What’s the most important thing in this world?
For us, it’s probably food.
It seems even more important than life itself. Even if someone shoots at us, as long as it doesn’t hit the head, we will persistently move forward. The smell of raw meat makes us irresistible, whether we lose an arm or a leg, or our intestines spill out, as long as we have a complete head, the only pursuit is eating.
I can’t recall when I managed to control my desire to eat.
I only know that if I lost complete control, the person next to me now wouldn’t have a heartbeat, and that beautiful face definitely wouldn’t be so clean.
The seats in the first-class cabin can recline. When he did this, he startled me, I thought my waist was broken, which was why I fell backward.
This terrifying feeling made me instinctively look at the person beside me. He was lying on his side, one hand wrapped around my waist, his head resting on my shoulder, and his eyes closed.
The dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept well for a long time.
Is it immoral to eat him while he’s asleep?
I’m agonizing over such issues again… Morality and the like seem so boring.
I began to seriously recall if I had done anything in the past few days that was not as heinous as it seemed. Had Heaven decided to place a beautiful, intact living person beside me and repeat over and over in my mind, “You can’t eat, you can’t eat”?
But I’m really, really hungry.
If I could cry, I would definitely be tearful right now.
It’s not sadness, it’s just that tears, from so many brains I’ve consumed, seem to have this purpose—to squeeze out a few drops and evoke sympathy from others.
I didn’t eat him, perhaps also because he was crying back then.
What was the previous version of me that he knew?
He mentioned my name, but I have no impression of it.
I suddenly remembered there was a letter on my finger.
I slowly raised my hand and looked at the blue letter on my finger, which was stained with some blood… Was it a D… or a P?
It seemed like it was called a tattoo.
Why did I tattoo something I can’t even understand on myself…
“The letter is P.”
A hoarse voice came from my shoulder.
“Your English name is Persi, the letter on your hand is the capitalized first letter. Do you remember?”
… I don’t remember, but there’s a familiar feeling.
The person beside me calmly reached out and touched my index finger.
A warning bell went off in my mind. I’ve seen people without weapons using every means possible. Some would deliberately break our arms or smash our jaws with shelves or rocks, so we couldn’t grab or bite anyone.
Does he want to do that to me too?
I stared at his neck, wanting to take the initiative.
But he just simply interlocked his fingers with mine.
To be precise, he clasped my fingers, but mine were a bit stiff and couldn’t bend.
He was indeed guarding against me grabbing him.
He looked up at me with a slightly confused expression, as if he hadn’t fully woken up.
His voice was still hoarse.
“Are you still human?”
“…” Is there something wrong with this question?
“… If you’re not, why don’t you eat me?”
“…” I also want to know why.
“What are you, then?”
“…”
I moved my fingers slightly. His gaze shifted back to my hand, and I pulled my hand away.
He was too warm. If I stayed so close to him, would I decompose earlier?
So I slowly sat up, deciding to distance myself from him.
“Where are you going?” He also sat up, watching me sway toward the door.
It’s not like he’s blind, he can see.
I opened the cabin door, and when closing it, I saw he stood still.
I slowly walked out of the plane, descended the steps. Under the cold moonlight, dozens of companions were scattered around. If there were a lullaby, I think the scene would be even better.
Standing or sitting makes no difference to me. I’ll stay with the main group today.
By early morning, I unconsciously looked up at the airplane window.
It was gray and indistinct.
… He must be asleep.
I suddenly felt an odd curiosity.
Would he sleep well?
You know, I don’t remember what it feels like to sleep anymore.
