White City Murder Expo

In this era, everything in Chicago conformed to people's imagination of slaughterhouses, brutal and primitive, and the streets were full of the stench of animals and people.We live in an air like this, gradually losing our sense of smell, taste, and sight; the moment you start to think it's okay here is the moment you're dead, hopelessly happy Chicagoan.

I am done.After that soggy dream, with the headache and tinnitus that the hangover gave me, I woke up to find myself hard and the sun outside was bright, dispelling what I imagined to be a damp moss growing wantonly on my skin.

I don't know when I came back to bed from the bathtub, just like I don't know how the dream started.I still remember those hands, warm, rubbing my lips with their fingertips, the index finger and middle finger together to pry open the jaw, and go inward along the tongue inch by inch. Going back, he was touching my molars, like checking whether an animal is healthy or not.Saliva overflowed from the corner of my mouth, and I couldn't help crying.I would have begged for mercy if I had the chance, shameful or not, but my mouth and voice were blocked by his fingers.

"Sue," the man said, "I love hearing you cry."

His other hand was scrambling on my chest as if trying to squeeze something out of it, screwing my nipples red.I bit his hand hard, and he pulled his fingers out. I thought it was the end, but I didn't expect to kiss me when I opened my mouth to breathe.

I didn't bite him again, and I didn't do anything except whimper. When he kissed me, he grabbed my neck and squeezed my Adam's apple inward. My face was slightly congested and hot, and I rolled my eyes because of suffocation.After a while, he let go of his hand, allowing me to push him away, panting for breath.He pulled me back into his arms by my hair, pinched the back of my neck, and caressed me, both comforting and threatening.I did not resist.

What happened next, I don't know, my memory ends here.Now, when I wake up, I don’t feel any pain beyond the norm, only my skin is sticky with cold sweat, my lips are dry and peeled, like a goldfish that died on the ground, its scales are gray and fragile, and it emits an ominous fishy smell.

I'm used to waking up with a hangover, a severe migraine, and feeling dizzy when I shake my head.I don't know when I got out of bed and opened the drawer of the bedside table. When I recovered, the gun was already in my hand.I don't believe in Jesus, but I would like to believe that this is God's will: to end everything at this moment.

I loaded a bullet into the revolver, pulled the safety catch, barrel to temple, and I handed my fate to one in six chances today, click.Nothing happened.

There are so many frustrating things.I often think that a person's life is like an inch of bleeding wound, a string of footprints wiped away by the rainstorm, and a turntable that keeps making mistakes.

Or imagine a tank of goldfish—the glass tank is smashed, the goldfish leaks out, struggles on the ground, twitches, bounces, you walk over, lift your feet, and there is only a small puddle of flesh on the ground, attached to the translucent Orange tail fin.

Mother.I muttered to myself, MA--MA--Matilda.

The sound of turning a doorknob.

I had just put the gun under my pillow when Butcher pushed the door open.I looked at him when he looked at me, and then there was a silence.

I asked, "What do you know about your mother?"

"Like you told me," Butcher said, "she left us when I was little. She went to Philadelphia."

No, I said, you remember wrongly.She went to Florida.