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

Inside the charity canteen, the warm yellow lights struggled to dispel the gloom outside, but could not illuminate every tired face.

Lin Zheng and Emilia were distributing food, with a long, winding queue in front of them.

Their task during this period was to distribute recruitment flyers from Professor Finch's "Hope Foundation" to recruit homeless people to participate in the "Psychological Resilience Research Project."

"If we participate in this project, will we really get stable housing and three meals a day?"

A middle-aged homeless man rubbed his frozen hands, his eyes fixed on the colorful flyer, which showed pictures of sunny apartments and plentiful food.

Lin Zheng handed him a flyer, his fingertips inadvertently brushing against his hand, reading a wisp of a broken dream through the faint touch.

The contact came like lightning, brief yet intense, a mixture of loathing for the cold, fear of hunger, and, most strongly, a longing for the wonderful life depicted on the leaflet.

This yearning was unquestioning, so pure it bordered on folly.

Indeed, at this point, they don't care what they're asked of; they have nothing.

However, some people want them to have nothing, so they can extract the last bit of value from them.

Their bodies.

Emilia was also busy nearby, a professional smile on her face, repeating the project's benefits over and over again.

Every time she handed out a flyer, she would carefully observe the recipient's expression, trying to catch a glimmer of hope in their numb faces.

However, what she saw more was exhaustion and numbness. People's eyes fell on the flyers as if they were evaluating a cheap paycheck rather than any kind of salvation.

"They don't care about the specifics of the project, Lin Zheng. They only care about what they can get." Emilia's voice was soft, tinged with frustration.

Lin Zheng nodded, his eyes filled with complex emotions. He knew this was no different from those people huddled in corners discussing where to sell blood faster or which pharmaceutical company charged higher fees for drug trials.

The "hope" promised by the project is simply unrealistic for these people living in the swamp; all they need is enough money to get them through the winter.

He once tried to hint at the risks in some veiled language, and even secretly slipped a few people a small note that read "If you have any difficulties, find the Imam."

He told them that some opportunities may seem appealing, but the price behind them could be beyond their wildest imagination.

But with each word he spoke, the other person's eyes grew more suspicious, before they were drawn back to the false promises on the flyer.

The risks and costs he hinted at actually made the project seem more real.

"I know all that, buddy. But in this world, if you don't take risks, where else can you survive?"

The homeless man grinned, revealing a few loose, yellow teeth.

That smile held a weariness born of resignation, as well as a bewilderment at Lin Zheng's "kindness."

Lin Zheng was speechless.

In this world, simply living requires taking on both mental and physical risks.

Professor Finch's "Hope Foundation" cleverly conceals risk within a cloak of hope, making this choice irresistible.

He watched as forms were filled out quickly and fingerprints were pressed one after another, and felt that he was actually pushing the project forward.

As the sun sets, the crowds in the cafeteria gradually disperse.

An old woman walked unsteadily to the table. Her hair was brittle and her face was covered with deep wrinkles, but she smiled at the recruitment form.

She trembled as she painstakingly pressed her fingerprint onto the form.

She asked Lin Zheng to listen to her dictation and help her fill out the form.

This elderly woman, just like his grandmother, should have been enjoying her golden years at home, but instead, she has come here with hopes for a better life, stepping onto the edge of an abyss.

"Go home, we can't take you in." Lin Zheng squeezed out these words from his tight chest, his voice almost breaking with tears.

The old woman's face was filled with disappointment. She reached out and grabbed Lin Zheng's arm with both hands. Her face was ashen and her hands were rough. She mumbled something under her breath.

She made a request.

"Where do you live? I'll deliver the supplies to your door later, okay?"

Lin Zheng tried his best to hold back, trying not to make his sobs too obvious.

The old woman nodded and then left.

Emilia, who had just been explaining the project to others, turned around and looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Lin, what's wrong? You look terrible."

Lin Zheng shook his head, indicating that he was fine.

The old woman's figure had disappeared outside the door, leaving only a lingering sense of despair in the air.

He knew this was just the beginning.

The next day, the sun shone brightly, but it was unusually glaring, like the dim, cold light bulb in the cold room from the day before.

The Hope Foundation held a large-scale recruitment event in the city center square, which attracted a lot of media and the public.

Professor Finch, dressed in a well-tailored gray suit, stood on the high platform, his smile friendly and his eloquence exceptional.

