Chapter 473:

The man wanted him to fall. Bad guy-what's his name? earthquake? quail? quarrel? When the grid tilted further, he automatically grabbed the grid. After all, maybe he doesn't want to fall over his shoes? Perhaps it is worth staying for a lifetime-the darkness beyond the edge of the grid is so deep; who can guess what is hidden in it?
Above his head, his panic sound doubled. His heart beats, mucus knots, and his palate is dry. His palms were sweaty and he lost his grip. Gravity wants him. It requires the right to own most of his body: it requires him to fall. For a moment, he glanced at the mouth with his shoulder open under him, thinking he saw the monster churning under him. Ridiculous, stupid things, roughly painted, dark. Harmful graffiti has been around since his childhood, untied their paws and grabbed his leg.
"Mom," he said, because his hands made him fail, and he fell into fear.
"mom."
That's the word. Quaid heard its voice plainly.
"mom!"
By the time Steve hit the bottom of the well, he could no longer judge how far he had fallen. The moment his hand released the grid, he knew that the darkness would put him in trouble, and his mind suddenly collapsed. The animal's self survived and relaxed his body, causing him to suffer minor injuries in the impact, but almost no injuries. Except for the simplest reaction, the rest of his life was shattered, and the fragments fell into a recess in his memory.
When the light was on, he finally looked up at the man in the Mickey Mouse mask at the door and smiled at him. It was the smile of a child, which was one of thanks to his ridiculous rescuer. He asked the man to grab his ankle and drag him out of the large round room he was in. His pants were wet, and he knew he had soiled himself in his sleep. Nevertheless, funny mice will kiss him better.
When he was dragged out of the torture chamber, his head tilted to his shoulders. On the floor next to his head are shoes. Seven or eight feet above him is the grid on which he fell.
Not at all.
He let the mouse sit down in the bright room. He asked the mouse to return his ears, even though he didn't really want them. It was so funny to watch the world without sound, which made him laugh.
He drank some water and ate some sweet cakes.
He is very tired. He wants to sleep. He wants his mother. But the mouse didn't seem to understand, so he cried, kicked the table, and threw the plates and cups on the floor. Then he ran to the next room and threw out all the documents he could find. It's nice to see them flying up and down. Some of them fell face down and some fell face up. Some are covered with text. Some are pictures. Scary picture. Photos that make him feel very strange.
They are all pictures of the dead, everyone has. Some of the pictures are children, others are adults. They were lying or half-sitting, their faces and bodies had large wounds, and these wounds showed a mess below, a pile of mushy shiny fragments and muddy fragments. All the dead around: black paint. Not a neat puddle, but splashing around, with fingerprints, hand-printed, and very messy. In three to four photos, the crop is still there. He knows the word. ax.
A lady's face almost buried the axe in the handle. One man had an axe on his lap, and the other was lying on the kitchen floor next to a dead baby.
This person collected photos of dead people and axes, which Steve thought was strange.
That was his last thought before the smell of chloroform filled his head and lost consciousness.
The dirty doorway smelled of old urine and fresh vomit. This is his own vomit; it's all on the front of his shirt. He tried to stand up, but his legs trembled. Very cold. His throat hurts.
Then he heard footsteps. It sounds like the mouse is back. Maybe he will take him home. "Get up, son."
Not a mouse. Is the police
"What are you doing there? I said getting up."
Supporting himself on the collapsed brick at the door, Steve stood up. The police lighted the torch at him.
"Jesus Christ," the policeman wrote on his face in disgust. "You are in a state now. Where do you live?"
Steve shook his head and looked down at his shirt soaked in vomit, like a shameful schoolboy.
"What is your name?"
He can't remember.
"Name, buddy?"
He is trying. If only the police do not shout.
"Come on, hold on to yourself."
These words don't make much sense. Steve would feel the tears sting his eyes.
"Home."
Now he was talking nonsense, sniffing his nose and feeling completely abandoned. He wants to die: He wants to lie down and die. The police shook him.
"Are you high above?" he demanded, pulling Steve under the glare of the street lamp and staring at his teary face.
"You better keep going."
"Mom," Steve said, "I want my mother."
These words completely changed the encounter.
Suddenly, the police found that the glasses were really disgusting. Much more than poor. This little bastard, with bloodshot eyes and wearing a shirt for dinner, really made him uneasy. Too much money, too much dirt in his veins, too little discipline.
"Mom is the last straw. He hit Steve on the stomach, neatly, sharply, and functionally. Steve doubled his head and groaned.
"Shut up, son."
Another blow completed the work of disabling the child, and then he took a handful of Steve's hair and raised the face of the little pharmacy to greet him.
"Do you want to be an abandoned person?"
"no no."
Steve didn't know what abandonment was. He just wanted the police to like him.
He said, "Please," I shed tears again, "Take me home." The police seemed confused. This kid didn't start to fight back and call for civil rights like most people, this is how they usually end. Get up: On the ground, with a bleeding nose, asking for a social worker. It's just crying. The police began to have a bad feeling towards the child, as if he had a mental illness or something else. Little nose, it, now he feels responsible, he took Steve's arm, tied him on the road, and crossed the car.
"Come in."
"take me to-"
"I will take you home, son. I will take you home."
In the nightclub, they searched Steve's clothes for some kind of recognition, but found nothing, and then searched for fleas on his body and nits on his hair. Steve was relieved when the police left him. He doesn't like that man. The people in the hotel were talking about him as if he were not in the room. Talking about how old he is; discussing his psychological age; his clothes; his appearance. Then they gave him a bar of soap and showed him a shower. He stood under cold water for ten minutes, then dried himself with a soiled towel. He didn't shave, even though they lent him a razor. He forgot how to do it.
Then they gave him some old clothes he liked. They are not such bad people, even if they do talk about him as if he is not there. One of them even smiled at him. A burly man with a gray beard. Smiles like he does to a dog.
They are strange clothes for him. Too big or too small. All colors: yellow socks, dirty white shirt, pinstriped trousers made for the mouth, bare sweaters, platform boots. He likes to dress up and puts on two vests and two pairs of socks when not wearing them. He felt relieved, surrounded by cotton and wool of several thicknesses.
Then, they left him a ticket, handed him to the bed, and waited for the dormitory to be unlocked. He is not impatient, like some people walking down the corridor with him. They yelled vaguely, many of which were full of profanity and spit at each other. It frightened him. He just wants to sleep. Lie down to sleep.
At eleven o'clock, a guard opened the door to the dormitory, and all the lost people rushed over to find their iron bed for the night. The dormitory is large and dimly lit, full of disinfectant and the smell of elderly people.
Steve avoided his eyes and other abandoned arms and found himself a sick bed with a thin blanket on it, lying down to sleep. Everyone around him was coughing, muttering and crying. A man said a prayer while lying on a gray pillow staring at the ceiling. Steve thought it was a good idea. So he said the prayer of his child.
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