"So you didn’t wear it back from the border?" He asked for guilt?
"There is no way to wear it back!" She roared, "The door has disappeared."
Suffocated in the sea and hit by fish, he seemed to see drowning again.
The door disappeared, not anymore.
There’s an undersea passage. Maybe
He lost his mind, and Grace went on talking about some weird and incredible things.
There is a window on the landing of the abandoned lighthouse. The world looks different from there, and it is not because Grace has once again appeared a faint mist and infiltrated from the sea, which blurred the view. If this situation has not changed, they will need to make a fire at night. Through the fog and trees, they can vaguely see the ghost-like ruins of the house. The walls are like crooked flesh and blood, leaning against him, and the flesh and blood are deeper. There is a road parallel to the flesh and blood coast, and there is a hill covered with dense pine trees and oak trees.
There is no return door at the boundary.
Grace wiped out the deputy chief.
Grace felt the border moving through her body, "as if being stared at, as if being naked and becoming very small, as if not". She stared intently at the photo girl, who was her lover in the outside world. It was a fragile photo and she took good care of it.
She led the personnel of the South China Bureau to retreat in an orderly manner, including the security guards. They came to the lighthouse according to the director’s previous instructions. He didn’t know this order, but it was still effective after so long. Some soldiers changed but didn’t know how to face some people and set off for the tunnel. But no one saw them anymore. Others said that there was a huge shadow in the direction of the ocean approaching, and they had a disagreement and had an argument with the border commander, which made the situation even worse. "I guess none of them lived, and no one knew it was like life."
But in her lighthouse, if she retreated to the island, she was vague. "I can do it." "All this is over. I have learned to compromise with it." "I didn’t sleep much." After the chaos, is that all?
He had a hope, or an illusion, that everyone was ready for a last bastion. However, that was a disappointing illusion, just like the theory of helping to refuse, such as the collapse of the Southern Border Bureau. The people of the Science Department might be able to dormant underground until the next century and become pale cavemen. In fear, their grandchildren told them how terrible the ground world was.
"Have you received exploration training?" A guess, but judging from her supplies, it’s not groundless
"We call basic protection training," Grace said. "The director let the management and department heads participate." Because she attaches too much importance to them, she hopes that their directors can live in the end of the world. He bet that Cynthia and Grace participated in the "basic protection training", which she never told him.
"If there is such a plan, does that mean there is some kind?"
"Does this look like it?" She gave a short and sarcastic smile, and her tone changed as if she realized that the ghost bird might hear when she woke up. "It’s just that John is born day by day, and I live alone, following certain rules, being cautious and keeping quiet." Grace is going to spend the rest of her life here, and she has long accepted this fate.
Ghost bird propped herself up with one arm, and she didn’t feel groggy. Her eyes were like weapons, as if she didn’t need guns and daggers. Ghost bird didn’t like being drugged, so the manager didn’t tell her that she was no longer prostrate at the moment. Grace looked at her with respect and fear.
"What attacked the motorcade?" Asked the ghost bird.
Not "good morning" or even interested in their conversation. How much did she hear lying down? Yu Yu, deputy director, she’s half asleep. Do you understand?
Grace gave a gloomy smile and shrugged her shoulders but didn’t answer.
The ghost bird shrugged his shoulders, picked up a protein stick dagger, cut it open and swallowed it. "This is really bad. It’s not new. Have you ever had an abnormal phenomenon on the island?"
"Everything here is abnormal," Grace said wearily, as if the question had been asked too many times.
"Have you met a biologist?" The straightforward manager waited nervously for the answer.
"Have I met a biologist?" She repeated the question over and over again as if from different angles, "Have I met a biologist?" Grace is playing with the holster, and the snap is getting faster and faster. It’s getting more and more complicated to draw patterns in the mud at the tip of the knife. Is there a spiral? Two intertwined spirals? Is that a starfish or a star?
