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

The rain pounded incessantly against the bus windows.

The carriage was filled with a stuffy, musty smell, a mixture of rain, sweat, and cheap perfume.

Lin Zheng sat by the window, his gaze piercing through the blurry glass as he stared at the bizarre and dazzling Emerald Dream City outside.

The neon signs were stretched and distorted by the rain, like organs soaked in formaldehyde, emitting an alluring yet nauseating glow.

A huge "GG" sign flashed between the buildings, and a meticulously made-up female model smiled, her smile spreading in the rain, appearing fake and eerie.

People hurried through the rain, their faces and bodies cut into unfamiliar shapes by shadows and light, each with their head down and heavy steps.

The senior brother's words pierced his fragile belief in "preserving the dignity of the deceased."

The collapse of faith reveals the unfathomable void and absurdity beneath.

After returning home that day, he didn't go out all day.

He sifted through every available resource, frantically searching in the sea of ​​data for a vessel that could give him peace of mind.

Research the legal provisions regarding body donation, the ethics of life science research, and the underground rules of the funeral industry.

He found that the claim of "public property" was indeed impeccable.

Legally, once a donor selects that small, often overlooked "donor" option during their lifetime, their body is no longer considered private property, but a "resource"—a resource that can be configured, utilized, disassembled, and reassembled.

Underground industries like his are at the very end of this vast system, a secret and efficient processing plant responsible for standardizing these "resources" to supply high-end "customers".

The more he learned, the more suffocated he felt.

This network is so large that it covers the entire society.

Society as a whole is a sophisticated and unshakeable giant meat grinder, where everyone is unconsciously fuel or a cog in a machine, their value precisely calculated from birth to death.

He, Lin Zheng, a stranger from Dongxia, was chosen to become a "craftsman".

Outside the car window, a huge container truck roared past, the blurry graffiti on the side of the truck bed looking menacing in the rain.

Lin Zheng glanced at it subconsciously. The graffiti was a distorted smiling face, only half of it remaining, the smile washed away by the rain, blood flowing downwards.

He suddenly caught a familiar stench of decay, along with the strong smell of disinfectant beneath it.

Hallucination?

He forced himself to look away and turn to the inside of the carriage, only to see a middle-aged woman sitting next to him staring at him with a strange look.

Her face was covered in thick white powder, and her lips were as red as blood.

Her lips parted slightly, without making a sound, but Lin Zheng could clearly "hear" the harsh sound of bones grinding together.

Lin Zheng suddenly closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the seat tightly with both hands, his knuckles turning white from the force.

He gasped for breath, trying to banish the auditory and visual hallucinations from his mind.

It's a hallucination. It must be a hallucination.

He told himself that it was just excessive fatigue and mental stress that made him more sensitive to anything unusual around him.

The bus slowly came to a stop. Lin Zheng stood up almost as if he were fleeing, walked through the swaying carriage, and pushed through the crowded people.

He could feel the strange looks he was getting from the people around him, but he didn't care anymore.

The moment he got out of the car, a blast of icy rain hit his face, the brief shock bringing him back to his senses.

He stood by the roadside, letting the rain soak him, trying to wash away the lingering images and sounds in his mind.

He dragged his heavy steps across the streets that were glistening from the rain.

The puddles by the roadside reflected the distorted neon lights, making him feel as if he were walking in a broken mirror world.

Finally, he stopped in front of the apartment building where he lived.

The light bulb at the entrance still flickered with a half-dead light, casting his shadow long and short.

In the apartment lobby, there were several rain-soaked GG flyers and a rusty children's tricycle. On the wall was a yellowed community notice with the handwriting blurred.

He climbed the stairs, one floor at a time.

The walls of the stairwell were covered with children's scribbles and some vulgar words drawn with sharp objects.

His apartment is on the top floor, the seventh floor.

The old elevator had been broken for a long time and had never been repaired. The landlord said that repairs would be too expensive and would increase property tax, so it would be better to let the residents exercise.

In the fourth-floor corridor, faint sounds of arguing and a baby crying could be heard. A young couple seemed to be arguing again about bills and baby formula.

On the sixth floor, from an open doorway, came the canned laughter of a soap opera on television, along with the strong smell of microwaved food. Inside lived a lonely old man, presumably trying to fill the emptiness with artificial joy in front of the screen.

These everyday, mundane sounds sounded incredibly distant to him at that moment, as if they came from another world.

