Chapter 15 five

I was awakened by the gunfire, sat up in bed, and looked around half asleep.It was still quite dark in the room, and morning had not yet come.It's a Monday, and it's been a few weeks since the Orientation Party. Gunshots?is it possible?Maybe I was dreaming, or maybe the neighbor next door slammed the door hard.But why would someone slam a door in the middle of the night?Could the sound be coming from outside?Speaking of the outside, I don't know exactly where I am, or what is outside the walls of my unit.Is it a village or a city beyond the walls?or just the forest?Or is it an industrial area?I also don't know if my apartment walls are facing the outside or if my apartment walls are exterior walls.The sound I heard could be gunshots, cracks, bangs, bombs, explosions, or the sound of a truck carrying flammable materials hitting another vehicle, spewing flammable gas, and then exploding. violent sound.Maybe there's a serious fire outside, burning like hell and belching black, poisonous smoke.Am I in danger?Are we in danger?Maybe not.In the end, I thought, it should be just a dream.I lay down and tried to fall asleep again, but couldn't.With my mind fully awake, I got up and got out of bed, made coffee, went back to bed with a cup, sat under the covers and sipped my morning coffee, watching the dawn light gradually come on.The light filtering through the louvers in the walls looks very realistic.

I feel almost at home, and that's how my day used to start.Well, I used to start my day with thermal pants, a padded jacket over my pajamas, a hat with earflaps tightly on, and a sleepy walk with York.When I get back, I'll sit on the bed, drink my coffee, and watch the dawn fall, with my laptop next to me. I turned on the light, opened the drawer of the bedside table, and took out the envelope containing photos of Niels, York, my hometown and family, my notebook and my favorite pen, put the envelope back, and pushed the Thoughts for photos, close the drawer.I haven't seen those photos since I came to work, and I doubt I'll ever look at them again.

I started writing, not a novel, but a short story about a single woman in her forties who gave birth to a deformed baby, similar to the fetus in Megan's painting, except that the baby in the story was not a fetus, but a baby. Fully developed baby.The baby is fully developed and born, but it is severely deformed, a large part of the brain is missing, as if it has been erased, the brain is only the center for hunger, thirst and certain bodily functions, such as swallowing, urination, defecation, etc. .Babies are not sure if they will live for weeks, days or hours.Even if the baby miraculously survives the first critical period, it may be completely incapacitated, lacking vision, hearing, smell or feeling, unable to recognize or connect with others, and will need someone to care for it 24 hours a day, becoming a heavy burden .The mother of the baby would never be able to cope with this situation without the huge support from society.The question is: Can this woman be recognized as a real mother in reality?Can it be deemed necessary?The question is: can a woman be considered wanted if the child she bears can never be connected to her, unable to make any contribution?

At 11:30, I had to stop writing, change clothes, and go out to have a good lunch in order to cope with the exercise experiment in the afternoon.I wrote three and a half pages in five hours, which was a good grade.I tore those few pages out of the notebook and put them upside down in a plastic clip next to the computer on my desk, planning to type them into the computer tomorrow morning and continue writing. I head to the Terrace, which often serves solid, tasty salads.I choose a bowl of salad with tuna, eggs, peas, iceberg lettuce, and tomato, pour a glass of freshly squeezed juice, and take a seat in my favorite seat, which overlooks the lily pond in Monet's garden.

At this time, there was no one in the restaurant, and the restaurant would not become noisy and crowded until about half past twelve.I thought I might run into Meghan, because she also used to have an early lunch, but Meghan wasn't in the restaurant and didn't show up afterwards. After the meal, I went downstairs to the Winter Garden, lying on the grass, looking at the sky through the glass dome, and when it was almost time, I took the elevator downstairs to the exercise experiment, and went to the second floor to see if Megan in the studio.I wanted to tell her that her drawings of deformed fetuses had inspired me to start writing again.I think it's important to let her know about it.Megan's studio is between two studios, one of which is used to edit the film, and the other is shared by two animators named Eric and Bid.

The door to Megan's studio was ajar, and I knocked, but there was no answer.I pushed the door open, and the heavy smell of linseed oil, turpentine, and charcoal ashes filled my nostrils. Megan?I yelled loudly, but still no one answered.Unfinished and completed sketches and paintings piled up against the walls.In the center of the studio stands an easel with a painting that has just been painted on, and next to the easel is a small table filled with tubes of paint, jars with clean brushes, some with lids unscrewed that may contain Jar of oil or turpentine, two palettes, rags filled with various colours.Studios have cubicles, kitchenettes and sinks for rinsing brushes and palettes.I went into the small room, which was also empty.I felt a bit like I was prying into Meghan's private sphere, which I was, so I backed out as soon as I found out Meghan wasn't there.

On my way to the elevator, I passed the animator's studio and knocked on the door. who?There was a voice from inside the door. I opened the door and walked in. There was a battered sofa squeezed between a drawing board and a computer desk. Sketchbooks, pens, and chalk were strewn across the furniture and the floor.Eric and Fan Ya are sitting on the sofa drinking coffee, Eric's arm is around Fan Ya's shoulder, and Bi De is nowhere to be seen. Have you seen Megan?I asked. I haven't seen it for a while, Eric replied: She may donate blood, if she shows up, do you want to tell me that you are looking for her?

I said no, anyway, I will meet her at H3 tonight.I left Eric and Vanya, walked to the elevator, went downstairs to the exercise lab, and spent four hours on the rowing machine without thinking about Megan.After the exercise experiment, I returned to H3's residence, exhausted and with trembling upper arms.I saw Megan's door slightly open, just like her studio, except this time I heard voices coming from inside the door, it was the voices of two people.And neither was Meghan's voice. Now even my legs started shaking.I stepped out of my almost limp and trembling feet, walked to the door, and pushed the door open.

Inside the room were Dick and Henrietta, who were browsing Meghan's things casually, speaking in the same manner as usual.Henrietta was holding a black garbage bag, and Dick was dragging a large metal box with wheels on the bottom.The metal box reminded me of the gurney devices that hospitals use to transport dead patients, only the metal box is shorter and deeper. I stood in the doorway and Dick noticed me first. Oh, bad!He said, looking at me, but speaking to Henrietta: It seems we forgot to lock the door. Oh, bad!Hanlieta followed, put down the bag and walked up to me, took my arm, and turned her head, looking like she wanted to say something sympathetic or comforting.But I didn't want to hear it, I broke free from her grip, twisted my heels, and sprinted towards my room, slamming the door and locking it (this was just a symbolic gesture, because each staff member has a pair of locks that can open all residents' rooms) master key).

I stood inside the door, not knowing where to go next.This is the first time I find monitors to be very annoying.Eating, sleeping, reading, writing, watching TV, talking on the phone, brushing your teeth, picking your nose, picking your ears, taking a shower, urinating, defecating, changing tampons, it doesn’t matter if anyone watches, but I ask myself: Why should I let Those bastards see this? What this means is that my feet finally go limp, leaving me slumped helplessly on the floor, just sitting there, not moving, with my back against the door, not restraining myself, not bowing my head like a cat Howled like a mortally wounded animal.