Super Trick or Treat System

Then he thought: Quaid dare not. "Don't dare!" he screamed. "Don't dare!"

Darkness is the mouth of words. He shouted, as if he had never made a sound. Then another thought: a real badass. Suppose Quaid has found this circular **** that leads to him, because it will never be discovered and will never be investigated? Maybe he wants to maximize his experiment.

Reach the limit. Death has reached its limit. Isn't that the final experiment? Watching a man die: watching the fear of death, the fear of mother's fear, approaching. Sattle wrote that no one can know his death. But know the deaths of other people, and pay close attention to the acrobatics in their minds that they must show to avoid the painful facts-this is a clue to the nature of death, isn't it? This may prepare a person for his own death in some smaller way. Taking turns to live with the fear of others is the safest and smartest way to contact beasts. Yes, he thought, Quayd might kill me. Break away from his tenor

Steve is very satisfied with this idea. Quaid is an impartial experimenter and a future educator. He is obsessed with terror, because he has the deepest sense of fear.

This is why he had to watch others deal with their fears. He needs a solution, a way out of his own.

The whole process took several hours. In the dark, Steve's head is quick, but he can't control it. He found it difficult to maintain a series of arguments for a long time. His thoughts are like a fish, a thin and fast fish, holding them tightly.

However, the basis of every thought transition is the knowledge he must transcend. for sure. He must remain calm; prove that his analysis is useless.

Photos from these times show Stephen lying on the grid with his eyes closed, his face slightly frowning. Sometimes, paradoxically, a smile will fly between his lips. Sometimes it is impossible to know if he is sleeping or waking up, thinking or dreaming.

Quaid waited.

Eventually, Steve's eyes began to flash under his eyelids, which was a clear sign of dreaming. It was time that the subject fell asleep and turned the wheels of the shelf-Steve woke up with both hands. He can see a bowl of water on the plate next to him. There is also a second bowl, which is filled with warm, unsalted rice. He ate and drank gratefully.

Two things happened when he was eating. First of all, the sound of his eating seems loud in his head. Secondly, he felt a structure around his temples, a sense of tension.

These photos show Stephen reaching out awkwardly to touch his head. Tie the seat belt around him and fix it in place. It clamps the plug deeply in his ears to prevent any sound from entering.

These photos are confusing. Then get angry. Then fear.

Steve turned a deaf ear.

All he could hear was the noise in his head. Gritting teeth. He was muddy and swallowed. The sound resounded between his ears like gunfire.

Tears splashed everywhere. He kicked the grille without hearing the flap of his heel on the metal rod. He screamed until his throat felt bleeding. He did not hear his cry.

The panic began with him.

The photo shows its birth. His face flushed. His eyes widened, his teeth and gums grimace.

He looks like a frightened monkey.

All the familiar childhood time swept him. He remembered them as faces of old enemies. Limbs trembling, sweat, nausea. In desperation, he picked up the bowl of water and poured it on his face. The shock of cold water made his mind instantly divert from the panic ladder he was climbing. He lay on the grid and put his body on the board, telling himself to breathe deeply and evenly.

Relax, relax, relax, he said loudly.

On his head, he could hear the clicking of his tongue. He can also hear the mucus, moving slowly in the narrow passage of the panicking nose, blocking and unblocking in the ears. Now he can detect the deep hiss waiting under all other noises. His heart's voice-like white noise between radio stations, this is the harsh sound of retrieving him under anesthesia, just like the sound of his ears on the edge of sleep.

His limbs were still twitching nervously, he knew only half of the way he wrestled with the handcuffs, and he was indifferent to the skin on the edge of the scratched wrist.

These photos accurately record all these reactions. His war with hysteria: his pathetic attempt to prevent fear from emerging. His tears. His bleeding wrist.

In the end, exhaustion overcame the panic. Just like when he was a child, how many times did he fall asleep because of the salty smell of tears in his nose and mouth and couldn't fight anymore?

Tiredness increased the noise above his head. Now, his brain is no longer a lullaby, but a whistle to make him fall asleep.

Forgetting is good.

Quaid was disappointed. It is obvious from his response speed that Stephen Grace will indeed go bankrupt soon. In fact, he was broken only a few hours away. Quaid has always relied on Stephen. After months of preparation, it seems that this subject will lose his mind without giving up any clues.

Only one word is needed, and one miserable word is enough. A little sign about the nature of experience. Even better, someone proposed a solution, a totem of healing or even a prayer. When the character is madly swept away, will there be a savior on the lips? There must be something

Quay waited like a carrion bird in the rotten place, counting the remaining time of the dying soul, hoping for a little bit.

Steve wakes up face down on the grid. The air was clearer now, and the metal rod pierced the flesh of his cheek. He was hot and uncomfortable.

He stayed still, allowing his eyes to adjust to his surroundings. The lines of the grid perfectly see through and meet the shaft wall. The simple crisscross bar network impressed him. Yes, beautiful. He scratched back and forth until he got tired of the game. When he was bored, he rolled over and felt the grille vibrate under his body. Is it unstable now? He seemed to shake a little when he moved.

Steve was hot and sweaty and unbuttoned his shirt. There was a deep sleep on his chin, but he didn't care to wipe it off. What if he drools? Who see you

He half took off his shirt and kicked off the other shoe with one foot.

Shoes: Plaid: Autumn. His mind made a connection dullly. He sat up. Bad shoes. His shoes will fall off. It will slide between bars and lose. but not. It is well balanced on both sides of the lattice hole. If he tries, he can still save it.

He reached for the poor shoe, and his movements changed the grid.

The shoes started to slip.

"Please," he begged, "Don't fall." He didn't want to lose his beautiful shoe, that beautiful shoe. It must not fall. It must not fall. When he reached out to grab it, the shoe flipped, the heel fell off, through the grid, and into the darkness, he made a loss that he couldn't hear.

Oh, if he can hear the shoe falling; count the seconds of falling. Hear it crashing at the bottom of the shaft. At least then he will know how far he is going to die.

He can't stand it anymore. He rolled his stomach and stretched his arms across the grid, screaming: "I go too! I go too!"

He couldn't wait to fall in the dark, in the silent wailing, he just wanted to follow his shoes up and down, down, and disappear along the dark axis until the whole game was over.

"I will go! I will go! I will go!" he screamed. He pleaded for gravity.

Below him, the grid moved.

Something is broken. The pins, chains, and ropes holding the grid in place are broken. He is no longer level. When they pushed him into the dark, he had already slid across the bar.

Shocked, he realized that his limbs were no longer bound.

He will fall.

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