Crazy

Darkness, boundless darkness, as if immersed in the universe, that extreme darkness began to devour light, devour hope, devour vitality. The sense of space gradually fades, seemingly constricted to the point of suffocation, yet seemingly vast and boundless, even time loses its meaning, a second's pause and a century's length seem no different.

Silence, oppressively silent, holding breath, not a single sound in the ears, even the sound of air flowing seems to disappear. Amidst the utter silence, there is the slow flow of water, prompting one to widen their eyes, trying to capture a glimpse of life. But then, realizing it's the sound of his own blood flowing, like an auditory hallucination, blurring the line between reality and illusion.

Exhausted, Renly began to search for any faint signs of movement, even the sound of fingertips rubbing together is amplified to the extreme.

Why is he here? Who is he, really? Is he Renly, or Paul, or perhaps just an nonexistent wandering soul? What is he doing now? What is he pursuing? Should he seek survival? And how should he survive? Should he just give up? After all, he's already died once, another death shouldn't be so terrifying. No, he should continue to live, because his wife Linda and his son Shawn are still waiting for him at home. He doesn't want to die. He's only twenty-seven, life has just begun, he doesn't want to die!

His phone, yes, his phone!

A flicker of hope ignites within him. He begins to search for traces of his phone in his pocket, but finds nothing. His pants pocket? Empty. His jacket? He wore a T-shirt today, no jacket. Right, the back pocket of his pants. Nothing there, still nothing.

"Bam! Bam bam!" Emotions easily slip out of control, slamming fiercely against the wooden board. His slightly swollen fist sends a wave of pain, but his muscles are almost numb, indifferent to the impact.

How did he end up in this predicament? How did he push himself into this dilemma?

Iraq, yes, Iraq. Damn the real estate bubble that made them lose everything. In their bank account, only... seven hundred dollars. Damn seven hundred dollars, he can't even afford a steak, let alone the mortgage.

Because of this financial crisis, he and Linda had been arguing for nearly thirteen months. All the love, all the sweetness, all the happiness shattered in the face of the survival crisis, every day was torment.

They once had beautiful times, crazy love in college, tender moments in marriage. They painstakingly built their happy home with their own hands. But overnight, they plummeted to the bottom, the huge drop leaving both of them at a loss. He even lost his job, adding insult to injury.

When did the arguments start? He can't remember. It probably started with small things, like forgetting to put the milk back in the fridge, leaving the kitchen lights on, forgetting to bring in the shopping basket left in the garage... But then, the arguments escalated, they started cursing each other, blaming each other, hating each other, becoming unrecognizable to each other.

Their lives fell apart. Iraq was his only choice. If he refused, by next summer at the latest, or even by the end of this year, the bank would take away their house. The house they built together, he didn't have much choice, did he?

Moreover, at the time, Iraq didn't seem like a bad choice. Generous pay, high compensation, and as non-combatants, they wouldn't be targeted by Iraq. If there were accidents, not only would the company reimburse, but the government wouldn't stand by either. He even joked with Linda at the time, "What if I sacrifice myself there, then we'd have a way out of our mortgage."

Foolish, utterly foolish!

Did he never think about the dangers of Iraq? No, he did, he just chose to selectively ignore it. He never learned his lesson.

He wants to go home, he just wants to go home now. He misses Linda's smile, he misses Shawn's mischief, God, he even misses the freezing winters in Hastings. But now he's trapped in this small box, a box so small he can't even stretch his limbs, and then waiting quietly to die, waiting for oxygen to be depleted, and then cruelly cutting off all vitality.

How absurd, isn't it? Even more absurdly, now he doesn't even have the strength to cry, he just wants to laugh. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly upwards, then droop down weakly. Despair begins to gnaw at his heart.

He's a coward, a coward afraid of death, even without decent resistance to survival. He just surrendered like this, without waiting for execution in Iraq, without waiting for nature's consumption, he just lay down here and waited for death, he's a disgrace, a joke. He still wants to pursue acting skills? He still wants to fulfill dreams? He still wants to be an excellent actor? This is simply the most absurd joke since the 21st century.

