possible. We'll be with you every step."
Satria's mother nodded, clinging to the doctor's words like a lifeline, even as her tears continued. His father's gaze softened just slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction.
For a moment, the room was filled with heavy silence — the kind that follows a storm, fragile but real.
Satria, worn down by pain and the flood of emotions, closed his eyes slowly, surrendering to the exhaustion that pressed on him. His head rested back against the pillow as a quiet stillness settled.
*
The fragile calm of the hospital room shattered under the heavy cloak of night. Outside, darkness pressed against the windows, while inside, harsh fluorescent lights flickered over the tense scene.
Without warning, the door slammed open with a violent bang, rattling the thin walls and sending a cold gust of air into the sterile space. A dark figure stormed inside, clad in black from head to toe, eyes wild and blazing with a madness that sent a chill down everyone's spine. The sudden intrusion felt like a violent thunderclap, breaking the fragile silence and the tentative calm that had settled over Satria's small, sterile world.
The attacker's breath was ragged, desperate, as if fueled by years of bottled-up rage. Without hesitation, he lunged at Satria, hands reaching out with brutal intent. Satria's weakened body, already trapped by his injury and unable to defend itself, convulsed violently as the attacker's hands wrapped around his throat in a merciless grip.
Panic exploded in Satria's chest, a suffocating pressure that threatened to drown him. His eyes widened, desperate and pleading, but his lips couldn't form a scream. His body struggled against the invisible chains of pain and shock, but the attacker's grip was ironclad, squeezing harder with every heartbeat. His breath hitched, caught in a terrifying silence, his world narrowing to the sharp sting behind his eyes and the crushing force around his neck.
The nurse, standing frozen near the doorway, was caught in a paralyzing wave of shock. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Her eyes darted helplessly between Satria and the attacker, unable to act, unable to intervene. The sterile hospital, once a place of healing and quiet reassurance, had twisted into a cage of chaos and fear.
"Get away from him!" Satria's father's voice cracked, raw with desperation. He lunged forward, muscles tensed with primal fury. His hands gripped the attacker's arms, fingers clawing at fabric and skin alike in a frantic attempt to pry the man's hands off his son's throat.
The attacker fought back savagely, striking out with wild punches and desperate kicks. The father staggered but refused to let go, his eyes blazing with a desperate hope to protect what little remained of his broken son.
The struggle was violent and chaotic — a tangle of bodies, shouts, and the sharp, metallic scent of fear. The attacker's face twisted into a grotesque mask of rage and madness as he struggled against the father's grasp. His laughter broke through the chaos: frantic, eerie, unhinged. It echoed down the sterile hospital corridors like the howl of a man driven to the edge by revenge or madness.
Hospital staff and security personnel flooded into the room moments later, shouting orders, grabbing at the attacker, wrestling him away from Satria. The man's resistance was fierce, fueled by an unknown, terrifying motivation. But the sheer number of people overwhelmed him, and finally, he was restrained and dragged back towards the door, still cackling in a voice cracked by fury.
Meanwhile, Satria's body went limp. The fight drained out of him like a candle snuffed by a cruel gust. His chest ceased its shallow, desperate rising and falling; his pale face grew even paler. His eyes fluttered weakly, struggling to stay open as the crushing weight of suffocation and shock overwhelmed him.
Dr. Hendra was already at Satria's side, moving with the precise speed of a seasoned professional who knew every second counted. He crouched next to the bed, voice steady but urgent. "Satria! Stay with me, come on!" His hands pressed quickly but gently against Satria's neck, searching for a pulse.
When none was found, his eyes flicked rapidly to the flatline beeping of the monitor—Satria was in cardiac arrest. The harsh, unyielding sound filled the room like a grim verdict.
"No pulse," Dr. Hendra said, his voice low but commanding. "We're losing him!"
The flatline's sharp, relentless beep filled the room with a terrifying finality. Time seemed to freeze, the sterile walls closing in on everyone as they watched Satria's fragile thread of life slip away.
Dr. Hendra immediately began chest compressions, his hands firm and unyielding on Satria's chest. His voice barked orders as he worked: "Nurse, help me! Get the crash cart — now!"
The nurse snapped out of her paralysis, rushing to fetch the equipment. An intern appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed but ready to assist.
The attacker's laughter echoed faintly even as he was pulled away, a haunting soundtrack to the desperate struggle to pull Satria back from the brink.
Satria lay motionless, his lost arms leaving him utterly helpless, a fragile figure caught between life and death, surrounded by urgency and chaos.
The sterile hospital room buzzed with frantic energy. Dr. Hendra had already dropped to his knees beside Satria's bed, the steady rhythm of his hands compressing Satria's chest marked by the shrill beep of the heart monitor, now a flatline. The beeping was relentless, a cruel soundtrack to the desperate battle raging against death. Nurses and an intern swarmed in, slipping into a practiced rotation — breaths, compressions, breaths, compressions — each movement precise but filled with urgency.
"Keep the airway clear!" Dr. Hendra barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. His eyes never left Satria's pale face, now so still, so fragile. The boy was a ghost of himself, a shell robbed of the limbs that had once defined him and now slipping away from the final grasp of life.
The nurse gave breaths with a bag valve mask, puffing air into Satria's lungs. The intern switched in, their hands pressing rhythmically against the chest, muscles straining with each compression. Despite the tireless effort, the monitor's flatline continued, mocking the fight. Time dragged in agonizing seconds.
Outside the room, the attacker—still clad in dark clothing and wild-eyed with an unhinged madness—was finally completely subdued, he had stopped retaliating. As security guards drag him, a chilling sound cuts through the tense air: his manic, mocking laughter. It echoed cruelly down the hospital corridor, the twisted soundtrack to the tragedy unfolding inside. The sound felt like acid on open wounds, a bitter reminder that the violence hadn't ended with the attack.
Back inside, the scene was grim. Dr. Hendra's face was pale but resolute, sweat glistening on his brow. He took turns with the nurse, swapping positions in a grim dance to keep Satria alive. His eyes flicked to the monitor, hoping, willing for any sign of a heartbeat.
But none came.
The heart monitor's harsh, unrelenting beep continued, a final punctuation mark on the life they'd fought so hard to save.
Slowly, the room grew still.
The air seemed heavier, thick with silence.
The parents—who had been desperately trying to hold themselves together—crumbled. The mother's sobs broke free in a heartbreaking wail that filled the room. She sank to her knees beside the bed, clutching her husband's hand as he stood rigid, tears silently streaming down his face. His jaw clenched tight, the stoic mask shattered by grief. Their world had shattered in a single, merciless moment.
Dr. Hendra stepped back, wiping his hands, his gaze lingering on Satria's lifeless form. He fought to swallow the ache in his chest—the helplessness that no training could erase. Medicine had limits, and this was one of its cruelest lessons.
The nurse gently closed the curtains around the bed, cocooning the space in a fragile privacy from the harshness of the outside world.
Outside the room, the muffled sound of the attacker's continuing laughter haunted the hallways—an eerie reminder that questions remained unanswered. Who was he? Why had he done this? The pain of loss was raw and immediate, but so too was the shadow of vengeance and madness that lingered beyond the sterile walls.
In that silent aftermath, the weight of death hung heavily in the air. A man's life, stolen.