White City Murder Expo

Butcher didn't know how long he had been in the ward.Nurses came to deliver medicines on time every day. He tried to refuse and resist, and the little trick of not swallowing the pills failed to fool them.He began to grow lethargic, and despite intellectual reluctance, he inevitably found his heart rate gradually dropping at any moment of stillness, followed by drowsiness.Once, it was dusk when Butcher woke up, the sky outside the window was orange, and there was only a dim afterglow in the room.Butcher got up and got out of bed, only to find that the man who had been lying on the next bed had left, and the sheets had been replaced with new ones, as if no one had ever been lying on them, and everything happened quietly while he was asleep.Butcher sat back on his bed and wailed until the nurse outside came.

"What's wrong with you?" the nurse asked.

"I need to see my father," he yelled, "you hear me? Call Sue Seides to see me!"

"I will, I will, don't get too excited, Butcher..."

"You call him."

"Before that, you have to take the medicine first."

"Hit now."

"must."

"Can you promise me that?"

The nurse sighed helplessly: "I promise."

"Jingle Bell--"

The piercing phone ringing rang incessantly.I shuffled over, picked up the receiver, and put it down quickly and hard.I don't want to answer any calls.I hate the phone ringing, I unplug the phone line so no one will bother me again.Is there such a possibility that the matter of installing a telephone in someone's home is entirely a conspiracy of those businessmen, calm down and think about it, do you really need a telephone?Who would want to be found 24 hours a day?

I pushed open the bedroom door and saw a man sitting on the bed, hugging his knees and looking out the window.I saw the back of his flaxen head.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"You're drunk." He turned his head and lifted the quilt so I could see his ankles tied to the bed legs. "You tied me here."

I leaned against the door frame and watched him, I was so drunk that I couldn't even see the man's face clearly.I have no recollection of him himself, but I do vaguely remember dragging a man out of the trunk; I also remember how I tied a tight knot on the leg of the bed.In short, if someone was really tied to my bed—the bed that once belonged to Sirian, it was probably me who did it, after all, there is no one else here.

I walked towards him slowly, sat on the edge of the bed, and leaned towards him.He flinched at first, but didn't resist when I stroked his hair.

"What's your name?" I asked, but quickly changed my mind. "Shh, shhh, don't tell me."

"I told you," he said, resignedly, "that you don't remember."

I made him something to eat after sobering up, and he paid mediocre compliments, emphasizing that it wasn't my flattery.Generally speaking, he is a very worry-free person. I don't need to threaten him, he will be obedient.At first I thought he looked a lot like Cillian, because the man was tired and spent most of the day in a listless daze, or dozing intermittently.I put a book next to his bed, and he reads some every day, but he hasn't finished it for a long time.

I was nice to him for a while, when I genuinely felt I had found the perfect Cillian replacement.But I was wrong.As we got along longer, it didn't take long for me to discover that he and Cillian were still different.He became dependent on me, showing meekness and affection, and that was only the beginning of the disillusionment.He grabbed me one night and begged me to be with him, and we hugged for a long time.I think I like that feeling too, just hugging and doing nothing; but then it changed, he put his hand in my clothes.I pushed him away, said goodnight and left, and I heard him cry from the other side of the door, but I found it annoying.Around two in the morning I pushed open his door and smothered him with a pillow.I think I miss Cillian's gentle fatigue, maybe it's because the distance can never be shortened.

I lift the pillow off his face, and I'll still sleep on it at night, just maybe turn it over.The man's expression didn't look painful, but when I was handling the body, I found that there were cut marks on his wrists.

This discovery made me feel a little heavy for a moment.I regret killing him, and the more I think about it, the more I think he wasn't that bad.Maybe we could -- we could have been partners.I am not willing to bury him in the ground like that, I want to spend more time with him, we can chat and talk about me.Why didn't I ask his name?Judging by his face, his name might be Evan.I took Evan to my bed and slept with him all night and woke up the next morning to find him completely stiff.

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