White City Murder Expo

The gunshots echoed in my ears, and it took me a long time to realize that Cillian was dead, and the pool of blood at the back of his head had formed.He was lying on his side on the ground, like a ruined icon. When I looked down at him, I saw my humble and terrified appearance.

I took his body to the doctor who had bought it, and the doctor was horrified when he recognized Cillian's face. "Do you have any questions?" I asked.He shook his head.I looked at his hesitant expression, and suddenly realized that I shouldn't come here again.

After Cillian died, I still made the habit of making two meals, pushing open the bathroom door at mealtime, and standing there blankly for a while.How long will it take to get rid of this habit?For a while, I didn't know what else I could do.I remembered what he had said about his mother, so I went to the hospital according to the place he had mentioned. All the nurses in the hospital knew Cillian by accident. From their mouths, I heard about a kind and pious woman. Christians come to do volunteer work every month to take care of the dying old people.I can almost imagine Cillian's hands brushing those gray, brittle hairs.But I have not heard of his mother. "You mean Mrs. Cillian?" they said, a poor woman who died of pneumonia about three winters ago.

"Suicide," she said, "the priest did not allow her to be buried in the church."

After listening to it, I was surprised. I wanted to say too much, but I didn't ask any questions in the end.The living, sick mother that Cillian told me was all a fabrication, she died so long ago.Did he deny reality or did he deceive himself?And the overflowing kindness, the fear of wounds and the death of others...there's so much about Cirion I don't know yet.I'll probably never know.

I sat blankly on the bench in the hospital for a long time, and when a person passed by me, he took off his hat and said, "Sorry." I touched my face, but I wasn't crying; I don't know why he said that .I left with this confusion, found a bar at random, sat at the corner of the bar, and planned to have a drink.

I don't know what this bar is called, but I will never come back anyway.However, in the evening, I met a strange young man sitting next to me, so shy that the bartender had to ask him to speak up and explain what he wanted.I saw that his flaxen hair resembled Cirion's.I approached him, bought him a drink, made up some nonsense to strike up a conversation, and at about eleven o'clock in the evening, I asked him if he would be interested in coming to my house for another drink.Then I took him to the Sirian's.He sat on the sofa, looked left and right, picked up a book, flipped through two pages and threw it aside.

The next step is to go to bed naturally, he resisted a little, but when I asked him: "If you don't want to, why did you come back with me?" expression.He said he had nowhere to go.I told him he could stay here as long as he wanted.So I kissed him.After taking a closer look, he found that he was not similar to Cillian in any way, and even his hair was not flaxen, but a lighter golden brown.I was tricked by the lights of the bar.I was suddenly in pain at that moment, even though he kept kissing me, I was a little absent-minded, and because of this loss, I never got hard, so it was him who fucked me in the end, and he seemed a little bit unhappy about it.

He fell asleep at night, and listening to the strange breathing next to me, I suddenly felt very sick and couldn't fall asleep.Around two o'clock in the morning, I got up and strangled him with my tie, then fell asleep until noon the next day.When I woke up, I found something beside me. I felt very strange. After a while, I remembered what I did last night. I belatedly tried to wake him up, but the young man's body was already stiff.I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my arms for a while, put on my clothes and went out, bought two bottles of wine, sat on the steps of the door until I was very drunk, and then went back and dragged out the body of this strange young man to find him in the backyard. buried somewhere.He was put aside by me, lying on the ground, looking at the sky with half-closed eyes.When I dug the hole, I felt surprisingly proficient, and there was no extra emotion. It just happened, and it was just creating problems-solving problems, and there was nothing to say.

I remembered that Matilda loved gardening, and I used to see her squatting in front of the flowerbed and messing with roses.She is not so beautiful when she is not deliberately dressed up, but I like her messy hair and simple look. This kind of Matilda has changed from a woman to a wife, and I feel that she belongs to me.But no matter how I tried to keep her, she became my ex-wife.Having said that, the word ex-wife may not be really appropriate. She left before I divorced her.About me and Matilda, I wrote one after another on letterheads and sent them to friends I had never met. For some reason, I felt that I could trust each other, so I began to talk about some real things, not dreams or memories.I also learned about that person, an ordinary employee who often complains about work.However, in our correspondence, I have said more.

Two days after the last letter, I received a new letter.In my letters I also mentioned some of the most violent quarrels between Matilda and me, when she told me she was in love with someone else and was leaving me.I write about broken goldfish bowls and goldfish bouncing off the ground.I hope to get some sympathy, what will the reply letter say?I wipe my hands on the towel, sit at the table, and open the mail.

The letter asked me, what do you mean by "Matilda is gone"?