Chapter 26 Chapter 25 of Part Two

Estelle was the last stumbling block.Just kill her and I'll be free.There was no difficulty in putting her to death.The only trick is to know that there is no trick. Killing someone for the first time is like losing your virginity.I had broken through, entered the new world of adulthood, and expected people to see this sharpness in me, this new light in my eyes, this authority.It's a pity they can't see it, but that's fine.In other ways, it's like losing your virginity: a chaotic, almost comical fumbling, a struggle on the couch, a kind of embarrassment and disbelief, a stickiness.Her name is Jenny.I mean the first person I had sex with; not the first person I killed.When she was fifteen years old, she bent over me with disheveled clothes, her cheeks were dirty.She suddenly became very heavy.I remember just wanting her to go away, but she couldn't because it was her parents' house.Making love is also a lot like killing people, because when it's done, after the passion, the thrill, the intimacy, my main thought is: Is that it?Is that all?It's that simple?

I looked at Jenny lying next to me with one breast exposed, next to me.That was her first time too.In fact, she took the initiative, held my hand tightly at the party, gave me Valentine's Day gifts, and even invited me to her house while her mother was away.Now I find that she really cares, cares about what happened, cares about me.She came up to me and kissed me on the cheek, and I was blown away.It's going to be her first, even first love story, and I don't feel like shit.When things just happened naturally, I felt like we were two bad actors.I later found out that Jenny didn't know she was an actress.She thought it was true.

It was like a cat I had as a child.We have a pitifully small garden with an embankment that surrounds the railway at the back.Except when he was sleeping, he stayed there, staring at a clump of bushes.I've never seen it grab anything, but we found evidence under the kitchen table; a headless bird, a mole, the lower body of a mouse.It's a poor, canned-food pet cat bred for thousands of years to become some kind of stuffed toy; fierce lion. Growing up, sometimes I wanted to rant at people: You think this is all fake, don't you?But I never did that, not even once.When I was eleven years old, I went to Guoyi.A few of us students sat in the back of the classroom and endured a boring math class;The Benton boys beat their own arms with the point of the compass.Paul.Ray said he had the means to bleed himself and drive the point into his forearm.We all leaned forward to look, only to see a round red dot popping out of his snow-white skin.

I laughed out loud, Paul.Ray whispered angrily, saying that I would never dare to do this.Hearing him say that, suddenly a force sprouted in my heart.Give me the compass, I said, give it to me, and I'll show it to you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, one-of-a-kind show.Although my eyes were blurred immediately, I heard someone crying loudly, and the sound of the desk being knocked down, and then there was an uproar, and I was dragged out of the classroom, leaving a trail of blood behind me. When you do that kind of thing, you won't get into trouble anymore.Because the matter is too big, there is no corresponding punishment system.After intensive care from the nurses and a full day in the emergency room, my grade teacher and the principal came to talk to me.They talked to me in low, sympathetic tones.As soon as I left the office, I saw my mother sitting on the bench and weeping.I hugged her and looked over my shoulder, hoping not to be seen by anyone I knew.

In the end, I was sent for treatment.The doctor was wearing a sweater, and the walls were covered with brightly colored and cheerful posters, and the floor was piled with toys.He showed me a few pictures, discussed them, and asked me about my life.Although I was only eleven years old, I found the rules quickly.He's not a real doctor and he doesn't want to help me, or make me better.He wanted to test me, to see if I was revealing, to show that I was different.It's like a sci-fi scene where a guy could be a robot or a human, and you have to ask him questions to tell the difference.That's what he did to me.The people in the picture are in twos and threes, and he asked me to talk about the relationship between these people.It couldn't be more obvious that I had to see them as normal, good people.So I said the first picture looks like a mother with a child, maybe the mother just picked him up from school.He asked me where I thought my father was, and I said he was probably at work.I looked at the doctor and he nodded and smiled at me.

Strangely, when I look back, I know very well what not to say to the doctor.I told him: I did something wrong about the compass.I don't know what happened to me at the time.It's not all a lie either.I did make a mistake.Just once, I lifted my mask.Give it a go with real guns.I debunk the imaginary game that everyone is immersed in, and show them the real flesh and blood, but people don't like the truth that they have witnessed. The doctor asked about my father.He probably looked at my school file.I understand that the point is to look sad, but not overwhelmed; I have to act like I miss my father, but not too much.I said that was a long time ago.I think that's enough to say.One of the pictures shows a child with a cat.He asked me if I had a cat.Although I was young at that time, I knew what he wanted to say to me.He wondered if I was cruel to cats.I didn't do that, and if I did I wouldn't tell him.I just told him the fact that I once had a cat, cared for it, fed it, and sometimes it came to my bed to sleep.Then he changed the subject and asked me about other things, like hobbies and whether I had made friends.I could feel him losing interest.He's looking for spicy stuff, but I'm sure he can't find any.I have to appear normal and uninteresting.

