doomsday seven years

She dreamed, dreamed back to the past,

The psychiatrist said: "Have you ever found yourself experiencing any strange things, such as you can't remember doing it, but you actually did it?"

"I don't like Arthur Rimbaud," she said.

"Who is Arthur Rimbaud?"

In fact, she did not like the poems of Arthur Rimbaud.What is even more uncertain is whether the psychiatrist asked knowingly and tricked her into answering, or he really didn't know.But she thought he was a very kind and experienced therapist.

The day something strange happened.The room is full of books, the central bookstore, and his poems can be easily obtained by stretching out your arms.

There are three volumes of Arthur Rimbaud's poems with different translators.

"Artille Rimbaud," she said, holding the pages of the book, looking at the black-and-white portrait of his youth, turning a page with her fingertips—restless, anxious, gay.He ran away from home three times.Arthur Rimbaud, a true psychic, the maddened storm.The alchemy of his words is treacherous and inexplicable.

I swallowed a big mouthful of poison-drug.

The beginning of the poem startled her a little.She took a breath and continued to read:

——Give me such a good idea, I really deserve triple blessings! ——The internal organs are burning with fire.The poison was violent, my limbs and five body spasms and twitched, I twisted and deformed, and fell to the ground.I'm dying of thirst, I'm suffocating, I can't breathe, I can't scream.This is hell, eternal punishment!Look, the flames are going up!Burn me up.Go away, devil!

She began to tremble, and she saw the words leave the paper, shining with golden alchemy light, peeling off one by one like a witch's paper figurine and taking off.with flash.

People who want to destroy themselves will go to hell, right?I believe I'm in hell, so I'm in hell.This is the personal practice of teaching.To be baptized is to prostitute myself, and I am my baptized slave.Parents, you made my misfortune and your own misfortune.Poor innocents! —Hell will not hurt the heathen. — still life!In the future, the joy of going to hell will be even more unfathomable.

She stared at the poem, breathless.

Don't say it, don't say it! ... Here blame is shame: Satan says fire is foolish, and so is my wrath. —taught me to make mistakes, magic tricks, fake spices, childish boring music.Enough, enough! ...

She recited aloud, fell into a strange hallucination, and almost went crazy. As the volume gradually increased, golden alchemy symbols flashed in her mind one by one.She raised her face reverently, and the holy light shone on her face.

—To say that I possess the truth, that I see justice: that I have sound and clear judgment, that I am perfected... is arrogance. — My scalp is cracking.Lord, have mercy!I'm afraid, I'm afraid.I just feel thirsty, thirsty to death!Childhood, green grass, happy rain, clear water and blue lake on the rock, moonlight when the clock tower strikes midnight... At such a time, the devil is hiding on the clock tower.Maria!Our Lady! …——My stupidity is terrifying.

Are there not all righteous souls there?Aren't they all kind to me? ...Come on...I gag my mouth with a pillow, they can't hear me, they're wandering spirits.After that, no one needs to think about others.Do not approach anyone.I smell burnt. It must be burnt.

She felt the flames of hell under her feet, and her whole body was hot, burning higher and higher, and the flames rolled up and rose up around her.She clearly knew that she was a sinner, a heretic who was burned to death, and her shoulders were exuding a strong smell of burnt.

There are many phantoms, endless.What I have seen is always the same: History is discredited, principles are forgotten.

She felt that the book she held in her hand was too heavy, heavy and hard, like a brick made by the flames of hell.

ah!The clock of life has just stopped.I no longer exist in this world. ——Theology is never sloppy, hell must be underground——Heaven is above. —Trances, nightmares, slumbers in the nest of fire.

It was as if something was trying to drag her ashore.The thing grabbed her shoulder with great force—she turned her head abruptly, and the books were delicately placed on the huge bookcase.It is full of foreign language books comparable to bricks, ready to hit the heads of criminals at any time.In addition to being practical, it is also very beautiful, because someone has designed how each book should be tilted, 45 degrees or [-] degrees.

The psychiatrist took out a piece of paper and handed it to her.He said: "So, who is Arthur Rimbaud, can you tell me?"

Who is Arthur Rimbaud?

She silently wiped the sweat from her face.

The psychiatrist's eyes are so humble and gentle, so focused, his posture rarely changes.He expressed his liking for the way she spoke.

"Is it scary? You're shaking, are you okay?"

But she was about to have a terrible answer, and the soul screamed in terror. "Who is Arthur Rimbaud..." she repeated, as if so, so could be deduced who Arthur Rimbaud was.

Just like at that time, she hurriedly closed the book, stuffed it into the gap between the books, and just stayed like this. "Athiere Rimbaud..." Moaned quietly, she was like rescuing a desperate family member outside with her forehead against the wall, unwilling to accept the fact.

Nightmare, sleep in the fire nest.The alchemy of the psychic sounded in her head, the voice of Arthur Rimbaud.

His voice was soft: "Yes, Arthur Rimbaud."

"Artille Rimbaud..."

"Tell me who Arthur Rimbaud is."

"I definitely didn't buy it," she said, shaking her head firmly.Denied having bought Arthur Rimbaud.