Human joys and sorrows are not shared; I only find their noise bothersome. Xun Ge'er's words, transcending time and space, resonated in his heart.

He finally climbed to the seventh floor and stood in front of his apartment.

He took out his key, his hands trembling slightly from the cold, and it took him several tries to find the right keyhole.

He pushed open the door to his apartment, and a familiar, comforting scent wafted towards him. This was his world, a world where he could relax and unwind.

This was a small but safe haven for him.

A single bed, with a landscape painting of his hometown hanging on the wall above it. A small dining table that doubles as a desk. A wooden shelf piled high with tools and old books, displaying some small models he made himself. A simple open kitchen, small but fully equipped.

He turned on the light, and the warm yellow light dispelled the shadows in the room, also dispelling the slight chill in his heart. He felt his tense nerves relax a little.

He took off his soaking wet coat and hung it on the coat rack by the door. Rainwater dripped down the edges of the coat, spreading out a small wet patch on the floor with a monotonous "drip-drip" sound.

Lin Zheng walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. A blast of cold air, mixed with the smells of various ingredients, hit him, instantly invigorating him.

He looked at the few ingredients in the refrigerator: a few carrots with an earthy smell, a few heads of bright green cabbage, a large piece of frozen beef he had bought a few days ago, some miscellaneous seasonings, and a few eggs.

His fingertips touched the cold, hard beef, and the icy sensation instantly awakened his suppressed memories.

Cut flesh, stitched wounds, cold surgical instruments, sharp suture needles... everything flashed through my mind.

He could still seem to feel the faint resistance of the scalpel cutting through the muscle and smell the rusty smell of blood in the air.

He clenched his fists instinctively, his nails digging deep into his palms, the pain pulling him out of his reverie.

This is food, food for living people. It's used to replenish energy and sustain life.

He took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled, forcing himself to suppress the discomfort.

He needs to do something, something concrete and controllable.

Some things that allow him to feel that he is still a "living person".

He picked up his phone first, his pale and tired face reflected on the screen. His fingertips swiped through the contacts, finding those two familiar names.

Smith, Sam.

They were among the few people he could call friends in this city.

He hesitated for a moment, his finger hovering over the screen.

"I'm going to cook some food, come over and have a bite and a drink." There's no need to be too polite with these two trustworthy friends; a simple call is all it takes for them to come.

send.

At that moment, he felt a sense of relief.

It wasn't because he had escaped fear, but because he reached out and tried to reconnect with the real world, even if it was just through a simple dinner.

And then comes the cooking.

This is not just about filling one's stomach, but also a ritual.

A ritual to combat chaos and restore order.

A ritual that uses the fireworks of life to dispel the shadow of death.

Of course, he wasn't going to make white food; if he had to eat that cold, unpalatable stuff, he would feel like he didn't want to live anymore.

In my hometown, cold food never holds the same status as hot food, not only because of the difference in taste, but also because warmth is what heals both the body and the spirit.

He took out a cutting board and a kitchen knife from the cupboard.

The cutting board is made of thick wood, covered with crisscrossing knife marks, recording his countless efforts to make a living.

The blade of the cleaver gleamed under the light, reflecting off his pale, tired face.

In the workshop, the knife is a tool for separation; here, it will be a tool for creation, cutting not only the ingredients, but also his thoughts haunted by nightmares.

He processed the vegetables first.

The warmth came from my fingertips, washing away the dirt from the carrot. The rustic scent of the earth was completely different from the chemical smell of the chemicals I was using at work.

He picked up the carrot and placed it on the cutting board. With a swift stroke, the crisp "snap" of the knife echoed in the quiet room.

He cut the carrot into evenly sized cubes, each with distinct edges.

This requires focus and precision, which is exactly what brings together chaotic thoughts.

The fresh scent of radishes and the rhythmic sound of knives dispelled the terrifying hallucinations that plagued my work.

Next up is cabbage.

Instead of using a knife, he tore the vegetable leaves apart piece by piece with his hands. The leaves made a crisp sound as they broke, and the juice splashed onto his hands, carrying the unique fragrance of the plant.

This kind of random, destructive creation gave him a strange sense of pleasure.

Meat, this is the most difficult step.

Frozen beef is like a red, stubborn rock, hard and lifeless.

He gently patted it with the back of the knife, watching it gradually thaw, regain its muscle elasticity, and emit a faint smell of blood.

This smell is the source of all fear.

