The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

Inside the church ward, the dim yellow light struggled to dispel the shadows in the corners.

The air was filled with the faint smoke from the burnt-out incense burner, the damp, rotten smell of old wood accumulated over the years, and an indescribable, bittersweet scent belonging to the dying.

Lin Zheng sat by the hospital bed, feeling the muscles in his back stiffen from maintaining one posture for so long.

On the other side of the room, Pastor Dunbar knelt quietly on a prayer mat by the window, his back to them, head bowed, hands clasped together, his silent prayers seemingly able to soothe the heavy sorrow in the ward.

The twilight light streamed through the high window, casting dappled shadows on the old wooden floor and leaving a straight dividing line at the edge of the hospital bed.

Murphy Callahan, his thin body almost completely covered by a thin blanket.

His breathing was shallow and rapid, occasionally emitting a hissing sound like a bellows leaking air—the last embers of his life, flickering precariously in the wind.

Lin Zheng noticed the corners of his tightly closed eyes, where the skin was a sickly sallow yellow, with deep wrinkles. Every now and then, a clear drop of liquid, accompanied by a faint groan, would roll down from the corner of his eye and disappear into his disheveled sideburns.

That tear was filled with the grief of the living, and even more so, it was the salty water unconsciously secreted from the depths of the body in despair and pain.

Murphy's lips were chapped and parted weakly, occasionally uttering a few indistinct syllables.

That wasn't a complete word; it was more like an instinctive struggle, an animalistic reaction to survive, searching for something to grasp.

Lin Zheng knew that he was delirious and rambling incoherently due to a high fever.

This is also a deep-seated fear of loss and an obsession with what is left undone, rooted in human instinct.

Lin Zheng couldn't bear to look at Murphy's pained expression, so he turned his head and glanced around the room.

The ward was extremely simple, with faded off-white walls and a framed Bible verse hanging on it, the words of which were blurred and illegible.

Besides the hospital bed, there was only a dilapidated wooden cabinet and a rickety stool, on which were piled a few clean hospital gowns and some basic medicines.

An indescribable heaviness pressed down on Lin Zheng's chest.

He was used to dealing with death; every day he faced cold, incomplete "materials".

Death there is numb, mechanical, and routine.

However, the sight of Murphy before him, this life that was about to be extinguished, gave him a strange sense of oppression.

This oppression did not come from fear, but from a real pain that he could not escape.

Murphy Callahan's pain was now vividly present before Lin Zheng's eyes.

It is no longer a number, a piece of social trash that has been cleared out, but a person with a real face and real groans.

Lin Zheng's attention was drawn to the subtle trembling of Murphy's fingertips.

Murphy's fingers had large knuckles, and his fingernails were covered with years of dirt and oil stains, traces of long-term manual labor.

Now, these fingers are curled up limply, twitching occasionally as if struggling to grasp something, but ultimately only grasping at air.

The imminent threat of death made Lin Zheng uneasy, and he felt his breathing becoming somewhat difficult.

Lin Zheng turned his head slightly and saw Arthur Morgan leaning against the door frame.

The old detective stood there like a statue, motionless, only his deep-set eyes gleaming with the sharpness of a hawk in the dim light.

Arthur's old trench coat still smelled damp from the rain, clashing with the other smells in the ward.

Apart from Murphy's faint groans and Pastor Dunbar's hushed prayers, there was no other communication in the ward.

Lin Zheng's gaze met Arthur's briefly in the air.

He subconsciously clenched his fingers on his knees, unconsciously rubbing the tiny scars on his fingertips caused by suture needles and scalpels.

These scars are marks of his professional career, and also a hard protective shell.

He replayed in his mind the broken words Murphy had just uttered.

Those were a few individual words, fragmented, yet carrying an undeniable pain.

"...Daughter...money...cannot...die..."

These words are like irregular fragments, lacking connection and unable to form a complete and logical narrative.

They were trapped deep within Murphy's fading consciousness, only occasionally managing to break free a tiny bit.

But it is enough to evoke a tragic true story.

He had handled countless corpses and seen all kinds of deaths. Each corpse had its own story, but he never delved into them.

That was just a job, a job he used to make a living and pay off his debts.

He told himself not to think about who those fragmented pieces of flesh and blood were, or what joys and sorrows they had experienced.

He was just an "assembler," responsible for reassembling useless parts and then delivering them.

