Depressed Chapter 4

Shen Lian had no idea how much time had passed—perhaps only a few minutes, perhaps longer. At the very least, when he was jolted awake by the strange noise, he was still lucid.

That sound was like someone had amplified the decibels of drawers being pulled open and slammed shut a hundredfold.

He saw a human face.

A face with unfocused pupils, waxen skin, and flesh that had lost all elasticity.

Instinctively, Shen Lian shifted his position and swung the chainsaw horizontally. The corpse staggered back a few steps, its already unattractive face twisted even further by the blow.

Looking up, Shen Lian realized his freezer compartment had been opened.

The other freezers were open too.

All manner of corpses turned their heads in unison, staring at him with hollow eyes, perfectly synchronized.

“Bzzzz—”

The chainsaw roared to life.

The nearest corpse was split open like an overripe watermelon.

Red mingled with white and yellow splattered onto him—blood, brain matter, and gray matter.

The entire morgue seemed to flatten out, its gloomy backdrop splashed with scarlet paint, as if someone were using a chainsaw to complete a bold, impressionist masterpiece.

The corpses lunged, drooling, their teeth and nails having evolved to a level no living human could ever reach.

Shen Lian had no doubt they would pounce, tear him apart, and stuff his shredded flesh down their possibly already-rotten throats.

The wound on Shen Lian’s left wrist felt as if it had split open again. The dead seemed to catch the scent of blood like sharks, growing even more frenzied as they attacked from all sides.

Once again, Shen Lian’s urge to make a sarcastic remark surfaced at the worst possible moment. He couldn’t understand how these people, cold as they were, could still retain their sense of smell.

Thankfully, their limbs were stiff to the extreme.

There were too many corpses, and he was near exhaustion—the chainsaw was almost slipping from his grasp.

Suddenly, Shen Lian no longer knew what he was doing.

He repeated the same mechanical, numb motions, hacking away at a group of people who were already dead.

What was the point?

Just put down the chainsaw. Let it end here. Wasn’t his hypocritical self always seeking death?

Blood smeared his face; he wanted to wipe it away, but his hands were full.

Put down the chainsaw.

Put down the chainsaw.

The gates of heaven will open for you.

It was as if some invisible voice was luring him onward.

But Shen Lian snapped awake.

Screw you—did you think you could fool me just because I’m a nihilist?

Even an idiot knows that, according to Christian doctrine, suicides don’t go to heaven.

He swung the chainsaw again and charged out.

“Beep—System is regenerating the program: random time, random location, random transfer.”

Shen Lian found himself sitting on the floor of the MRI room, the chainsaw clattering from his hand.

“Did I just get a bit of luck?” he muttered a cold joke to himself, so cold even his own face stayed blank.

“Something’s not right,” he thought.

Why had he wanted to put down the chainsaw just now?

If he had, those corpses would have devoured him alive, gnawed his bones, sucked his marrow.

That was completely at odds with his own aesthetic of death and suicide ethics.

He couldn’t even accept “shū sè” (see note), so how could he tolerate this?

Was something influencing him?

Maybe he’d snapped out of it this time because of that “expressionless face, inner monologue running wild” trait engraved in his very bones?

He’d managed to chill himself again.

He found a doctor’s coat left in a locker, changed into it, wiped the bloodstains from the floor, and hid the bloodied clothes.

Picking up the chainsaw, he walked to the far corner of the MRI room—there was a row of chairs there.

He sat behind the chairs, hiding himself.

He needed to rest.

Wang Xiaoyan and Feng Xuan, holding hands, carefully pushed open the door to the MRI room.

They wore the uniforms of a nearby high school—easily recognizable, red and white, so that from a distance they looked like two bottles of walking Nongfu Spring mineral water.

They’d been in a panic, terrified for some time now, but luckily hadn’t encountered any real danger.

“There’s no one here. We can hide a bit longer,” Feng Xuan turned her head and softly comforted her best friend, her voice gentle.

Wang Xiaoyan looked at her.

Feng Xuan truly was a beautiful girl. Even disheveled hair and a pale face couldn’t hide her delicate features and refined beauty. Even the baggy school uniform hinted at her graceful figure.

“So nice,” Wang Xiaoyan thought.

They walked in and sat down on the floor.