"Answer me, Grace," said the ghost bird. She got up and put her hands on her sides, relaxed but in perfect balance, as if she were ready to deal with trouble at any time, as if she had been trained in fighting.
As a cloud drifts through the platform window and the light is dim, there is a bird singing outside as if whispering with the rhythm of the knife tip circle. Perhaps it is the echo of the cornerstone of the lighthouse. A gecko climbs over the wall in a hurry and doesn’t know whether to worry about the present or the background. This is the only important question for the ghost bird. If Grace doesn’t answer, the manager doesn’t know what she will do.
Grace stared at the manager and said, "If I sit here and tell this assistant"-pointed to the ghost bird-"Everything I found, we will still sit here when hell freezes."
"Answer quickly," said the ghost bird in a low voice.
"Are we passing through here?" The manager asked, "Do you want to move on?" In a sense, this is the key that makes him feel tired, not the ghost bird asked, but Grace’s persistent doubts.
"Do you know how long I have been on this island? Have you ever asked? " "Have you met a biologist?" The ghost bird asked like an intermittent growl.
"Ask me quickly." The dagger plunged into the wooden floor of the platform and kept shaking the holster. The hand stood still to hold the gun.
The manager glanced at the ghost bird quickly. Did he misread the key information?
"How long have you been on the island?" He asked.
"Three years. I’ve been here for three years."
Everything seems to be still outside. It’s incredible that the gecko wall is motionless. The manager’s mind seems to be frozen. Grace’s weather-beaten face shows an irresistible satisfaction because she told them an unexpected and unimaginable thing.
"Three years" said the manager as if begging her to take it back.
"I don’t believe it," said the ghost bird.
A burst of laughter "I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you at all. You’re right. I’m a crazy bitch. I must have gotten used to it if I stay here alone. I must be fucking crazy. Yes, it must be, but …"
Grace pulled out a pile of yellowed and fragile paper with handwriting on it and a rusty clip in the corner.
She threw the stack of paper at the feet of the ghost bird. "Read it so that I don’t have to explain it to you when I’m surfing."
Ghost bird picked up the page and looked at the first page in confusion.
"What is this?" The manager asked that he might not want to know and not want to be hit again.
"The last words of biologists," Grace said.
For me, writing is like restarting the engine that has been stopped for many years. It rusts silently-it is filled with water and sediment, and ants, spiders and cockroaches penetrate vines and weeds, and it keeps growing like a cough. It is a bit like my voice and different from before. After all, I have too little voice.
It’s been a long time since I wrote on paper. I haven’t had this impulse for a long time. I feel more and more sure that I can’t be distracted on this island. Distraction is very dangerous-it will lead to other things sneaking in and then I will never return to the original state. I will always live here simply until I die. Only recently do I feel that I seem to be missing something. I have never been interested in describing, recording and communicating. Because all this seems so plain, even if I try to write it several times, it’s not surprising that I gave up three or four drafts before writing it .. This letter? It doesn’t matter what it is.
Or when I think of writing, I will recall the old world again and then become hesitant. When my thoughts drift to the outside world, the world seems vague, like a weak ball of light full of distorted sounds. The image passes through our eyes like a sharp blade, and our minds make us blink. I used to live there. This is simply a myth, like a mysterious tragedy, like a lie. Maybe one day fish, eagles, foxes and owls will tell stories in their own way, telling stories about all kinds of toxins and all kinds of sorrows leaked from it. If human language is meaningful, I can tell them to the waves and the sky, but what’s the point
However, after years of fighting against the sense of light, I finally decided to accept it. I was going to try again before. Who will read it? I don’t know and I don’t care. Maybe I wrote it myself, but I can tell the first part of this journey and his records in this long story. But if someone really reads your book, I’m not waiting for rescue and I’m not looking forward to the thirteenth exploration team. If the outside world completely gives up exploration activities, it may mark the sudden emergence of rationality, but it won’t be long before the outside world is now, and the dangers in this world are no longer important to me.
Fixed light