Chapter 139 The Asylum 9: Breaking the Stalemate
You really can't accept all of this.
Even if you smash the glass and leave, you're not free outside... This isn't freedom at all!
You murmured to yourself, almost forgetting the pursuers behind you.
"She's there! The one who tried to stop the treatment!"
Lynn is leading the team, but she is completely different from the Lynn you know.
And those "newly recruited" medical staff—they had already divided themselves in the struggle, deciding who was the medical staff and who would continue to be the patient. In that brief moment of chasing you, they had already put on their white coats and picked up medical equipment.
Looking at them, you don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Just a moment ago you were thinking about escaping, now all you want is a place where you can catch your breath.
"I...I volunteer to accept the punishment." You turned around and raised your hands. "Put me in solitary confinement."
This statement successfully halted the pursuers' advance.
Lynn narrowed his eyes: "What do you mean?"
"What I mean is, you win, and I accept the punishment. Let me in, lock me up for a few days. I did something wrong, and I'm willing to accept the punishment." You pointed to the ground in the direction of the solitary confinement cell, even revealing a half-smile. "I'm a patient, of course I have to accept the punishment."
Lynn seemed a little incredulous that you were being so "cooperative".
However, given the current chaotic situation and the lack of a stable new order, she clearly has more pressing matters to attend to.
She exchanged a glance with the medical staff behind her and waved her hand: "Lock her up and keep a close watch on her."
And just like that, you were pushed into the solitary confinement room once again.
The moment the lock clicked shut, you actually felt a sense of relief.
You leaned against the cold wall and gently touched your head.
There's a slight bump at the stitches, it pricks your hand, and it reminds you that, thankfully, your head won't be opened by anyone else.
"Where there's life, there's hope." You murmured to yourself, trying to calm your emotions.
This is your third time entering the solitary confinement cell. This time, you are completely focused, and even somewhat grateful for this cramped room that makes you afraid to breathe too deeply, lest you suffocate.
Going back to solitary confinement feels like going back to your hometown.
You sit quietly on the ground, waiting for night to come.
Night finally fell.
The familiar click sounded, and the gate opened by itself once again. The monsters arrived as promised.
You might as well sit up and look at them.
They seemed a little angry at your attitude, but they just pressed you down and put you back on the bed.
You insisted on keeping your eyes open, and they didn't say anything.
These complete idiots are only concerned with continuing their old ways of treating patients as they please, bluffing and self-righteous. They don't care about anything else.
You look at them—and soon realize that this batch of monsters is a little different from the last one.
There are a few monsters you recognize; they're practically old acquaintances of yours, so much so that you can tell their identities from subtle differences in their body language.
Some monsters have even more obvious characteristics: they are the "medics" who have recently joined the monster ranks. The medics who were swaggering in front of you yesterday now have empty eyes, twisted bodies, torn white coats, and their bodies are melting and beginning to transform into monsters.
Based on these facts, you can be almost certain that some familiar figures will never appear again.
It seems that monsters are born from the loss of power, and they also die out over time.
This is a fluid system—like any society, social classes age and are replaced by new "superiors."
The old "disciplinarians," no matter how violent or loyal, will one day become useless beasts, forgotten by the system itself, abandoned by history, and finally disappear completely.
You must have had a pretty stimulating day, because you're unusually relaxed to the point of being neurotic as you greet these monsters: "Welcome, new monster."
After saying that, he turned and left in front of them.
What else can they do to you? They only think they hold authority and power, but in reality, they can't even keep up with your normal walking distance.
You destroyed this generation of healthcare workers just as easily as you destroyed the previous generation last night.
No, not only that.
You've cleared everyone's minds.
You should have done it yesterday, but you still thought you shouldn't arbitrarily dispose of the "heads" of others who were in the same position as you, and that they weren't the ones you were going to overturn.
But what exactly did you do wrong?
Was it too hasty, or too foolish? You genuinely believed that as long as you were smart, rational, and hardworking enough, you could pry open the cracks in this mental hospital, tear open an exit, and completely overturn the so-called order.
