After completing the procedures and returning home, it was already completely dark outside.

　　The streetlights in the community had not been turned on yet, and I could only see a warm yellow light coming from the opposite house in the distance.

　　The stomachache had been persisting since the afternoon until now.

　　I curled up on the sofa, feeling hunger and pain crawl through my body.

　　I struggled to get up and open the refrigerator.

　　A nauseating smell of decay rushed out, and I seemed to remember that the last time I opened the refrigerator was over a month ago.

　　I grabbed a handful of vegetables, rinsed them briefly, and placed them on the chopping board.

　　The sound of the knife falling was uneven.

　　Drops of bright red blood fell on the verdant leaves, forming a flower with a fishy smell.

　　I froze for a moment.

　　The pain grew from the wound, and I realized that the knife had cut my hand.

　　When the impulse arose, I couldn't control it.

　　Old and new scars intertwined, adding another one.

　　Extended from my arm to my wrist.

　　The knife fell to the ground, and I knelt down, gasping for breath.

　　It seems like I'm losing control more and more, doing things that harm myself.

　　The doctor said before.

　　When the illness flares up, you must take medication.

　　But I didn't.

　　He also said, spend more time with loved ones.

　　"Jiang Zhe, communicate more with your family, feel loved." "It's good for your condition." But...

　　I looked at the winding bloodstains.

　　But I have no family.