Chapter 134 The Asylum 4 Solitary Confinement...?
You walk silently down the corridor leading to the solitary confinement room—because you're still wearing the slippers that come with your hospital gown; the cotton soles don't fit your feet at all, making it feel like you're walking on paper.
The corridor lights were on, but they weren't warm at all.
It wasn't noticeable during the day, but now the cool-toned white light hung just right, slightly dazzling, above our heads.
At the end of the corridor, there's a door with a sign that reads "Cleaning Equipment Room," which is where they're taking you.
"Cooperate." Two caregivers are holding you down, one on each side.
You didn't reply. The black pill seemed to be working; you started to feel drowsy and your body felt numb.
The person standing at the door in a nurse's uniform is not the nurse in charge of you, but the head nurse, Shan Zhuo.
She flipped through your record sheet like it was a menu. When she saw you, she smiled and said casually, "Unsatisfactory performance, and you didn't take your medicine properly. Your status is already special enough, so I have no choice but to put you in solitary confinement for one night."
She paused, then added, "Don't be too nervous, we just want to give you the best treatment."
You gave a cold laugh.
Then she tapped the notepad lightly, like stamping a document: "Go in."
The door was opened.
You were pushed in.
The room contained only a metal bed nailed to the wall and a ceiling light; there wasn't even a toilet.
The ceiling was low, and the walls were painted with a thick layer of white paint. You could vaguely tell that they had been repaired many times, as if they were trying to cover something up.
The first thing you see is the one-way glass observation window embedded in the door, long and narrow, which allows you to see clearly from the outside, but from the inside you can only see your own reflection.
The door was locked.
You stood still for a moment before slowly sitting down against the wall.
It's very cold.
It did help you regain some consciousness.
You forced yourself to observe the room.
There are no windows, only a vent in the corner of the ceiling, and its size... maybe big enough to fit your shoulder.
But it was covered in dust, locked with a thin chain, and looked quite rusty.
You didn't touch it.
Who knows if it might be a trap?
You sat for a while longer, reflecting on the day's events and what Sandra had said, before finally closing your eyes.
The outside gradually quieted down.
Until you feel something constantly tickling you.
You open your eyes, and with a wave of your hand, you grab that… a strand of hair?
You slowly remember, ah, this is your prop!
During the day, you never even thought you had such a treasure; but now, holding it in your hand, you feel yourself slowly recovering some fragmented memories.
These memories and perceptions are not enough to make you recall more things, but they are enough to make you clearly aware of what this rehabilitation center did to you.
"Thank you," you said to your own eyes, "but why now?"
The black hair had been hidden in your hair all day without any reaction, but it woke you up at this moment.
"Something's about to appear, isn't it?" you say to Qing Si, and tell her to hide it.
You prick up your ears, slowly sit up, press your fingertips against the cold wall, and crouch down to move gently until you touch the glass observation hole on the door.
You hesitated for a moment.
An uneasy premonition makes you want to retreat, but a strong instinct drives you—you need to know what's happening outside.
You take a deep breath and carefully, without making a sound, place your eyes on the glass.
Then, you saw them.
—A group of “things” stood at the end of the corridor.
No, they weren't standing; they were arranged in a neat row, "stiffly" standing there.
A dozen or so figures, dressed in light-colored clothes so dirty that their original color was no longer discernible, their clothes almost blending into their skin, making it impossible to tell the style—you might think this because you subconsciously assume that the monsters appearing here in the middle of the night could only be the ghosts of mental patients or something similar, so you try to draw conclusions based on their clothing.
Their hair was disheveled, and their bodies varied, yet they all bore a similar twist: crooked shoulders, swollen joints, and outward-turned feet, as if their bodies were assembled in the wrong order.
—It could also be described as the dislocation of various parts caused by some kind of violent beating.
Their faces were blurry, resembling crumpled lumps of flesh in the dim light, but their eyes were unusually prominent: wide open, with black whites and no pupils—like two deep black holes that stared at you the moment you peered in.
You almost screamed.
But you held back.
You jerked back, and unexpectedly your head slammed against the wall with a "bang," a dull pain shooting through the back of your head.
"How can you see me here?"
Of course, ghosts and monsters don't follow physics.
Your chest heaved violently as you tried to keep from making a sound, your mind racing with chaotic thoughts.
Just then, a series of neat and slow footsteps came from outside.
You hold your breath, press your face against the door, and listen to that chilling rhythm: drag, drag, drag—stop.