Now, Murphy Callahan's life is fading away before his eyes, and this face-to-face experience of witnessing a life wither is completely different from his usual experience of facing a cold corpse.

This was not the first time; he had previously pieced together the bodies of infants, and the pain and shock of that time almost caused him to completely break down.

To avoid being consumed by this pain, he built a strong psychological defense, shutting out his emotions.

He told himself that everything was a transaction, just parts, and there were no living people.

But every faint struggle Murphy made, every tear that seeped out, relentlessly pounded against this line of defense.

Murphy's broken whispers scraped against his chest like a dull knife.

The knife wasn't sharp, but it brought a persistent pain, slowly peeling away his numb outer shell.

Lin Zheng dug his fingertips into his palm, and the pain only made him more alert.

He realized that Murphy was a living, breathing person with attachments, regrets, and unfinished business.

His death should not just be a recorded number, or a purge of the social underclass.

Murphy convulsed suddenly on the hospital bed. It was not an ordinary spasm, but more like a long-suppressed outburst.

His breathing stopped for a moment, then he took a deep, heart-stopping breath with tremendous force, as if trying to suck all the air in the room into his parched lungs.

His eyelids trembled violently, and then, to everyone's astonishment, his eyes, which had been tightly closed, suddenly opened.

Those were cloudy eyes, with bloodshot pupils, yet they shone with an astonishing light.

The light was so intense; it was the final glow of life, a condensation of all of Murphy's despair, all of his paternal love, and all of his regret.

"my daughter……"

Murphy used all his strength to squeeze out these broken words from his throat. His voice was hoarse, like sand rubbing together, yet it was incredibly clear, vibrating in the eardrums of everyone in the ward.

"Still...waiting...for...me..."

His head trembled almost imperceptibly, as if he were trying to lift it with his last bit of strength, but ultimately failed.

"I...can't...die...here!"

His last words, tinged with a defiant roar, were a plea.

This instantly shattered Lin Zheng's mental defenses.

Those scattered fragments, at this moment, seem to be connected by an invisible thread, forming a complete picture: a father, on his deathbed, has only his concern for his daughter.

Lin Zheng leaned forward slightly, feeling an unprecedented surge of compassion welling up in his heart.

He saw Arthur Morgan's body also suddenly spring up from the door frame and stride over to the bedside.

The old detective's face, which had originally shown deep weariness and vigilance, was now replaced by shock and grief.

Arthur's eyes were filled with pain. He looked at Murphy, his lips moved slightly as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only let out a low sigh.

Lin Zheng realized that they were all caught in an inescapable vortex.

Murphy's last words instantly ignited all the suppressed emotions in the room.

It broke through Lin Zheng's numbness, overwhelmed Arthur's exhaustion, and made Pastor Dunbar's prayers even heavier.

Lin Zheng looked at Arthur, his eyes no longer showing the previous evasion and hesitation, but only a resolute look.

He knew he could no longer choose to stand by and watch.

"He wanted to save his daughter." Lin Zheng's voice was low and firm, echoing in the silent ward and breaking the heaviness brought by Murphy's last words.

"He... owes money to the mob."

Every word Lin Zheng spoke seemed to be squeezed out from the depths of his chest, carrying a certain pain and strength.

He repeated Murphy's fragmented whispers, telling everything he had heard and could understand without reservation.

This was the first time he had voluntarily revealed the secret of the "goods".

Murphy's daughter, gangsters, debt—these words echoed in the hospital ward, constructing a tragic family situation.

He was no longer a numb bystander; he became a witness to Murphy's final moments and a messenger of Murphy's story.

Murphy's breathing became even weaker, and the rise and fall of his chest was almost imperceptible. With each exhale, it was as if he was expelling the last bit of strength from his body.

"...You're right." Arthur's voice was low and hoarse.

"Murphy is a Mexican-American construction worker without U.S. citizenship."

Arthur's words instantly transformed the image of Murphy in Lin Zheng's mind from a simple patient into a more concrete and marginalized member of a social group.

"He has no social security, no medical insurance, and does the dirtiest and most tiring work on construction sites."

Lin Zheng had seen those construction workers before. They usually had dark complexions and rough hands. They worked hard like ants at the foot of the city's skyscrapers. Their lives were invisible, shrouded in the shadows of the high-rises.