Elizabeth and George were right, he has no talent, no ability. The dream of acting is just a futile delusion, dreaming of shocking the audience like those top actors, dreaming of carving out his own path in acting like those artists, dreaming of having his own place like those names that go down in history. But all of this is just the pride and stubbornness in his heart, the dissatisfaction and anger from his past life.

He is like Sisyphus in Greek mythology, tirelessly trying to push the boulder to the top of the mountain, but because the boulder is too heavy, it rolls back down every time before reaching the top, all previous efforts in vain. Thus, he endlessly repeats, perpetually sitting on this futile and hopeless task, slowly depleting his life in this ineffective labor.

This is the punishment of the gods.

He thought he was chasing dreams, denying the gods, every day's struggle seemed so fulfilling, so exciting. But in reality, it's just an extremely foolish repetitive action, banging his head against a brick wall, refusing to give up, tirelessly striving thousands of times, yet unable to break free, ultimately spending his life on this steep slope that can never be conquered.

This is the source of his faith, but also the root of his misery.

So, should he give up? Or has he given up already? He's given up on dreams, given up on struggling. Two lifetimes as a human being, ending up with the same outcome—lying here quietly waiting for death, unable to do anything, or having done nothing?

No, he won't surrender! He refuses to surrender! Regardless of the outcome, even if he dies again in the end, he will fight to the end. He won't accept his fate, and he won't give up.

Calm, he must calm down.

He has no tools now, only his own hands—no, also his feet. A flash of insight in his mind, he wore sneakers today, with shoelaces. If he finds a gap, he can stick the shoelace out and send a distress signal, maybe too faint, too inconspicuous, but at least it's a glimmer of hope!

So, he begins to calm down, highly focused, pushing aside all scattered thoughts, slowly feeling along the wall with his hands, trying to find the seam of the coffin and lid. In the darkness and silence, his sense of touch becomes sensitive, feeling every silk-like sensation clearly, like a snake slowly moving through the mud, using his body to feel every inch of land, then quietly waiting for the opportunity for a fatal strike.

Found it!

His fingertips touch that invisible seam, he quickly stuffs the excess fabric around it, marking it, then starts to take off his shoes.

After taking off his right shoe, he realizes he's confined in a limited space, he can't reach the bottom of his feet. What a brain malfunction! Luckily, he still has his left foot.

Lifting his left foot parallelly, he grips the trouser leg with both hands, attempting to pull it up. But before his fingertips even touch it, his knee hits the wall, leaving at least half a hand's width between his fingertips and the bottom—He can't be sure in the darkness, he can only rely on instinct to feel around.

Gritting his teeth, he starts reaching down, his shoulders against the wall, his head against the wall. Waves of pain rush in amid suffocation, but he remains unaware, his right hand searching downward, bit by bit, nearly bursting his veins, every muscle in his body tense to the extreme... finally, he reaches, finally he reaches, his right hand grasps the left pant leg, then begins to pull it up, his neck and knees nearly breaking, as if one more ounce of strength would break his throat and kill him, every cell in his body groaning in pain, but he still hasn't given up, his eyes bloodshot, mad with an overwhelming desire to survive.

The heel, the shoe, the ankle... his fingertips stretched to the limit, almost cramping, unable to exert force, only relying on the faint strength and coordination of his feet, trying to take off the shoes without clumsily dropping them.

"Huff," he finally takes off the shoe, hooking it with his fingertips! But now, his index finger is twisted from cramping, unable to straighten, showing a grotesque angle. He doesn't care, he doesn't care at all, hooking the shoe and pulling it up quickly, then quickly removing the shoelace, and then quickly finding the seam he marked earlier.

He needs to open the seam a bit, a bit more, so the shoelace can be pushed out!

Eyes bloodshot, he exudes an overwhelming killing intent, sinking into madness, possessed by frenzy.