Drag, drag, drag—stop.
Every step seemed to deliberately avoid making a sound, but that's precisely why it looked more like some kind of non-human imitation.
They are approaching.
They may not know who you are, but they are looking for a target.
You step back and start thinking about where to hide.
As already mentioned, there is only one metal bed in this room.
Gritting your teeth, you decide to ignore everything, stand on the bed, and reach for the chain hanging on the ventilation duct.
Despite being rusty and not particularly thin, the chain was indeed a "trap," making a loud noise with your movements that quickened the pace of footsteps outside.
Damn it!
You look around, then your gaze falls back to your feet.
Where else could they hide? Here is the only option!
The space under the bed is empty, about forty centimeters high.
There was no other way, so you quickly ducked inside.
The cold metal tube slid across your neck, elbows, and knees; you completed the movement almost in trembling. You curled up into a ball, facing the door, suppressing your breath as much as possible.
The footsteps drew closer.
You hear the sound of something scraping against metal outside the door, like bones striking iron.
You peer out through the gap under the bed.
The door opened.
It made no sound, but you could see it being slowly pushed aside. A foot stepped in first—the foot was swollen, the skin covered with dry, cracked bloodstains, and the toenails were like black blades.
Then came the second one.
It stood at the doorway, as if sensing something.
You watch its feet spinning in place.
You hold your breath, barely daring to blink, clutching your black hair in your hand, ready to use it at any moment.
Then, more footsteps sounded.
Two more people came in.
When you look out from under the bed, you see feet standing intertwined, one toe bone protruding, another even dragging a chain.
They trotted around haphazardly, seemingly completely oblivious to your presence even though they had pinpointed the location.
You suddenly realize: Maybe they can't see? They can only determine your location by hearing or smell, or some kind of visual perception.
Just as you realize this, you hear them panting heavily through their noses—as urgent as a dog sniffing food.
Then it lunged at the foot of the bed!
You were so scared that you almost used up your hair.
That's where you were just standing.
You huddled under the bed, the cold wall pressed against your back.
You hear them making low grumbling noises to each other, and finally, as if they had just completed a failed search, they turn around and slowly walk out of the room.
You lay motionless for a long time, until you could no longer hear their footsteps, until you were almost suffocating, before slowly exhaling.
As you slowly crawl out from under the bed, your knees are still pressed against the cold floor tiles, but your heart is already pounding wildly.
Your attention has been taken away.
The door was open.
You stare at the open door, which stands silently ajar. The corridor outside is a blurry gray-green. The monsters seem to have slowly left, turning the corner at the end of the corridor.
A dangerous thought arises in your mind: Isn't this your chance to escape?
You know you haven't committed a crime, and even if there are traces of you at the scene, no "expert" will be able to identify you as a suspect.
The principle of "innocent until proven guilty" applies, especially in cases like this, where the death was so horrific. If the blame were really placed on you, that would be truly terrifying.
The reason they're locking you up here is simply to get more testimony from you, or perhaps to put some other pressure on you.
In short, if you leave like this, it might not have a significant impact on your "student status".
You just need to endure these twenty-odd days and then move on to the next instance. In any case, you've had enough of this restricted freedom.
Once you've made up your mind, take immediate action.
You can't move too big or too fast... You tiptoe through the doorway.
The corridor was longer and darker than you remembered, with only the sparse emergency lights on the ceiling flickering a faint green glow.
Just as you were about to quicken your pace, you heard a "click" under your feet.
You look down and see—a medicine box.
?
You were furious. Some careless person had left it in the middle of the hallway, and you stepped on it, the sound of shattering plastic echoing through the hallway.
—You'll never complain about horror movie protagonists being brain-dead again.
Of course, that's not the key point.
Your back instantly drenched in sweat, and goosebumps stand on end.
Sure enough, an echo came from around the corner—
Glug, glug, glug…
The monsters that had gone to other floors stopped.
You can almost hear them turning their heads at the same time—no breathing, no words, only a silent consensus of "we've noticed you."
You react very quickly.
Almost instantly, you take off running, your shoes scraping the ground with a loud "thud." You dare not stop; the sound of your running footsteps mingles with the roar of your heartbeat in your ears.
The corridor was deserted, with all the ward doors closed. There was no one there, no nurses, and no doctor on night duty.
It's really strange. This mental health center seems to have been drained of all human life overnight, leaving only you and the group of monsters chasing you.
Where did they go...?
You run while you think.
Even if monsters appear at night, the nurses should hide in a safe area instead of disappearing completely.