In the end, meticulous planning couldn't overcome chance.
You try to use gentler, more normal methods—those you've seen on TV or imagined in your mind—to temporarily let them find rules they can rely on amidst the chaos, while waiting for a better authority to give them real help.
But through a series of coincidences, the slaves only learned how to create new slaves.
As for external forces...
There is no "outside" at all, from beginning to end.
This is a completely isolated system; the beauty you see in the outside world is all fabricated. The so-called "escape" is nothing but an irony.
You can only hope for the dean's approval, then get proper certification from the system, and then go out.
Is this the only way?
You spent the night fully conscious, watching the zombie-like monsters come and go, only to disappear on their own as soon as dawn broke.
You moved freely in the deserted hospital, and you walked into the ward of the tall, thin woman.
As always, she, Xiao Ai, and Xiao Yu are the only three people you haven't harmed.
You lean against the tall, thin woman's crooked iron bed.
The anxiety of waiting and a subconscious unease made your fingers tap a rhythm on your leg—one, two, three, four, and then it started again. One, two, three…
It's eerily quiet here. They've all gone mad, and Lynn and the others, who just became medical staff yesterday, will turn into monsters tonight and stay here forever.
You stand alone on the ruins you created, utterly alone, unable even to cheer or applaud yourself.
The game continues—even if no one is playing against you right now.
You are not reconciled.
You've done everything you could, and you're acutely aware that you're getting closer and closer to the finish line, but there's no finish line, no podium.
Dean – What kind of answer sheet does the dean need to consider to be qualified to go?
You know she's still watching you from somewhere, or rather—she doesn't need to watch at all; she knows you'll lose sooner or later. Either by someone else, or by this endless emptiness.
"Is the dean not showing up because I haven't gone mad yet?" you murmured.
You look at the tall, thin woman's face.
She was among the first "independents" to go insane, but she never tried to save herself.
She did say some crazy things—that staying here for a long time would probably cause some mental problems—but now when you think back on it, no, you always feel that she was the real wise one.
You should listen to her opinion.
You sit at the foot of her bed, and she sits with her eyes closed, motionless, like a curled-up specimen.
You didn't disturb her, just sat quietly. You told yourself: wait a little longer, until the medication wears off, until she wakes up naturally on her own.
You will find inspiration in her words.
"You shouldn't have come to see me."
The tall, thin woman finally opened her eyes; she had immediately guessed why you had come.
Her voice was dry and hoarse, so hoarse that it could stir up dust in the air.
"Don't even think about leaving. Do you think you're the first madman to try to escape? No, many others have tried. Unfortunately, they either became even madder or turned into monsters." Her gaze was like a deep well, so calm it sent chills down your spine. "And me, little one, if you want any advice from me, you should know that I've lived long because I never struggle."
You frowned, unconsciously clenching your fists: "Are you trying to make me submit to fate?"
“It’s not obedience, it’s acceptance,” she said casually.
You laughed, but there was no joy in your smile: "You know, this really hurts me. Just thinking about how you treat humiliation as part of your lives makes me sick. You say you don't struggle in order to survive, but what are you living for?"
She didn't speak, she just looked at you quietly, so calmly that it was as if you were the one who had gone completely mad.
You shake your head and continue, "I am not you. I am going out, I have to go out."
“You won’t get out.” She interrupted you, no longer looking at you, but staring at the illusory sky outside the glass. “Your fate was already written. Didn’t you smash the glass? Can’t you see what’s going on in this mental hospital? It’s not made of bricks and tiles; it’s made of the failures of each and every one of us. Ha! You think you’re different from me? You just haven’t fully woken up yet.”
You don't want to hear a word she says, and you almost want to stand up and yell at her.
But then, you suddenly calmed down. You realized that continuing the argument was pointless.
You can't tell her how you got here, nor can you reveal your secrets. But the more you hide, the more you'll sense that she knows far more than she says.
So you countered, "Since you're so clear-headed, why don't you leave?"
