It was a very strong visual impact.
When everything gray was dyed with a layer of gold, you can see the entire process of the sun rising from a very distant place.
If I like this kind of emotion, then I probably like sunrise more than sunset.
Many of the brains I’ve eaten seemed to think the same way.
It symbolized a new beginning.
I don’t know if the phrase “new beginning” still holds any meaning for me, but the sunrise at least means I have “survived” another day in this state.
Anyway, being alive should be considered a blessing.
My eyes kept watching outside, and I was somewhat hopeful that some sound from outside would lure us out of that gap, start a new day’s wandering, and maybe, with some luck, find something to eat.
After we left, that person should also have a chance to leave.
The glass in the waiting hall was quite sturdy, and the soundproofing should have been good. It was possible for him to leave quietly.
Although he might also be eaten on the way, or bitten, and become one of us.
I won’t see him again, or if I do, he might not trigger my appetite.
Wishes come true.
I remembered the meaning of this idiom and hoped it would indeed come true.
But just as I was feeling relieved and hopeful, I sensed some commotion around me and the faint, lively breath behind me.
The faint scent tempted me to turn back. The sun was behind me, and I saw the person in a white shirt standing at the plane’s exit. My mind recalled four words.
Opposite directions.
Damn it!
I don’t know where he found clean clothes in the cabin, but it’s not surprising that he changed from that dirty blue shirt, as the storage compartments could hold luggage.
The shirt had my scent.
It had the smell of death.
That scent could confuse everyone’s sense of smell and slightly stabilize my appetite.
But now he was wearing a white shirt, his hair a bit messy from the wind. The shirt clung to his body, it was quite transparent, and he was very transparent. He stood there with a smile on his face.
He could still smile.
I wasn’t far from the plane, actually, I was the closest.
I was also the first to slightly quicken my pace, but I didn’t make any noise from my throat, nor did I give any signals of aggression to my companions.
I stepped up the narrow steps, trying to make as little noise as possible. I knew how annoying this reflex could be.
He watched me approach him step by step, still smiling.
Does he want to die?
Does he want to become like me?
Why am I feeling a bit unwilling for anything to happen at this moment, despite always thinking about what might happen?
As I got closer, he took a step toward me and opened his arms, leaning slightly forward.
I was relieved he didn’t pounce on me. With my clumsy and stiff limbs, I would definitely fall badly due to such a move, and being unable to learn any protective stances might result in broken legs or arms, or even a head-first fall, leaving me with no intact corpse.
Look at me, why am I always speaking in such broken sentences?
He got close to me, and the white shirt must have gotten dirty again.
It must have picked up a bunch of things that are disgusting in human perception, things that look, feel, and smell unpleasant.
It’s a pity, though. It’s a very nice shirt, and it looks good on him.
His scent mixed with mine, probably confusing my companions.
If they had a sense of smell, they’d be frustrated with their scent detection system.
Sorry about that.
But I still don’t want him dead for now.
I grunted a couple of times. Without the scent, my sounds wouldn’t attract the attention of those companions.
He straightened up, and the front of his shirt became very interesting. I slowly raised my hand and pointed to the door.
He glanced back, then turned back, and grabbed the upper part of my right wrist.
Oh right, my right wrist, where I was bitten.
I think that bite made me what I am now if other wounds on me were caused after death.
No time to think about other things, he had already pulled me up a step.
I’m not a dog.
But I didn’t want to watch him change clothes and come out again.
Next time, I might not be the closest to him, and there might not be enough decayed stuff to mask his scent.
So, I was pulled into the cabin like a dog.
He didn’t speak, and I didn’t bother with him.
He closed the door, and I staggered to the front, sitting down.
I looked outside the window.
My companions were still in the vast open area, and there didn’t seem to be other sounds drawing them away.
I heard footsteps behind me. He walked to a seat on the other side of the aisle and sat down.
He hugged his knees, placing his feet on the chair. For his height, this position looked a bit odd. I glanced at him and then slowly fixed my gaze on the back of the seat in front of me.
I heard him speak slowly, as if afraid I wouldn’t understand.
“If you went with them, you wouldn’t come back, right?”
Yes, we don’t need a so-called home. Places without food are not worth returning to, and wherever we go, either we die, or the food dies and gets consumed by us.
“… Can you speak?”
If you don’t understand our groans and howls, then I think the answer is no.
“… Why don’t you bite me?”
“Persi, why won’t you bite me?”
What does he want me to answer? Does he want me to say I recognize him? That I remember him? That I’m not completely unable to think? That most of my brain’s goals are about eating?
These are too complicated. I can’t speak; I can’t answer him.
But I remembered another thing.
My eyes lit up, oh no, my eyes are too cloudy now; they don’t shine anymore.
Anyway, I turned my head to look at him and poked the gunshot wound on my rib with my finger.
Oops… I poked it too precisely, and my finger got some black stuff on it.
I was a bit annoyed and carefully lifted my finger, then poked my forehead.
Damn it! How come I always end up poking my skin!
Feeling the slight dampness between my eyebrows, I thought my current expression might be quite funny.
Never mind.
If he dares to laugh, I’ll bite him.
Then I shook my head towards him.
I pointed to my mouth.
This time, I didn’t poke my teeth, and I continued shaking my head.
I think my explanation should be clear.
He looked at me with a bit of brightness in his eyes, pressed his lips together, and said, “You mean, because I didn’t kill you, you don’t want to eat me?”
Not bad.
I’d also like my eyes to shine as if I could speak.
But now I can only nod.
He widened his eyes and looked at me: “Can the other members of your group be like this?”
I shook my head to indicate I didn’t know.
But he looked disappointed, seeming to interpret my meaning as “they can’t be like me.”
Body language is ultimately too limited.
I don’t know how to tell him he’s wrong, in fact, I don’t know if he’s wrong. But anyway, I can’t explain it, and I didn’t bother.
The sun had completely risen above the horizon.
My companions stood in the open space, their shadows stretching long, bathed in a golden glow.
They didn’t look hopelessly ugly.
