CHAPTER - 0 DRAGON
For as long as I could remember, my mother wanted me to be a teacher: she was a poor, paranoid woman. My father, who is said to have left her before I was born, is said in the neighbourhood to be a clergyman; Maybe a poet; Perhaps it was a robber, or something else.
But we are not easily forgiven for it. For some reason, people did not care how many of his subjects the sultan on the border starved to death; They do not care that a great and terrible revolution is taking place somewhere, with blood and slogans all over the place; But they were not surprised -- in this little town -- to never miss a word of gossip or dust. They love the smell of flea blood. They love to see. They never forgive. The audience never falls from the moral high ground, so they always have the right to sneer.
My mother was once an heir of a noble family. But as time and the revolution have worn on, the only reminder of the ancient bloodline's glory today is a dusty, greasy urn on a cupboard. But she still lingered in the smoke of the carriages of that aristocratic age, like a queen in the cold.
So she retained a fanatical belief in deities -- and, of course, deities, besides the stubbornness of the bloodline, were often the only means of salvation for the poor. She thought I could be sacrificed to god for the life she had lost,
But I didn't say I was a prince. I am not a reliable lamb. I pity the virgin who gave birth to me, but I yearn for the red dragon even more.
From the beginning to the end, I never lost sight of my goal. Ladies and gentlemen: never question the elegant presentation of a murderer. For those who like to listen to hanbert's story, it will be a pity that they can't keep quiet and listen to
me. If you understand me, I'll begin
CHAPTER-1- Confession Under The Altar
My dear Ming, please don't press me so hard about all these memories... I didn't know what to expect that morning. In fact, I have to say I can hardly remember anything. It's a bit cold in here. Do you still have that Fried rice?
I'll try to tell you. But... If I really don't want to talk again '(nervously looks at the wall behind me and quickly turns back.) I hope you understand.
I don't know why they didn't come to pick me up. It used to be that there were at least 50 young people my age... I can't say they were "picked up" because when I woke up, there was more blood in the place than there had been before. Walls, floors, wooden beams... It's everywhere. And now, somehow, it's gone. Thanks for your help, but how did you find me? These were the only people who knew the place.
。。 Thank you for your concern. I mean, I'll try to be as complete as I can.
I'm sorry I lied to you. It's not the first time I've been to this place. You don't see me panicking, do you? In fact, I'm used to traveling from place to place. They would always push me out of the house and furtively push me into one of the black carriages, blindfolded and with their ears covered. This is where you come when you hear and see again. But very strange, I always can't remember what happened there, forever only on the door broken open and heavy memory: rancid smell, scream, flute sound - that let me feel uneasy, but seems like I have another strange part, the senses in ecstasy, laughing, and then blend in the world behind the door.
It was strange that so much of it was gone, including the smell -- as if something was over.
This is where I've been going every full moon for as long as I can remember -- never in the daytime.