Darkness, boundless and endless, as if engulfed in the expanse of the universe itself. The profound darkness devoured all light, hope, and vitality. The perception of space gradually waned, feeling stifling to the point of suffocation yet also vast to the point of boundlessness. Even time lost its meaning, a moment's pause and a century's stretch were indistinguishable.
Quiet, an extreme, oppressive quietude—no breaths held, not a single sound. Even the rustling of air seemed absent, replaced by a slow, flowing sound akin to water. Renly stared wide-eyed, attempting to catch a glimmer of life within this silence. But eventually, he realized this was the sound of his own blood circulating. The line between reality and illusion began to blur.
Exhausted, Renly began to seek the faintest of sounds, amplifying even the friction between his fingertips.
Why was he here? Who was he, really? Renly, Paul, or maybe a non-existent wisp of a soul? What was he doing here? What was he chasing? Should he fight for survival? How should he do it? Could he just give up? He'd already died once, after all—what was there to fear in dying again? No, he had to keep living. Linda, his wife, and Shane, his son, were waiting for him at home. He didn't want to die. He was only twenty-seven; life had just begun. He didn't want to die!
His phone, that's right, his phone!
The faint flame of hope ignited. He began to search his pockets for any trace of his phone, but his pants pocket was empty. His jacket? Where was his jacket? Today, he was only wearing a T-shirt, without a jacket. Right, the back pocket of his pants. No, still nothing.
"Bang! Bang, bang!" Emotions easily slipped from his grasp, and he pounded fiercely on the wooden board. The slightly swollen knuckles sent a wave of pain, but his muscles were nearly numb. He kept hitting, careless of the discomfort.
Why had he fallen into this predicament? How had he pushed himself into this situation?
Iraq, yes, Iraq. The damn real estate bubble had taken everything from them. In their bank accounts, only... seven hundred dollars. Damn seven hundred dollars. He couldn't even afford a steak, let alone a mortgage.
Because of this financial crisis, he and Linda had been arguing for nearly thirteen months. Love, sweetness, happiness—all shattered by the threat of survival. Each day was torture.
Once, they'd enjoyed beautiful times—crazy infatuation in university, newlywed bliss. With their own hands, they'd built their own haven of happiness. But in a single night, they plummeted to rock bottom. The monumental drop left them both adrift, and he even lost his job—a final blow.
When did the arguing start? He couldn't remember. Perhaps it began with small things—milk left out of the fridge, lights left on in the kitchen, a shopping basket left in the garage... But later, the arguments spiraled out of control. They began to curse, blame, resent each other, becoming unrecognizable to one another.
Their life had disintegrated. Iraq was his only choice. If he refused, at the latest by next summer, at the earliest by the end of this year, the bank would take their house. The house he and Linda had built—the foundation of their home. He didn't have many choices, did he?
And what's more, at that time, Iraq didn't seem like a terrible choice—generous rewards, substantial compensation, and as non-combat personnel, Iraq wouldn't initiate attacks. In case of accidents, not only would the company provide compensation, but the government wouldn't stand idly by either. He even joked with Linda back then, saying, "Why not let me sacrifice myself there? That way, we'll have a way out for our mortgage."
Foolishness, truly foolish to the extreme!
Had he never considered the dangers of Iraq? No, he had, but he selectively ignored them! He never learned his lesson.
He wanted to go home, that's all he wanted now. He missed Linda's smile, Sean's mischief, and God, he even missed the freezing winter in Hastings. But now he was trapped in this little box, this tiny box where he couldn't even stretch his limbs, waiting to die silently, waiting for the oxygen to be depleted and all life to be cruelly severed.
How absurd, isn't it? What's even more ridiculous is that he couldn't muster the strength to cry now; he only wanted to laugh. His lips slightly lifted and then drooped weakly. Despair began to gnaw at his heart.
He was truly a coward, a coward who was timid and afraid of death. He couldn't even put up a decent fight for survival, allowing himself to be captured like this. Before Iraq's execution or the devouring of nature, he lay here, surrendering, waiting for death. He was a disgrace, a joke. Did he still want to challenge acting? Did he still want to pursue dreams? Did he still want to become an outstanding actor? It was the most absurd joke of the 21st century.