Her pupils flickered slightly, and she slowly raised a finger to point to her head: "Because a part of me is no longer here."
You were stunned for a moment.
You lowered your head and touched your head.
"So... as long as your mind isn't complete, you can't leave?"
You've thought about these things, but what you're worried about is how your incomplete self will proceed to the next level if you leave.
“It’s not just your brain.” Her eyes deepened. “It’s yourself. You need to be your complete self. Have you ever considered that in this world, who you are isn’t determined by just a brain?”
You were stunned.
She sighed softly.
She was sleeping soundly, so she had endless patience: "Haha, she definitely didn't tell you that this is the rule of the mental hospital. You are you, but you are also not you. When you say 'I want to go home,' who is that 'I'? Your body is different now than when you came here. Your thoughts, feelings, and actions have all been 'educated' here."
You murmured, "You mean, as long as I'm here, I'm definitely... not myself anymore?"
She just smiled and didn't say anything.
She seemed pleased that you accepted reality and stayed here obediently.
But a certain thought flashes through your mind like lightning.
That's it! It's myself!
Regardless of whether your previous understanding was right or wrong, you have always prioritized finding that part of your brain—and you have searched the place upside down, but you can't find your brain anywhere except in the dean's office!
But, but, regaining yourself, all you want is to regain yourself: can't the personalities in the mental hospital be quickly switched by "changing brain contents"?
Each implanted "prop" carries a kind of cognition, an identity, and perhaps even some unfounded memories.
So in other words, your "self" does not depend entirely on that small missing piece of the brain.
You suddenly stand up.
"Thank you," you said, your voice clear and decisive.
The tall, thin woman froze, then roared angrily, "You will fail! The people here always fail!"
“Come back! Stop resisting! Come back!” she cried, pounding the mattress.
You didn't respond, you just left her hospital room.
In your mind, all the scattered clues gradually come together:
Xiaoyu became mentally impaired because her "consciousness" was taken away, but she still had a body. Xiao Ai was influenced by Xiaoyu because although that part of her brain was installed in her body, it still retained the "residue" of the original owner. The reason Shanzhuo turned against her was because you put "Green Silk" into her brain—this prop was originally yours, an extension of your will.
You finally understand: to leave the mental hospital, you don't necessarily have to push open the door, but you have to completely detach yourself from the "language," "memory," and "identity" of this mental hospital—take back everything that belongs to you, and erase this process of being indoctrinated and controlled.
The real way out is not at the door, but in your heart.
You walked to the nurses' station.
You sat at the nurses' station for a long time.
It was a deserted place, with a creaking bar stool and a table piled high with dusty files, some of which still had dried bloodstains on them—probably remnants of yesterday's fight.
You find a stack of blank assessment forms—perhaps once used to record a patient's daily mood swings, now your own papers.
There are pens here too.
You lowered your head and continued writing.
From the first day you arrived at the mental hospital, every detail, every glance, every trace of fear and struggle poured out of your mind like a raging flood. You thought you had forgotten a lot, but when you actually picked up a pen, you realized—no, you hadn't forgotten. You had just suppressed them. You packaged yourself so well with "calmness" and "planning" that even you thought that fear and helplessness had long since vanished.
But now, they've arrived.
You wrote about Xiaoyu's empty eyes; you wrote about Xiaoai's strong, almost obsessive persistence and favoritism, that chaotic attachment stemming from the brain transplant, perhaps a kind of redemption, perhaps a kind of possession.
You wrote about Sandra, and you also wrote about your struggle with Lynn, and your battles with all those "monsters" wearing medical masks. You wrote faster and faster, as if there wasn't enough time, as if you would forget yourself again if you didn't continue writing.
You wrote down in detail how you saw through the discipliners' strategies, how you used the monsters' rules to fight back against them, and how you endured the loneliness and fear of the three solitary confinement sessions.
You write so fast, as if you're desperately trying to grasp something that's about to slip away—that's yourself.
That's not all.
