White City Murder Expo

We sold number one for a good price.His body was complete, and the doctor who bought the body was obviously satisfied. After examining it, he said: "This gentleman will be very useful. I just want a skeleton, just like this one." Pointing to a skeleton next to it, the skull is round, the teeth are neat, and the bones are bleached very white.

Cillian's originally frowning brows calmed down after receiving the money.Although he muttered on the way back: "Isn't he surprised at all, a person who died completely?"

"Oh, Cillian," I said, "if the doctor thinks any more, we're all over."

In a blink of an eye, the World Expo came to an end, and other irrelevant content began to appear in the newspapers, and the number of missing person revelations published in the corners also increased.

It sucks to see familiar names and pictures on it, but luckily most of the missing people have nothing to do with me.Many a young immigrant woman disappeared into the Chicago crowd like a drop into a pool, and it was often a long time before their relatives realized that their daughter or sister had not heard from them for a long time.It’s some of my customers who have status. Their disappearance will attract the police and detectives to take turns. Those police dogs will sometimes visit my pharmacy and ask some questions suspiciously. At the same time, they will pretend to record in a notebook - Maybe it's a random painting?It was so funny sniffing around, and it took me a while to maintain the nonchalant, slightly disturbed attitude of a strange shopkeeper.

All in all, things are going pretty well.Maybe I'm still a bit talented in this area, and I'm getting more and more practiced.Murder is something that can be done as long as you persist, but most people would never try it in their dreams.

I took out another note, and after a little preparation, I went to visit this person.He was a little surprised to see me, and soon greeted me happily through the door.After a simple foreshadowing, I suggested that he go to other places to relax, and write to his relatives to inform his relatives that he would go on a recuperation trip.

"Will you come with me?" he asked.

"I will."

"Then," he hesitated, "shall I write your name in the letter?"

"None of your relations know me, and it would be a trouble to explain who I am; and the nephews and nieces will worry whether you will be deceived," I said, "don't let them take you for a baby, sir. You have the right to decide for yourself where to go and what to say, it is only polite to inform them."

He took it for granted.

I expect that his relatives will correspond with him once or twice after receiving the letter. It is safer to reply to such letters in person.If there is no accident, I can kill him the next time we meet.

On the way back, I took out a small notebook from my pocket and wrote down the strange house numbers that I happened to notice on the road, which is also a habit I have developed recently.I recorded many, many addresses. When I was doing nothing in the store, I took out the stationery and wrote anonymous letters and sent them. At the same time, I left the unlocked mailbox in front of the antique shop on the opposite street as the receiving address.So far, about six letters have been sent, but no reply has been received.I don't know if I'm talking too boring?I just want a friend.

There are fewer and fewer notes in the box.

Seriously, I don't know why I've done so much and Cillian's attitude has never changed.He quickly adapted to the current situation, from just questioning at the beginning, to now telling me "we don't really need so many corpses"... He became the one who can decide what should be done now.This sentence affected my actions and made me feel bitter.What does it mean?Does he want to get away?Will he leave me?I also don't want to make it seem like the only thing left in my life is love or not, I just can't help myself and don't care.Sometimes I force him to have sex with me as soon as we stop the car, and despite the smell of corpses in the enclosure, I never get hard.Sex becomes a kind of... proof, a way of trying to confirm something, and the bad thing is that nothing is really confirmed, so there's never enough.Sometimes I injure myself, or straddle him, with out-of-the-box breath attacks, wheezing, eye-rolling ugliness.He covered my mouth and nose with his hands, and my face was wet, tears mixed with tinnitus. "Do you love me?" I asked him.

Poor you, Sue.That's all he said.He would let go and gently brush my sweat-drenched hair.For a very, very brief moment, with my face in his palm, eyelids downcast, I saw Cillian fascinated through the gap between dying.

In that instant, past and present came crashing together.I thought of his indifference when he saw me at first and his abnormal tenderness when he treated my wounds later, just like what I had realized before but didn't want to admit, Cillian didn't care who I was, after all, he just liked my weak body. , It's just a scarred appearance.In a way, he's the same as Butcher.

**

Another ordinary afternoon, the sky was gloomy, followed by a downpour of rain.I sat on the counter, looked through the glass at the pedestrians on the street who were hiding from the rain, put on my glasses, wrote a letter, and lowered my head, the tip of my nose was very close to the letter paper, and the glasses almost slipped off the bridge of my nose.

Dear Stranger:

It's raining today, do you like rain?I like to sit in the house and listen to the rain.It was raining so hard, and the funeral procession was still moving slowly... The doors and windows of the house were closed, and only a very faint and distant sound of the trumpet could be heard, and it became farther and farther away.That kind of melody, I can only recall when I listen to it.

"Oh, Sue." A voice sounded with the sound of the wind chimes pushing open the glass door, an old lady's voice. "Look at you, poor child. Why are you so sad."

"What? There's no such thing." I adjusted my glasses and turned the newspaper to the next page, entertainment news and horse racing.I like this even though I think about the Inspector whenever I see a horse race.

"is it?"

She said, in a low, gentle voice, almost mournful, "You must be ill, doctor."

Am I sick?I looked at the newspaper, and the words on it all turned into a small ball of mush.

I folded the newspaper in half, in half, in half.

I thought about it for a long time, and felt that I really wish there was a sad germ in the world, so that I could blame it; so that I could say that things happened because I was sick, not because I was sick. Just a cowardly, cruel piece of shit.I am really sorry.

When I got home for dinner that day, Butcher asked, "Did you touch anything dirty again?"

I raised my hand to have a look, and found some black things on my nails. I also felt very strange, so I put my hand under my nose and sniffed.

"Oh," I said, "newspaper ink."