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墨書 Inktalez
He curled up, his body twisting into strange shapes as he rolled slowly. The once upright figure was no longer recognizable. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, and fine streams of it flowed from his eyes, ears, and nostrils, marking his pale face with grotesque symbols of fate. Blood symbols, a web of blood symbols, ensnaring more than one person's destiny.
Vagus Nerve? Frontal and Parietal Lobes? No, those terms are too specialized for me to grasp. Although I have diligently perused a lot of information, I don’t need to memorize those names.
What I need to know is simply where to strike with a solid object, like a replica Ming brick or just an ordinary brick, to bring a person down instantly. No resistance, no cries for help; even a faint sound would require considerable luck.
Of course, I mustn't kill him. It’s wrong to strike from the shadows; how could I possibly kill in such a manner? I have always been a gentleman.
He was still conscious, but his body felt limp. He thought he had exhausted all his strength, but in reality, he was merely moving in a comically slow manner with minimal effort. I bent down with interest to observe him. The environment of the community was truly pleasant; the tall sycamore trees made the light from the streetlamps hidden behind them appear mottled and distant.
The sound of crickets was delightful. Even at the entrance of the Garbage Room, I could feel the high greenery rate of this community. As evening fell and people returned home, I walked with my head down beneath the willow branches, quietly resting in the grass while evading fixed cameras, patrolling security guards, and homeowners rushing by in their cars along the overly spacious green belts...
In the early morning, he received a call and hurried to the entrance of the Garbage Room. Now, he couldn’t even manage a groan. There must be bleeding in his skull; otherwise, there wouldn’t be blood flowing from the Seven Orifices. Right, Seven Orifices, why is there only one opening in his mouth? It seems asymmetrical and inconsistent with his actions.
Preparation seemed insufficient. I only brought a Screwdriver, originally intending to insert it into his lungs so that bubbles would emerge from his mouth like those of a crab, symbolizing his futile display of strength with its claws. However, for now, I would use it to make an incision below his mouth—yes, another opening there would give him symmetry.
I tried to act quickly to minimize his suffering. He indeed writhed in pain like a shrimp tossed into hot oil; aside from a low, drawn-out sound—a cry reminiscent of a wild dog howling—there was no other reaction.
Should I stab into his heart or lungs? Should he suffer painfully to death or linger in agony for a while? Not to boast about myself, but treating someone like him as an art form shows that I am truly merciful; I didn’t even plan to observe him until dawn. Satisfied, I covered his mouth but suddenly changed my mind and tightened my grip around his throat.
Five minutes later, I forcefully drove the cross-headed Screwdriver into his left chest and pushed it inch by inch forward. So what? He was now merely a lifeless object. As I said before, I am merciful.
At 10:45, a police officer nervously placed three thick files on Zhao Lang's desk. The stamps on the covers indicated that these files came from different police precincts.
Zhao Lang flipped through them. "Five months ago, a Fujianese who was making pirated discs was killed behind the XX Hotel on XX Lane, suspected to be a gang-related murder; four months ago, a Senior Film Enthusiast was murdered in his own bathroom; two months ago, a migrant worker from out of town was killed in his rented accommodation in Green City. Because these individuals came from different social strata and had no connection to each other, and the methods of death were also quite different, the cases have not been consolidated." He continued, "However, after reviewing Li Yuecheng's notes and with Xu Haitao's murder added to the mix, the details of these four homicide cases align perfectly with what Li Yuecheng recorded."
"Does everyone who spreads his past that he wishes to forget have to pay with their lives? But what about the Senior Film Enthusiast? What about the migrant worker? And Xu Haitao?" Shui Yu's cigarette had burned down to the end, yet her slender fingers remained clenched. She stared at Zhao Lang, her eyes reflecting only his image.
Zhao Lang absently looked at the files. "Perhaps it was some Senior Film Enthusiast who uncovered events from twenty years ago. That worker might have been involved in questioning or defaming Li Yuecheng, or perhaps he was just part of the gossip. As for Xu Haitao, if it weren't for his betrayal, how would the outside world know about Li Yuecheng's reckless driving, drug dependency, and alcoholism? Using a screwdriver to pry open another mouth is not just a metaphor for his loose tongue. Everything is merely speculation; the evidence is far from conclusive. But even if it's not accurate, I believe we are not far from the truth."
Should a person who has always been good bear the burden and pain of an unpleasant incident from long ago? While mockers and slanderers are indeed despicable, aren't commentators and onlookers also fanning the flames? Who exactly is the victim here?
And who is the true murderer?
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