"His foreman forced him to gamble on the construction site and colluded with the mob behind the scenes to set a trap to keep Murphy firmly in his hands."

The word "gambling" itself signifies an abyss, an irreversible fall.

He had seen too many people like this in the lower classes, like vultures, watching those struggling to survive, waiting for a chance to devour them.

"The foreman first made him lose all his money, and then 'kindly' introduced him to loan sharks from the underworld."

Arthur peels back the layers of the bloody truth behind Murphy's tragedy.

From forced gambling to usury, every step was a carefully designed trap, leading Murphy step by step into a desperate situation.

This was not accidental, but a meticulously planned plunder, targeting vulnerable people like Murphy who had no background, no status, and no way out.

"He simply can't pay back those astronomical sums that accrue interest every day, but he refuses to give in." Arthur's voice turned low.

"When he was unable to repay, the gang showed their fangs, and they chased after Murphy and pressured him."

Lin Zheng's throat tightened upon hearing this.

He realized that this was not just a matter of money and violence, but also the predator's final harvest of its prey.

"The gangsters told him that if he couldn't pay back the money, they would come after his daughter."

Lin Zheng's body stiffened abruptly.

"This wasn't just a threat; after Murphy went missing due to serious illness, they took direct action, forcing Selena into prostitution to pay off their debts."

Lin Zheng's face turned pale instantly, and a feeling of nausea rushed up.

He thought he had seen all kinds of human tragedies, but this cruel fact, the tragedy of a father watching his daughter being dragged into the abyss, still made his heart ache.

"Selena...she finally managed to save up some money and asked me to find her father."

Arthur's voice was filled with helplessness as he spoke.

The information that Lin Zheng and Arthur each possessed was pieced together at this moment, revealing a complete and appalling tragedy between father and daughter.

Lin Zheng heard Murphy's dying words with his own ears; they revealed a father's deep concern for his daughter.

Arthur, the old detective, reveals a deeper truth: the foreman's greed, the gang's cruelty, and the daughter's sacrifice.

Inside the ward, an indescribable heaviness and despair engulfed the entire space.

Pastor Dunbar had stopped praying; he simply stood there quietly, his eyes filled with compassion.

The light of dusk completely disappeared from the window, plunging the room into darkness. The flickering candlelight cast shadowy images of the biblical verses on the wall, as if mocking the suffering of mortals.

Murphy's breathing was almost inaudible at that moment.

The candle wick, now only a stub, is about to go out completely.

Lin Zheng felt his hands were ice cold, and his blood seemed to freeze.

He looked at Murphy, at the father struggling in despair, and he wanted to do something, to grasp that fading life, to roar at this cruel world.

But he felt powerless; a huge, irresistible sense of powerlessness completely overwhelmed him.

Murphy's eyelids began to tremble again, but this time, his eyelids did not close completely, leaving only a thin slit through which his cloudy pupils could be vaguely seen.

His head tilted slightly toward Arthur, and then, his grime-covered and scarred hand, as if in a final burst of light, rose up clearly and tremblingly, pointing directly at Arthur.

The hand moved extremely slowly, yet with unwavering determination; he was using the last ounce of strength in his life to complete this action.

"Please...please give me the money...all of mine..."

Murphy's voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz, yet it could be clearly heard in the quiet room.

His Adam's apple bobbed laboriously, each word seeming to be squeezed out with all the energy of his life.

"...For my daughter...please save her..."

With the last word, Murphy's lips closed slightly, and the last faint light in his eyes, like a candle flame about to go out, flickered violently before finally fading into silence.

His hands could no longer support him and fell limply to his sides, landing softly, like a feather, on the thin blanket.

The rise and fall of his chest completely stopped, and his pupils gradually dilated, turning into a lifeless void.

Murphy Callahan is dead.

The room fell into a deathly silence, with only the faint crackling of the candlelight flickering in the wind sounding exceptionally clear.

Arthur stared blankly at Murphy's body, his eyes vacant and his lips trembling slightly.

Lin Zheng's heart was gripped by an unprecedented sense of heaviness; the cold and desperate feeling made it almost impossible for him to breathe.

Murphy is gone, but his last words, "Please...please give the money...to my daughter..." weigh heavily on the hearts of two strangers like an unsolvable curse.

This promise was entrusted to them in the final moments of Murphy's life.