Elizabeth and George were right; he had no talent, no skills. The dream of acting was just an elusive, unrealistic obsession. Dreaming of stunning the audience with performances like top actors, dreaming of traversing a path of acting like artists, dreaming of leaving his own mark like those names in history—this was simply the pride and stubbornness within him at work. It was the discontent and anger from his past life.
He was someone without any acting talent, not even an ordinary one, certainly not another "Huang Zhong" who had at least once shone brightly like a shooting star. He was just an ordinary person who achieved nothing. That was true in his past life, and it was true now. Even in this rebirth, he remained a failure.
He was like Sisyphus in ancient Greek mythology, tirelessly attempting to push the boulder to the mountaintop. But due to the boulder's weight, it always rolled back down before reaching the summit. So, he perpetually repeated this ceaseless endeavor, his life slowly dwindling away in this futile and hopeless labor.
This was the punishment of the gods.
He thought he was pursuing a dream, believed he was pushing the boulder to succeed and achieve glory, defying the gods. Each day's struggle felt so fulfilling, so exhilarating. Yet, in reality, it was an utterly foolish repetitive action. He collided with the same obstacles, still unwilling to give up. He endeavored a thousand and one times, but the shackles remained unbroken. Eventually, he spent his entire life suspended on this steep slope of the impossible.
This was the source of his belief, but also the wellspring of his tragedy.
So, should he surrender? So, should he give up? Or has he already given up now? He abandoned his dreams and even relinquished his struggles. Living two lives, only to end up lying here quietly, awaiting death. Is he truly doing nothing, or is he doing everything?
No, he won't surrender! He refuses to surrender! Regardless of the outcome, even if it means dying again, he will fight until the end. He won't accept his fate, and he won't give up.
Calm down, he must calm down.
He had no tools now, only his own hands, and his feet. A spark of insight flashed in his mind. He was wearing sneakers today, sneakers with shoelaces. If he found a crevice, could he signal for help by extending the shoelace? Perhaps it would be too weak, too inconspicuous, but at least it was a glimmer of hope!
So, he began to calm down, highly focused. All the cluttered thoughts were set aside. He carefully searched the wall with his hands, attempting to find the seam between the coffin and the lid. Amid the darkness and silence, his sense of touch became sensitive, as if he could vividly feel every silk-like touch. It was like a venomous snake moving slowly through a marsh, using its body to sense every inch of the ground, then quietly waiting for the opportunity for a fatal strike.
Found it!
His fingertip touched that nearly invisible gap. He quickly stuffed the excess fabric from around into the gap, leaving a mark, and then began to take off his shoes.
After removing his right shoe, he realized that he was confined in a limited space. He couldn't reach the bottom of his feet. What a lapse of reason! Thankfully, there was still the left foot.
Lifting his left foot parallel, he grabbed the pant leg with both hands, attempting to pull it up. But before his fingertips could touch it, his knee bumped against the wall. At least a half palm's distance remained between his fingertips, his feet, and the wall, though he couldn't be entirely sure in the darkness. He had to rely on instinct to explore.
He clenched his teeth and forced his hand downward, his shoulder pressed against the wall, his head too. Waves of pain surged as if suffocating, but he remained oblivious. His right hand struggled downward, bit by bit, and even more. His blood vessels were about to burst. His muscles were straining to the extreme... He reached it, finally reached it. His right hand grabbed the pant leg of his left foot, and then he started pulling it upward, nearly breaking his neck and knee. With a little more effort, he might break his throat and die directly. Every cell in his body was agonizingly moaning in pain, yet he persisted. His eyes were bloodshot, he continued to cling on.
Heel, shoe, ankle... His fingertips stretched to the utmost, almost cramping. He couldn't exert force properly, relying on the weak strength and coordination of his feet. While attempting to remove the shoe, he also had to avoid clumsily dropping it.
"Huff." Finally, he took off the shoe and hooked it with his fingertip! But now, his index finger was twisted due to cramping, unable to straighten, presenting a bizarre angle. He didn't care, didn't care at all. He hooked the shoe, brought it up, quickly untied the shoelace, and then swiftly found the seam he marked earlier.
He needed to open the gap a bit, then a bit more, so he could feed the shoelace through!
His eyes, bloodshot and gleaming in the darkness, had completely lost their reason. They brimmed with surging murderous intent, sunk into madness, falling prey to madness.