The Slag Gong wants to Kill me - Chapter 29

I felt like I was being lifted up and being carried on my back, and it seemed like an ambulance. I lie down and sleep peacefully.

When I woke up again, I was already in the hospital. The ward in the ward was only a little bedside lamp, and everything else in the ward was shrouded in mist and hidden in the darkness. I leaned on the dim light from that lamp and glimpsed a person lying on my bed—it was my editor friend B

He seemed to be waiting beside him.

When I got up on the bed, he seemed to be awakened. I saw him look up, smiled at me, and said, “Are you okay?”

I saw him have obvious dark circles.

“OK,” I replied, “What day is it?”

“Thursday. Early in the morning.” He raised his watch and looked. “Three o’clock.”

So I slept for two days, and it took a long time to calculate.

“… Your husband’s body was sent to the police station for autopsy,” said my editor friend B. “His parents know this.”

“This way …” I answered.

“His father couldn’t stand the stimulus and jumped off the sixth floor. He didn’t save him. His mother couldn’t bear his death like that, and took a knife to choke the bamboo horse. No, she was caught. He continued.

“How is she?” I asked.

My editor friend B showed a smile at me. His smile had an inexplicable singularity in the dim light, which made me feel a sense of palpitations in an instant. “What do you want her to do?” He said. “It’s time for the good show to come to an end.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, pretending to be angry. “Of course I want my husband’s mother to be good.” Get out. I silently filled in the second half of my sentence.

“I’m not joking with you.” He laughed abruptly. “She seems to be a bit insane. She has been saying things like letting a bamboo horse die in her mouth since the killing failed. She doesn’t answer anything else .If you are interested, you can invite her to a mental hospital. “

I shrugged, “Oh” and asked, “Where is the bamboo horse?”

My editor friend B was silent for a while, and said, “He seems to have temporarily lost his ability to communicate, but who knows if he will recover someday. He now sees Harako flowing.”

Harako is flowing, it’s like a dog, I think, if it makes me imagine, I can only think of dogs.

“Do you want to meet him?” My editor friend B asked. “He’s right outside.”