He spoke of the foundation's grand goals, outlined a bright future for the beneficiaries, and described "psychological resilience" as the golden key to a happy life.

He and Emilia stood on one side of the platform, serving as project volunteers and receiving homeless people who came for consultation.

"Now, let's welcome a special beneficiary, a young and promising college student who unfortunately suffered a misfortune, but with the help of the Hope Foundation, he is about to stand up again."

Professor Finch's voice, coming through the loudspeaker, was full of passion.

He pointed to the side of the stage, where a young man walked up with the help of a staff member.

He was a white male who looked even thinner than Lin Zheng, with an extremely unhealthy pale complexion, even carrying a leaden gray sense of death.

His lips were blue, and he walked unsteadily as if he might fall at any moment. He couldn't even lift the coffee cup that a staff member handed him.

His eyes were melancholy, carrying the sensitivity and vulnerability unique to students.

Professor Finch took the microphone and smiled as he introduced his story to the audience: "His story is a microcosm of countless young people struggling in adversity."

He turned to the young man, patted him affectionately on the shoulder, and said, "Come on, tell everyone, what is your dream?"

The young man trembled, his eyes darted around, and his lips trembled, unable to utter a complete sentence.

Lin Zheng's gaze fell on the young man's arm.

Those were not simple needle marks, but festering, bloody holes caused by years of selling blood. Several dark, shocking openings stood out starkly against the pale, bloodless skin.

This was almost the most severe case of "blood and flesh deficiency" he had ever seen.

A reporter in the audience raised their hand and asked, "Why did this student choose to participate in this project? What are his specific circumstances?"

Professor Finch's smile remained unchanged, but his gaze lingered on the young man for a moment longer.

"Oh, this outstanding young man, he was once an ambitious college student, but unfortunately, he suffered a family tragedy. In order to support his studies and help his family, he chose to work and donate blood plasma to survive."

Professor Finch didn’t explicitly use the word “selling blood,” but everyone knew that it was actually a lucrative business in this country.

"The foundation will provide comprehensive psychological support, academic rehabilitation, and future job opportunities to help him regain his lost dignity and find a path to the 'American Dream.'"

Professor Finch tapped the microphone. "Alright, now have my research assistant take him away, and we'll continue our discussion about the project's progress."

Lin Zheng took the young man to get something to eat; his skeletal appearance looked too fragile.

During the meal and conversation, the young man opened up and began to recount his life story.

The young man was once a power forward on the university basketball team, a strong and energetic student. In order to pay for the high tuition fees and help support his family, he chose to sell his blood.

"I've been selling blood plasma for about a year," the young man told Lin Zheng. "It's to make a living, to finish my studies, and to earn money to climb the social ladder in the future."

His expression held a hint of helplessness, but also a touch of pride, because at least he was still "trying".

"But they told me I couldn't sell blood anymore because my total protein level was too low."

The young man said dejectedly.

"I know why—because I can only eat one 'meal' a day, and it usually consists of rice, beans, or noodles."

He said he had eaten chicken legs the night before donating blood twice, which barely fooled the tests, but "total protein tests are harder to fool."

"They said I could only donate blood again after I got a certificate from my primary care physician, but I can't afford the $100 to $150 to see a doctor."

"So this is yet another source of income that has disappeared, and it happened this Christmas."

He gave a bitter, self-deprecating smile.

"However, the man at the blood donation center told me to drink more water, because the more water I drink, the less blood I lose."

His voice was very soft.

"After I sell my blood, I can afford a slightly better meal, and I can even reciprocate the milk tea that others have treated me to..."

His eyes still sparkle when he recalls these small, "beautiful memories."

All he longed for was to feel treated kindly, like a "normal person," and to reciprocate the kindness of others.

Professor Finch, at this moment, is packaging his last, futile "dignity" into a grand performance.

Amid the clamor of the crowd, Emilia looked at Lin Zheng.

The doubt and worry in her eyes grew stronger.

She seemed to understand everything, yet felt utterly lost.

As he gazed at Emilia, the imam emerged from the corner.

He whispered to Lin Zheng, "Child, some 'hope' is more poisonous than despair..."

The imam's wisdom was enough for him to see through what was hidden behind certain things.

Lin Zheng nodded and said nothing more.