He took a deep breath, and the tip of the knife glided lightly along the grain of the beef, the sensation of the muscle fibers breaking so clearly.

This is not separation, not dissection, he repeatedly reminded himself.

In an instant, the kitchen scene overlapped with the studio workbench. His hand trembled, and the tip of the knife left a deep mark on the cutting board.

He took a sudden step back, leaned against the cabinet behind him, and gasped for breath.

No, we can't do that.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall his mother cooking in the kitchen, and the scenes of the whole family sitting together for reunion dinners during the Lunar New Year. Those were warm, filled with laughter. Food is the taste of home, a vessel of love.

He reopened his eyes, his gaze hardening.

This is not dismemberment, it is preparing dinner; this is not processing death, but a tribute to life.

He continued slicing the meat, placing the evenly sliced ​​pieces into a bowl to marinate.

Ginger and garlic are pungent and have a strong aroma.

He poured in cooking wine, soy sauce, and a little starch, then reached out and gently mixed it with his fingertips.

The smooth texture of the meat slices, the coolness of the sauce, and the grainy texture of the seasonings were all clearly transmitted to him through his fingertips, and he felt his fingertips begin to regain a little warmth.

With everything ready, he turned on the stove. The blue flames leaped up with a "whoosh" and made a faint "sizzling" sound.

The light from the flames shone on his face, adding a touch of warmth to his pale complexion.

The roar of the range hood drowned out the rain outside the window and the arguing downstairs, creating a secluded little world of his own for him.

He heated the pan and poured in the oil.

Watching the clear oil slowly spread across the bottom of the pot, he threw in the chopped scallions, ginger, and garlic. The hot oil instantly released their aroma, producing an enticing sizzling sound.

The entire kitchen was immediately filled with a pungent yet pleasant aroma, completely dispelling the lingering putrid smells.

Next, the marinated meat slices were slid into the pot. The moment they came into contact with the hot oil, they contracted violently and changed color. The aroma of caramelized meat mixed with the fragrance of seasonings filled the entire kitchen.

Lin Zheng gripped the spatula, his arm muscles tense, and quickly stirred the food. The spatula collided with the iron wok, producing a crisp and powerful "clanging" sound.

He watched as the slices of meat jumped and rolled in the pot, turning from bright red to an enticing brown.

Stir-fry the carrots in a pot, add water and simmer. The aroma wafts out from the vent of the pot lid, overpowering all the previous discomfort.

He could smell the complexity of the spices, the richness of the soy sauce, the meaty aroma of the beef, and the spiciness of a touch of chili.

This is a fresh and authentic flavor, a flavor that belongs to humanity.

The warmth of the food, transmitted through the spatula to his hands, was comforting and reassuring, dispelling the chilling aura emanating from his body.

He tasted the broth; it was slightly bland, so he added a little salt. He carefully savored the changes in flavor until he achieved a balance that satisfied him.

The carrot and beef stew can be cooked a little longer until it's very tender. Once Smith and Sam arrive, we can make some sweet and sour cabbage and scrambled eggs, and then we can start eating.

In this small kitchen, he is the master; he can create the flavors he desires and control everything.

He had once heard someone say that food is the most primal comfort for humankind and the last line of defense against the cold outside.

Family members back home often say, "No matter what happens, eat something good and you'll get through it."

At that moment, he wholeheartedly agreed.

This simple home-style stir-fry is the only reality he can grasp at this moment; it is a small, warm refuge he has built for himself amidst absurdity and nothingness.

After cooking the vegetables, he skillfully cooked himself a pot of rice.

White steam rises from the exhaust vent, carrying a faint aroma of rice—the simplest and most comforting smell.

His hands were trembling slightly, not from fear, but from a long-suppressed excitement within him.

Although he once cooked his hometown dishes for his mentor to please him, now he does it to please himself.

It's so great to be able to eat food from my hometown. I've been craving this for so long, and just a few days feel like a lifetime ago.

However, he still needs the support of his friends to consolidate this small victory.

The phone screen lit up, two new messages breaking the silence in the room. Smith: "I'm bringing some good wine. Your beer won't be enough for us." Sam replied immediately: "Oh, Lin, great! I can smell it! We're on our way!"

Lin Zheng's lips curled up slightly, and the warmth finally seeped out after filling his body.

Outside the window, the rainy night continued endlessly, but inside, there was a warm light and a table of food waiting for friends.