This kind of thinking calms your mind.
The light above your head flickers, casting a long shadow. You realize that the monster behind you is actually moving very slowly, even "methodically".
You simply slow down and start to observe your surroundings carefully.
Even if you're leaving, why not take the opportunity to explore the area first?
Escape is instinct, but information is the weapon.
You slowed your pace, listening intently to the dragging footsteps behind you, still some distance away.
Not far ahead was a door marked "Employee Only." You tried pulling it, and it wasn't locked. You went inside and found a corridor leading to the archives and medical support area. On both sides were empty filing cabinets, dusty water dispensers, and abandoned stretchers.
A thought struck you.
If we can find archives that are inaccessible during the day…
You quickly walk through the corridor and push open the door at the end of the hallway, which reads "Medical and Patient History Archives".
Behind the door was a damp, dark little office. Yellowed recovery flowcharts covered the walls, and the filing cabinets were covered in mold. You opened a drawer; inside were stacks of handwritten records—doctor's registration cards, nurse's schedules…
strangeness.
None of the names and photos above are from your day.
Suddenly you hear a dragging sound behind you.
The monsters have arrived.
At the end of the corridor, footsteps approached like a tidal wave.
Your eyes sharpened as you noticed a half-open door on your right, with a label that read "Group Ward".
Without a moment's hesitation, you kicked the door open and practically rolled inside.
Bang—the door slams shut behind you, and darkness immediately engulfs you.
You hold your breath, press yourself against the door, and listen to the slow, eerie footsteps outside slowly passing by the doorway. Those "things" seem to have lost their way, or perhaps they are being pulled by some force, no longer in a hurry to hunt you down.
Just as you breathed a sigh of relief, you suddenly heard a faint hissing sound coming from inside the ward.
"Hiss...hiss—"
A chill ran down your spine, and you suddenly turned around.
There's someone in bed.
Moonlight streamed through the small window and fell onto the edge of the bed; you could hardly believe what you were seeing.
That was a face you would definitely recognize: Head Nurse Sandra.
She lay there quietly, her hands neatly placed in front of her abdomen, her eyes closed, her face pale and bloodless.
But she was still breathing.
You tiptoe closer, your mind filled with questions—why is she lying in this hospital room like a patient?
Does this mean that the actual hospital wards are the safe haven from those monsters?
However, what happened next quickly shattered your expectations.
Because, from a distant corner came a series of faint crashing sounds—the monsters had returned!
The footsteps stopped with a thud outside the door.
A glimpse out of the corner of my eye—there was still space under the bed.
Okay. You skillfully crawled under the hospital bed again.
This ward has six beds in total, and Sandra's bed is right across from yours.
Above my head was someone's pale hand, hanging down from the bedside, the fingertips trembling slightly.
The door was pushed open completely, and several footsteps walked in.
When you peek through the crack, you see that group of "monsters".
They came in and wandered around the hospital beds with an air of importance.
As you look at them, your doubts deepen.
Then, they started to move.
You can hardly believe what you're seeing.
They produced a bent, rusty pair of tweezers from somewhere and slowly traced lines on the forehead; another held an empty bottle with the opening pointed at the forehead; the remaining three held tongue depressors, stethoscopes, and syringes, repeating what appeared to be the daily actions of doctors.
The "patient" on the stage had his eyes closed, his facial features twitching, and his limbs were tightly bound with straps.
However, after all that work, going from bed to bed and busying themselves, they actually took nothing away.
You find it completely incomprehensible and have no idea what is going on.
Your heart is pounding, and you desperately want to peek out to see what they're doing, but you have no choice but to stay still.
You know all too well that these monsters, though seemingly clumsy, have an extremely keen sense of smell and alertness. You know that even the slightest sound could trigger another chase, one that is easy to escape but where much information won't be missed.
The monsters didn't notice you.
They seem to be performing a comical silent drama called "surgical procedure" according to some kind of internal order.
Finally, after the empty medicine bottle was tilted six times towards the six beds and the metal tweezers were pressed against the forehead six times, the leading monster nodded. The five monsters slowly straightened up and, like actors leaving the stage, left the operating room together, slowly wandering into the depths of the corridor.
You carefully climbed out and saw Sandra's face clearly.
She remained unconscious, with traces of blood at the corner of her mouth from where the tongue depressor had been used to pry open her mouth. Most strikingly, there was a clear suture line in the center of her forehead.
Ah… you squinted, finding it hard to accept this scene.
