I don't know what carried me all the way to the hospital gates. Maybe it was just youth—my spine still strong enough to bear the weight of muscle and fat that hadn't yet become a burden.
I stopped. The moment my feet touched the ground, I nearly collapsed—not from fear, but from stiffness, my movements clumsy. I froze, wondering if I should go inside.
But really, what's the point? At a time like this, things like work, being late, or asking for leave mean nothing compared to survival. I know that. Yet if you've ever lived the life of a "wage slave," you'll understand: every day you drag yourself to work, every day you grind. And suddenly, one day, you don't. You start doubting—Am I really not going in today? Can I actually rest? The doubt itself feels unnatural.
That's exactly how I felt. And of course, I thought about my colleagues, about the patients. Should I go up to check on them? Bed 13's auntie, always talkative and anxious, panicking over the smallest discomfort—she must be terrified now. But she's too heavy, and I couldn't possibly move her.
While I hesitated, people burst out of the hospital. A young man was supporting an older man, stumbling as they ran.
I was standing in the empty lot beside the hospital, where scooters were parked. I didn't move. They were too panicked to notice me.
The young man kept glancing back. I guessed something more terrifying than beasts or ghosts was chasing them—like the things I had seen along the way, things that could no longer be called human.
For a moment, I thought I should help, at least support the older man in his hospital gown. But that thought vanished instantly. I knew more clearly: I should run.
On foot or on my scooter—it didn't matter. I should run. But I couldn't. My limbs felt sluggish, my reactions delayed. Maybe I really had a stroke.
So I just watched as more "people" rushed out. They flailed, faces twisted, limbs grotesquely uncoordinated. They crashed into each other, fell, then crawled back up in strange, contorted poses, relentlessly chasing after the two men, ignoring obstacles in their way.
I should have screamed, fainted, panicked—but I didn't. Not because of courage, but probably because my reflexes were too slow. Even my brain felt stiff.
Then, suddenly, they stopped running and turned to look at me.
What does it feel like to be stared at by monsters? Imagine a horror movie: hiding under the bed, opening your eyes to see nothing but a ghostly face; or turning around to find a twisted, hideous face silently staring at you.
Now imagine a dozen such faces staring at you at once. I'll never forget it.
And then my phone rang. The ringtone was a piece of ethereal guzheng music. At that moment, it didn't relax me at all. I barely felt anything—no fear, no panic.
I realized it was my phone. My eyes hadn't even moved away from them when they turned their heads again and continued chasing the two men.
Should I feel relieved, or more tense? I didn't know. I couldn't even feel my own breathing. After a while—or maybe not—I pulled out my phone. 521.
Don't misunderstand. That's my family's short dial number. It was my mom.
I swiped twice before the call connected. My mom's voice came through, anxious and panicked. I had never heard her sound like that before.
Do you know what it feels like when your soul leaves your body? Your body is there—lying, standing, sitting—but without sensation, without consciousness. You're like a mist, floating above, unable to enter, unable to control, drifting without anchor.
And when your soul returns, the world suddenly becomes clear, like falling out of thick fog into bright sunlight.
I heard my mom ask, "Where are you?" I looked up at the sky, looked around. It was daytime, familiar surroundings. But I wanted to go back. I had to go back.
"I…"
"Don't go out. Wait. Your dad will come get you."
I wanted to say I wasn't at home. But I shouldn't. For once, my sluggish brain didn't fail me. I heard my own voice: "I'm fine, Mom. I haven't even opened the door. It's locked. Dad, don't rush to come. Let's wait and see. The police will come soon. Just wait." Thank heavens, my speech wasn't too bad—just a little slow. I thought my mom wouldn't notice.
I don't know exactly what I said. But in summary: some safety tips, like locking doors and windows, blocking the door with heavy furniture, preparing food and water. Just things I learned from TV and movies. And then reassurance: don't be afraid, the police will save us, the country will solve this, I'm fine, I'll come back.
I also talked with my dad for a while. Basically repeating the same things, but this time it was him repeating them to me.
Dad and Mom were at home. That was good. I felt half relieved. Even though I was outside, in the open, with three or four of them passing nearby, I still felt calmer.
I don't know how long we talked. My hand didn't feel the phone's warmth. But I told my parents we must keep our phones charged, so we could stay in touch. After repeated reminders, we hung up.
I stared at the disconnected phone for a long time, unable to return to myself. Staring endlessly, as if I could see eternity—or as if silent tears might fall. But they didn't. I put away the phone and started my scooter.
Maybe out of habit, maybe for another reason, I didn't ride home to my parents' place. I went back the way I came.
I'm almost twenty-two, just stepping into society. Luckily, I got a public rental apartment. With all conditions met, I had a small place in this mountain-surrounded city. Not big, not truly mine, but it was a nest, a shelter—the only place I could go now.
Like before, on the way back, I didn't dare look around. I kept my eyes fixed less than ten meters ahead, pretending all shadows were illusions. A few cars passed. For a moment, I felt both joy and fear. I avoided them from afar, hoping they wouldn't see me, yet also hoping they would.
Maybe the cars were too loud, attracting them to follow. I didn't dare look closely, but my peripheral vision told me they were there.
When I was a child, I was pecked by a rooster. A big old rooster we'd raised for years. Maybe because it had seen too many people, it wasn't afraid. Instead, it was wary of strangers, especially those rushing past. It would chase and peck. The faster you ran, the harder it chased.
So I thought—they were the same. Sorry, maybe this comparison isn't respectful. But I just wanted to explain why I slowed down. That time, I was pecked so badly I never forgot. Being chased with a rooster perched on my shoulder, pecking all the way—not only painful, but humiliating.
I parked my scooter at the charging station, scanned the QR code, and went upstairs. Thankfully, except for one of them squatting nearby, seemingly eating something, I didn't encounter anything moving. I took the same elevator. The dirt inside was still there. I stared at that stain for a long time, until I reached my floor.
There were still strange noises in the hallway. I wasn't curious.
Open door. Enter. Lock. Then I stood there, not knowing what to do. I didn't want to eat, though I hadn't had breakfast. The fridge had food and snacks—all things I liked, because I only bought what I liked. But I didn't want to eat. Maybe I wasn't hungry.
I took out my phone, checked the time. Still early. No work today. The whole day was mine. I could do many things: water the plants, wash clothes, tidy the room, read novels, sleep.
Trivial things, but watching my place become neat and orderly, checking off tasks one by one—it gave me a sense of accomplishment. Even if now it took me twice as long as usual. When I finished, I didn't feel tired. Maybe that saying is true: joy in the heart cancels out fatigue in the body.
I wasn't tired, but I thought I should sleep. That way, time would pass faster. I plugged in my phone, still at 82% battery. Just a habit—always charging before bed. I even plugged in my power bank, though I didn't know why.
I put on my headphones. My favorite songs filled my ears. I could listen forever. Perfect, wasn't it? My favorite way to relax.