Wine and Gun

——But it was enough to meet at the mutual aid meeting. Herstal never expected that this person would take the initiative to speak on the stage. Could it be that this psychopath is not just a psychopath, but is he really a patient with histrionic personality disorder?

If Albarino was not arrested for this question and his brain was sawed open, he would never get a real answer. And this person is now clearly sitting in the chair that belongs to the speaker, masking his enthusiasm in a clever way.

He said softly and slowly - almost heartbroken - "Hi, my name is Al."

The rest of the Mutual Aid, of course, answered "Hello, Al" in unison, and the voices rumbled under the dome of the little theatre. This is where people are supposed to tell the truth, and in Albarino's own story, the line between truth and fantasy is blurred.

Another fact that Herstal knew in his mind was that Albarino might actually be recognized by others. At the time of the Bob Langdon case, Albarino was suspected of being a criminal suspect. At that time, his photos were all over the Internet. According to the Lan Daily News, there are also many people who believe that Dr. Bacchus is the victim of that case.

Anyone who follows the news regularly may recognize Albarino, and this anonymous mutual aid would not be considered real anonymity at all for Albarino; Herstal has no such troubles: yes The victim report of the killer Qiángni case did not involve photos and real names at all, and no one knew what happened to him.

But as things stand now, Albarino obviously doesn't care either.

"About half a month ago," Albarino chose to start his narration this way, he deliberately kept his voice low and hoarse, "I was attacked by a criminal at my home."

That's not entirely true, because apparently he stayed up all night waiting for the criminal to come.

Herstal's eyes slashed his cheeks like knives, while Albarino did not bow his head to avoid the gaze of others like most traumatized people, and his eyes were particularly deep in Herstal as he scanned the crowd. He paused for two seconds.

Herstal remembered the way Albariño looked at him when he entered the door that night. He was sitting in an armchair by the fire, turning slightly, his chestnut curls a hazy gold tinted by the fire. halo. That suggestive smile on the corner of his mouth at that time, the fruity aroma of white wine in the air.

Those weird grapes—

"You really don't want to try it, pianist?"

While the crowd waited with bated breath, most of the victims in such cases were attacked in dark alleys or burglary, and Albarino's story is rare.

He was saying, "I was attacked because I was a... uh, you can understand it this way: I was a law enforcement officer, and then a criminal who had sex with me attacked me just to get revenge on me."

Herstal sneered: that was not an ordinary "criminal with a festival", because the festival was mainly because Albarino induced the killer Qiángni to kidnap the "criminal", but it was helpless that this It would be crazy if the story was told.

"...the police didn't catch him, and I'm guessing he's still at large," Albarino was saying, how on earth could he put a lifelike choking into the sentence? "I don't understand why that criminal would choose to do this—the way—" There was a dubious, easily understandable grief pause, "...to treat me. Sometimes I think , he might as well just kill me, and then everything will end like this without pain, but..."

Herstal still remembered the touch of his fingers tucked together on the other's neck, so warm, so soft, he wanted to kill him, to slit his neck, watching the blood gushing from under the scarred skin. out. Human desires are so plain and straightforward, and the immortal smile in Albarino's eyes will always make this imagination lose its original meaning.

That reminded Herstal that he was still trapped in the opponent's trap, and in that case, there was no point in killing the opponent. That's not really a victory, it's just a crude way for the loser to overturn the chessboard.

Then, the process of violating him and killing him has almost lost its original beauty, all but Albarino watching the butterfly struggling in the center of his cobweb.

And now, at this very moment, Albarino is eloquently describing to others the pain of his falsification and the struggle that didn't exist in him. Albarino didn't care more about what happened to him, about his scars, and about the fact that he was shown naked in front of all his colleagues than he did about a dewy lover. Those emotionless eyes and clever silver tongue were weaving a lie that would make his audience cry.

He said: "He shattered me - it was as if a part of me had left me forever."

Herstal wanted to sneer at the remark, and he didn't think he could really take part of Albarino, especially the part that had to do with the "heart"; they were in the hospital about the Sunday gardener's heart The discussion ended in vain, perhaps they could not prove that the organ in the literary sense really existed for Albarino.

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