Chapter 40

"Aren't we classmates? I thought we were already friends. What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of me? Have you ever hurt me? Otherwise, why are you afraid of me? Speak up! Are you guilty? What are you afraid of?"

The student at the back desk shouted as he chased after the thug who had climbed up from the ground and was staggering forward.

His voice was getting louder and louder. The gangster didn't dare to turn around, for he was afraid that if he turned around he would see a face that was not human approaching.

His heart would not be able to bear this stimulation.

He didn't dare to bet on what would happen if he died here, but he didn't think it was a good experimental direction. If he accidentally died here, he might not realize that he needed to accept death before he died. For him now, that would not be a good thing. If he accidentally found that he could still maintain consciousness and control his body activities after death and be treated the other way around -

That would be even worse, and would only prove that he would accept a series of inhumane sufferings that he neither needed nor wanted.

Hope nothing bad happens.

The gangster prayed in his heart and ran to the infirmary. He knew where the infirmary was, so he rushed in with a bang and closed the door.

The sound of the door closing was very loud, as if shouting to something outside: Come here quickly, I'll be waiting for you here!

Then he laughed arrogantly.

The thug realized belatedly that his behavior was a bit stupid, but he didn't have the energy to think or be arrogant. He squinted his eyes, barely able to stand, and slowly slid down from the cabinet next to him and sat down on the ground. The floor was icy and he shivered. He hurriedly tried to get up by himself to avoid feeling cold, but he accidentally sat back down.

He cried out, feeling something underneath, and reached out his hand and touched a needle. He frowned in confusion, looked at the needle, and murmured in surprise: "Why is this thing here? Isn't this a medical room? Who needs a needle? This is not a needlework activity, let alone knitting. Besides, who uses such a small needle to knit a sweater? I remember that the thread and needles needed for sweaters are very thick and big..."

He was talking here when he heard a rustling sound behind him. He was startled, but his body was no longer able to react quickly. The rapid run outside the infirmary made his already limited physical strength urgent. He took a breath, slowly turned his head, and prayed desperately in his heart that he would not see anything bad that he should not see.

The curtain over there has two layers, one is translucent with small blue, yellow and red flowers on the surface, and the other is opaque and very light-blocking. It is very hot inside in the summer, but this also makes it impossible for people outside to see what the people inside are doing, so the gangster feels even more nervous.

He wiped his face and found that he was bleeding from the nose, so he quickly pulled out a piece of tissue from the open tissue box next to him and stuffed it into his nostrils to prevent the blood from flowing everywhere. Even though there were not many people here and no one cared much about cleanliness and hygiene, he could not splash the blood everywhere as it would expose his whereabouts and make it easier for those creatures to track him.

I swear to God, he wants to live two more days.

The thug tightly grasped a plastic bench next to him.

He approached the place, and before he could prepare himself mentally and reach out to pull open the curtain, he watched the curtain open by itself from the inside.

There was a swish sound, and the curtain opened, revealing a person inside. It was a man in a white coat. The gangster wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but felt it was too early to relax now. He began to shiver and the man in the white coat raised his head in front of him, very naturally, as if he was not being caught slacking off at work or pretending to be away, but was checking his phone.

The white coat revealed an unexpected face of a gangster, the face of a gangster.

The thug was stunned and wanted to step back. Instead of accepting reality, he knelt on the ground and groped his way away from the white coat.

He asked with trembling lips: "What's going on?"

He started coughing, his eyes were red, his voice was hoarse, and he clenched his fists, almost questioning. If he hadn't been so weak, he might have jumped up and grabbed the man's clothes and started beating him.

"What are you?"

He shouted, "There can only be one me in this world! You are not human! Get out of here! Hurry up! You are not welcome here. This is my world."

The man in the white coat looked at the thug, put away his phone, looked down at him, and said with a smile: "Who do you think you are? What do you mean by unique? You are just dreaming."

The gangster shook his head, and everything in front of him started to blur. The man in the white coat got off the bed, reached out and took out a syringe, and stabbed it into the gangster. The gangster was no longer able to resist at this time. He asked in a mosquito-like voice: "What's going on? What did you give me?"

The man in the white coat let go of his hand, stood beside him with a smile, looked at him motionlessly and said, "A few props to help you see the truth."