You gently brush aside her stray hairs—beneath her bangs, there are not only stitches on her forehead, but also on the sides of her scalp and behind her ears.
It looked like a rough incision had been made into the skull, but the scar at the suture site had neither healed nor rotted.
It just crawled there so freshly, as if it had been sewn up temporarily.
You stumbled back a step and almost fell.
You then checked on the remaining five people. Some of them were nurses you recognized, and some you didn't, but it wasn't hard to guess that they were nurses on duty at another time.
Everyone is like Sandra.
Hidden beneath the stray hairs and nurse's cap were actually scars.
You finally understood, with great difficulty:
If Sandra had her brain opened, then she wouldn't be a nurse.
She should be the patient.
Or, under a different power structure, she is the patient, while the "monsters" that roam the night are the real surgical operators.
You really can't figure out the relationship between the monsters and the "Sandras," but you know that no matter who's the culprit, you're just a nobody.
So, what about you? Are you like Sandra and the others?
Looking at the dense stitches on her forehead, you felt a strong chill run down your spine.
You suddenly realize that you haven't actually looked in the mirror even once all day.
It's like some kind of instinct to avoid it, or some kind of rule that prevents you from seeing it.
Your heartbeat is like a runaway gear.
You force yourself to swallow your resistance and crawl into the washroom area deep inside the ward.
You take down the emergency sodium lamp from the corner, fill a basin with water, and gently stir the silent water, forcing yourself to look, to look at the self you haven't yet confirmed.
The water trembled slightly, reflecting every detail of your face—
Below your forehead, there is a faint line.
You subconsciously brush your messy hair aside and run your fingers from the midline of your skull outwards to both sides.
Sewing thread.
It is meticulous and neat; just touching it reminds you of the "hand-sewn" process of stitching together a specimen.
You feel extremely nauseous.
If you had actually undergone craniotomy, and perhaps even had part of your brain removed, you would definitely have become mentally impaired.
And in the instance—especially in such a realistic instance—you can clearly perceive that you are not "complete" and that you are "missing" something.
This sensation gives you a moment of dissociation; you feel as if you've ascended to heaven and then plummeted back into your body.
You closed your eyes and stood silently by the pool for a long time until you stopped trembling.
You return to Sandra's bedside. She is still unconscious, and you don't know who supervised her or what kind of drugs she took. She looks like a doll that needs repair.
You don't know what you're doing, but your hands have already started moving uncontrollably—as if you already knew what was going to happen next.
You reach out and slowly peel away the seam on the top of her head.
Surprisingly smoothly, without any blood or resistance. The skin, like a handmade mask, was peeled back slightly, gently turned over.
You pinch the seam at the top of her head, and like opening a jewelry box, with a "click," the skull is opened.
Nothing can disgust you anymore.
Of course, there was no bloody brain tissue beneath the skull.
It was empty, just a hollow space filled with an object wrapped in gauze. You trembled as you pulled out the gauze and slowly untied it.
Inside, lay a small silver object—a gleaming thermometer with an embossed nurse's badge on its surface and a spring-loaded mechanism at the bottom, the spring slowly turning and making a clicking sound.
You understand nothing; you simply passively accept these "scenes."
Much later, it slowly dawned on you:
This is a "functional code".
This person, who has lost her brain and may have once been just a patient, is now a nurse, so her role, actions, language system... have all been replaced by this symbolic "tool".
And what about you?
Is there some kind of "symbol" hidden in your head, some kind of "command device" that is not the brain but determines your behavior pattern?
You put the contents of Sandra's head back in, gently closed the skull, and flipped the skin back into place.
You sit quietly next to Sandra.
A sense of irony washes over you: if she hadn't suddenly decided to "punish" you, you might have fallen asleep in the hospital room and never noticed what you were seeing tonight.
After all, since arriving in this ward, Qingsi has lost the "activity" it had in the confinement room: if you don't urge it, it will just lie there obediently.
Sandra feels that you have challenged her authority because of your outrageous behavior today, but this casual act of toying with you is leading you to the truth.
It's fortunate that you didn't leave immediately.
At least you need to find your own brain first.
Of course, it's not just your own "brain." It's also the brains of those two Flower Sisters.
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Author's Note: Tiger pessimistically told the doctor if it might be a precursor to glaucoma. The doctor sighed and said that his eyeballs and even his intraocular pressure were normal; it was just fatigue from looking at the screen too much… Okay, he got some dry eye drops and came back to type.
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