You wrote about being scolded by your teacher for talking in school when you were young, about secretly crying when you didn't do well on your first test in junior high school, about the high spirits you felt when you graduated from university, and about the occasional feeling of despair after you started working. You wrote about Xiaoming—whom you have come to regard as your best friend, as well as Xiaofang and the others.
You didn't miss a single one of those unforgettable experiences in the dungeons.
Your handwriting is getting denser and heavier, the ink penetrating into every fiber of the paper.
You're not writing; you're hammering a steel weapon of "self."
You've never looked back like this before, nor have you ever examined yourself like this. You clearly feel the changes in yourself, but these changes brought about by these experiences are the imprint of your self, the mark of your soul.
When you wrote the last sentence, "I want to go home," you used up almost all the ink, and your hand was shaking so badly it was unrecognizable.
You put down your pen and look at the thick stack of manuscripts in front of you.
Your soul, your everything. This is you all along!
However, a strange unease rises in your heart.
"And then...?"
Ask yourself.
Writing these things down is only the first step. They can't just be a stack of papers.
You know the rules of the mental hospital—only when they are put into the brain will they become the true "self," a core that cannot be easily extracted or erased.
You gently lower your head and take out a strand of hair from your pocket.
It is quietly curled up in your palm, as if it were fast asleep.
This strand of hair is what the powerful yet gentle ghost bride left for you.
She was a woman filled with hatred, but you could clearly remember the calm and kindness in her eyes.
Even though you didn't do anything for her, she still kindly helped you.
She can't speak, but the gifts she gives have always silently and enduringly protected you.
But now, you've also noticed the dullness of this strand of black hair.
It no longer has that subtle sheen that used to give it, like perfectly maintained hair.
It's likely that, for a prop to achieve the kind of activity that can cover a patient's brain nerves and even reshape consciousness, it has been almost exhausted after being used in battle and to support another consciousness several times.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice trembling uncontrollably.
You know, if you use it again, it won't be the same tool that pulls you out of the mire. Instead... it will be the last time it burns out of its own fire.
You should be careful. But you have no other choice.
“I can’t waste you.” You stroked her dark hair. “You gave yourself to me. I can’t stop halfway.”
You fought back the tears welling in your eyes, tucked the strand of hair into your bosom, and stepped out of the nurses' station. You needed a vessel, a "friend" that could hold it, a temporary reawakening.
You walk into the ward area, your eyes scanning the patients like a hawk's—you don't want to choose those who are too calm, nor those who are too chaotic.
You ultimately chose a young girl with a dazed look in her eyes, who was blankly trying to scoop something out of thin air with a spoon. She had a slight smile on her face, like someone in a dream.
You whisper, "I'm sorry."
She didn't resist. You skillfully opened her head and carefully placed that strand of hair inside.
A few seconds later, she opened her eyes.
“My dear friend,” she said, her voice as soft as a dream, “Hello.”
Her face still retained some...like the expression of everyone else controlled by Qing Si before, but it was clearly just a struggle to maintain her consciousness and prevent it from being completely depleted. Her hands trembled slightly, and when you held them, tears rolled down your face for the first time.
"I need you to help me... open my head."
She nodded. You handed her the whole stack of manuscripts.
“Then, put these in.” You paused, then choked back tears as you whispered, “I want to be whole again. Not to rebel, not to prove my innocence. I just… want to go home.”
She smiled, slowly and deeply.
"Then let's go home."
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Author's Note: This long chapter is finally coming to an end! It tells the story of how to protect yourself when you are powerless to resist within a morbid structure. I hope I've expressed it clearly. [Orange Heart] Before writing this chapter, I rewatched *One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest*. I won't comment on the patriarchal aspects of the film for now, but as an embodiment of the American spirit—the pursuit of freedom—I learned a lot from it, which inspired the creation of this story with an American feel. *One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest* didn't provide an answer on what to do after completely breaking the system and gaining freedom, and I can't provide an answer on how to pursue complete liberation either. However: always maintaining oneself and independence is the greatest freedom an individual can achieve. This is my view. ^ ^
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