The gangster suddenly fainted, the back of his head hit the floor, then he opened his eyes and woke up, as if he had come out of deep water into shallow water. He took a breath and thought his hair was wet, he wiped his face and found there were no excess water drops on it, only his tears and sweat. He felt a subtle joy in his heart, and even wanted to celebrate.

He looked up and found that his whole family was surrounding him, looking concerned. He said to them, "Don't worry about me. I'm fine."

They nodded and walked away.

The gangster felt a little bit puzzled as to why they were so easy to talk to this time, but there was no grudge between them. It was pointless to dwell on this. He always felt that if things were good, then one should not expose them and should try to be happy, lest one would not be unable to recover from the sadness and might die.

He lives one day at a time. Even though this is not good, he knows it is not good, but he will not change.

That's how the days passed.

He blinked, got out of bed, and walked to the kitchen. He saw his mother wearing an apron and using a spatula in front of him, waving a large black iron pot. She turned and smiled at him, "Are you up? When you're ready, go sit in the living room and we'll have dinner later."

He nodded as usual and was about to turn around and leave, but his mother's voice came from behind, shouting, "Hurry up and wash your hands. After washing your hands, we can eat!"

Everyone in the house could hear it because it was so loud.

The gangster went to the restroom to wash his hands. The water here was splashing, not crowded with other people's water, and not too bright. He didn't know why he suddenly disliked very bright environments, but he remembered that he was not like this before. He washed his face, lowered his head and smiled at himself, then opened his eyes and looked at the opposite side. There was a mirror, and he was suddenly stunned.

The self in the mirror was not his original appearance at all, but a skull with a rotten face and flesh scraps hanging on it. A little black hair hung on top, swaying in the wind. He looked funny and a little absurd.

He stared at himself in the mirror and was stunned.

A person walked in from outside. It was his sister. She also wanted to wash her hands here. Seeing him standing in front of the sink and not moving away, she smiled and said, "What about your exclusive seat?"

She washed her hands and walked over to the hooligans and asked, "Do you suddenly think you are particularly good-looking and want to stare at me for a while longer? You are not that narcissistic! Although you are not particularly ugly and you are still handsome, it is just that. Is it necessary to stare at me for so long?"

She was a little confused.

The gangster subconsciously blocked the mirror in front of her, especially himself in the mirror. In shock, he realized that if he didn't hide this secret well, he would never be able to hold his head up for the rest of his life.

Although it is almost the same now, he cannot let others see his appearance in the mirror when he goes out.

But does this mean that he can never go out again? Otherwise, he will definitely be beaten to death as a monster or caught and studied as a strange thing. How scary.

Just thinking about it made him feel cold all over and he began to shiver. His teeth made a chattering sound like toy soldiers beating drums excitedly.

My sister laughed and said, "It's just a meal. Why are you so excited?"

She shook her head, patted the gangster on the shoulder, and walked out.

The gangster looked at himself in the mirror. He hoped that he had seen it wrong before, but he hadn't. The person in the mirror still looked rotten, and even changed shape as he moved his facial muscles, revealing all kinds of empty and terrifying expressions. He stared at himself in the mirror, unable to tell whether it was himself or not. He looked for a long time and felt that the skeleton inside was laughing.

He was stunned for a moment, rubbed his eyes, and thought, if someone is smiling, it definitely isn't me.

But when he looked again, nothing had changed. He walked out disappointed and anxious. The food was already on the table.

They started eating.

When his sister, who was sitting next to him, looked up while eating, she suddenly saw the mirror opposite. It was a large mirror attached to the entrance wall, which could reflect the side where they were eating. His sister's eyes widened in shock, and he shuddered. He thought his sister had discovered that something was wrong with him, but unexpectedly, his sister wiped her face and said in shock: "It was a close call. I almost lost a grain of rice."

As she spoke, she touched the rice and ate it.

The thug was a little amused and looked in the direction of the gaze. He thought he was being subtle, but suddenly he realized that there was no table of people eating, but a group of skeletons with rotten meat hanging on them, wearing tattered clothes, eating maggots and moldy garbage, and laughing happily.

He suddenly fell off the stool and sat on the ground, his face full of shock, not even able to conceal it.

The mother asked, "What's wrong with you?"