I've always been good at hiding things, especially from my mom, but as time went on, I couldn't be sure what she saw through and what she didn't.Sometimes I thought she was stupid: a big-boned, slow-moving woman with thick thighs and thick, pale, straw-like hair; .But sometimes, when I look at her, and look into her gray eyes, her eyes give me a tickling, uneasy feeling, as if for a moment, my clothes tightened. Her name is Mary.She dropped out of school after meeting my dad, and got pregnant with me before she was twenty, so she should be quite young, but I always think of her as very old, old and boring.So when I heard Jerry.I was shocked when Buck told friends outside the newsstand that she was not bad.The past is vivid: it was not bad.I tried to appreciate her from Jerry's perspective, but it didn't help.I still think she is too big, she never puts on makeup, doesn't comb her hair well, and always wears tent-like clothes to cover her figure.It is said that my dad is not a good guy, but she can't even keep this kind of bad guy.Just me and her company, day after day, week after week, year after year of dreary days.She works in a flower shop during the day and irons clothes for others at night.She cooks without even taking off her coat, then sits with me to eat and tries to ask how my day is going.I always say what she wants to hear, and then I can turn on the TV and pretend she doesn't exist, that she isn't looking at me with gray eyes.what's on your mind?she asked me in that gentle voice.And I always say: Mom, I don't think about anything.But of course that's a lie and I'm thinking she's got a dead fish face; I'm thinking I wish she'd just shut up and let me go.She coughed non-stop all day long.I was lying on the bed, coughing incessantly.She was coughing and coughing while ironing downstairs; upstairs, she was coughing and coughing in the small room opposite my bedroom.

I tried.I really tried to be a good baby in her mind.Of course I always remember her birthday, but I remember other things too.Her wedding anniversary, plus the dates she's been to, even her dad's birthday.I wrote it all down, but it's really not necessary.I have a good memory.Sometimes I have insomnia and I'll lie in bed and go over the memory in my head to make sure my thoughts are clear.Other people's birthdays, places of birth, phone numbers, their favorite foods, songs and TV shows, stupid things they're afraid of, stories I've told or overheard.You never know when these things will come in handy.You have to be ready at all times.

While I was being treated, a lot of money had been stolen, but the doctor didn't know it.And not just money.Whenever I go into a store, I just drop by and pocket a chocolate bar or tuck a magazine under my jacket.It doesn't mean I need them, or feel entitled to them.I stole even more fiercely at home. Although I couldn't get away with it, I didn't stop there.Sometimes I throw the stolen T-shirts in the trash as soon as I step out of the store.I've never been caught, and I don't know why, maybe it's not that I'm super smart or clever, maybe people just don't notice.Anyway, doing this makes the buzzing in my head go away.I prefer to steal from real people.The trick to keeping the other person from finding out they've been stolen is getting the right amount of money so they don't notice it's gone.Sometimes people look confused as they rummage through pockets and wallets.But the most they can say is, where did the money go?without actually doing anything.After all, it's just small bills and copper coins.

I started with my mother.The first time I stole a five pound note from her purse.It's like a quiz to see what happens.As a result nothing happened.So I gradually gained an inch.Once I stole twenty pounds to buy a pair of canvas sneakers. I showed her the shoes that night and said I bought them from a market vendor for ten pounds.Later, I copied the same tricks on others, but always carefully, carefully, just like being a spy. You make up your mind and act on it, it's that simple.I have so many things I want to do.One of them was getting girls into bed before they were seventeen.I did it.The other thing is to become a football master.I used to take the ball to the little field by the railroad and kick it against the wall, and practice keeping it on the ground for hours.Although he did not become one of the best football players because of this, he entered the school team as he wished, which is not satisfactory.Being part of the varsity team means I belong, and I'm cool.Hairspray on my head, scars on my legs, girls like me, or at least they say so.Everyone is fake, but the difference between them and me is: they didn't realize it, but I did.Therefore I am superior.I'm more honest than other people, I know who I am and I know I'm alone.

I've always had friends, I even had a confidant, and his name was Jonathan.whiteley.I still keep in touch with him now.He still lives in Sheffield.We would call and text each other and reminisce about the good old days when we saw each other.Talk about how you used to play tennis against the wall of his house.Talk about how you drank cider till you died when you were twelve.Talk about how to make trouble in math class before.He was chased by a ram once while we were camping; we went to a pop festival together and survived three days on beer, potato chips, and marshmallows;But I never mentioned the past when I defrauded his elder sister's credit card, nor did I talk about the time I had a quarrel with him and smashed the glass of his house with a stone in the middle of the night. I can't even remember what the quarrel was about.Another time, I stole one of his favorite T-shirts, rolled it up and hid it in my schoolbag, sandwiched between physics and art textbooks, and never returned it to him.I still have that T-shirt, it's one of my favorite pieces of clothing.It doesn't smell like Jonathan anymore, just me. I sometimes get headaches.When I was thirteen years old, I had a headache for the first time, and I didn't know what was wrong with me.Later, of course, I was more familiar with this feeling. From the tingling of the skin and the pain when I touched my body, I knew that I was going to have a headache.But the first experience started from the feeling of waiting, not waiting for the headache, but knowing that the headache will come quietly.Then came the nauseating throbbing of my left eyelid, as if something had penetrated my temple.A clammy, shivering feeling made me sick even more.The light flickered and the pain increased so much that I had to close the curtains and lie on the bed with my arms over my eyes, but even so, I could feel them throbbing in their sockets.Eventually I had to go to sleep, and when I woke up the pain subsided and I felt stronger, cleansed, and alerter than ever. For the first three years I had headaches once or twice a month and looked forward to them because of the renewed, glowing feeling that followed.Gradually, the number of headaches became less and less.I get a headache about twice a year now, and I'm embracing the energy that flows through my body.I love headaches.I'm good at pain, it's one of my secrets.I carry a secret, but no one knows it.Men are blind: they are blind because they do not want to see the facts.People are stupid, and they are stupid because they don't want to know the truth.I want to be born again.