At the same time, this was the last time she saw this psychiatrist.At the end of the consultation, the psychiatrist lowered his head and glanced at the wall clock on the wall. He thought he hadn't been noticed.But she doesn't mind.This is not an inducement, let alone a fuse.

The way the psychiatrist looked at her was still so humble and gentle. "It's been a long time since we met once a week. It used to be a month or longer. So, is your auditory hallucination more serious?"

"Yeah...well, it's all right. Mostly because Arthur Rimbaud's poems make me uneasy."

"Why is this so?"

"The first time I read his poems, I felt like there were little insects crawling behind my ears. It wasn't just as simple as auditory hallucinations. Through the poems, I heard a woman screaming, yes, like an old witch with a sharp voice, that kind of Will hold a poisoned apple in one hand, while stirring a large pot of colorful boiling soup with a spoon. Hallucinations, the serious kind. I become cranky, can't be in the same room with more than three people at the same time, and sometimes feel that someone is there Pull my shoulders. You know, I heard that if you always hear someone calling your name, then you may be in a vegetable state, and your relatives are calling you, and the feeling of pulling your shoulders is even more serious after hearing this. "

She was agitated, unable to get the point out of her words, then jumped up from her chair, sat down again, and so on.Memories and thinking forced her to suffocate.But on the opposite side is an excellent psychiatrist.He has gentle and firm strength, allowing her to quickly overcome this abnormal state.

"I don't think it's too late to ask this question. Tell me, what prompted you to go to psychotherapy?"

"You asked me when we first met."

The psychiatrist didn't say anything, put his hands crossed on the table, and looked at her quietly.

She repeated the words of the first meeting.At this time, the second hand of the wall clock jumped for one second, two seconds, three seconds... The sound of the gears turning made her feel that she was wasting money.

"Do you remember things from your childhood?"

"I fell into the water."

"Is falling into the water related to the appearance of the little girl?"

"Probably," she said perfunctorily.The psychiatrist had just been divorced, and the circle marks on his fingers had just been removed. He picked up the A4 paper and looked at it.She raised her eyebrows, her eyes were attracted by the trophies placed in the glass cabinet, and she said, "What kind of material is this, it's shiny."

The psychiatrist put down the A4 paper, looked at her, and said softly: "You have to answer more specifically, what is the relationship between falling into the water and the appearance of the little girl?"

"I don't know. She's always wet, her belly isn't midwinter, and her hair is like seaweed. It's disgusting. I can't be bothered to look at her."

"You don't want to look at her."

"I don't like water. I wouldn't come here if I had to. Oh! I really hate the water, the smell of disinfectant is disgusting, no, the sea is even more disgusting, and frankly, I can't swim at all."

"How old is the little girl?"

"Five years old."

"How can you be sure?"

"Five-year-old fell into the water." Suddenly, she felt unspeakable anger, and the feeling when she read the poems of Arthur Rimbaud aloud came back!The fire, the flames of hell suddenly rose up. "Oh, he who laughed when I fell into the water, tormented me, laughed at me, watched me twitch in the water, and cheered at my death, my dear brother! I will take revenge on him, and burn him with fire! "

"You set your brother on fire."

"No," she said, "I just took my chance and smashed his wrist with the door, and got away with it. I'm smart, aren't I?"

"Before, did you get punished for falling into the water?"

"No."

"Didn't you tell your parents?"

"I said." She became a little annoyed. "I am the one who is punished. I am a sinner. Mom doesn't believe he can do such a bad thing. Dad is indifferent. They think they are a couple." Excellent model parents, but I was making a despicable report. I cried for a long time, wet, and they kept blaming me, pointing at me, and sternly ordering me not to hold grudges against my brother."

"Do you think they believe you?"

"I can't figure it out at all! If you don't believe me, why do you want me not to hate him?"

"You hate your parents."

"The mute's wish is to reconcile, to be close to them." She shook her head. "She's just freaking out."

"Who's dumb?"

"Little girl. She's dumb."

"why?"

"I do not know."

"So, when you fell into the water, did you call for help?"

"No. I drank a lot of water, a lot, a lot. I poured water into my mouth."

The cold pierced the skin, the depth of the water was dim, and the green was slightly dark, as if falling into the deep sea, her arms stretched upwards, like a sinner in hell who was about to climb to heaven.The bottomless abyss devours the young body.

Her gaze was always fixed on the trophy in the glass cabinet, she turned her face to the psychiatrist, and remained motionless.

"You like shiny things."

"Yes."

"Like shiny things, what special meaning does this have for you?"

"No, what reason do you need to like something. I have a room full of all kinds of things that emit light, and that's my territory."

"All kinds of glowing things," the therapist repeated.

She only remembered the ending.

The psychiatrist carefully considered his words, out of professional instinct, he clearly informed in a tactful way——she was experiencing a split personality.

"I'm not."

The psychiatrist did not speak.

She settled the bill rationally, calmly and decently, looked him in the eyes and said, "As long as her wish is fulfilled, she will disappear."

"What is the little girl's wish?"

Suddenly, her throat seemed to be driven into a stake, and she was unable to speak.