You are dreaming.
A never-ending nightmare.
Running from that creepy thing that looked like smashed-up organs, you go back down the path you came from. At least doing so lets you return to the familiar scenery that you have passed so many times. You can feel at ease.
At least, you should be able to.
Before you realize it, you find yourself walking in an unfamiliar setting.
But you went back down that straight path, that unforking road. The scenery shouldn’t have changed.
The road beneath your feet remains the same, but the sea of trees sprouting out of the ground is disappearing. Raindrops bore their way into the impenetrable darkness.
You gaze around quizzically as strange objects hover above your head.
They look like giant crosses.
Like symbols of sin...
However, at the same time, crosses can be symbols of atonement and redemption. Have faith in them, and you shall be saved. That’s why going back down that road was the right choice. Surely, getting away from that disgusting thing that looked like organs was the right decision.
Your steps become more rhythmic, as if you are reassuring yourself of this. But it’s strange — for objects that are said to bring salvation, those crosses are awfully unsettling.
The putrid smell of a rotting corpse hovers around you, as if it has pierced through a grave...
The number of crosses steadily increases and yet, none of them approach you. Nor do they show any sign of extending a helping hand. Eyeballs sprout from the crosses, and they fix hard gazes upon you.
All they do is watch you.
You quicken your pace and move forward, as if those stares have filled you with an indescribable feeling of nervousness and you are trying to shake it off.
The crosses gradually increase. The heaviness of their stares also increases.
Those crosses, on closer inspection, look like sensual, exposed organs... in other words, like genitalia. Though they are supposed to be a symbol of salvation, they have an unpleasantness to them, so you will not seek their aid.
The road continues on and on, and the crosses, with their stares fixed upon you, continue to multiply.
Like Jesus Christ taking that heartbreaking walk up to that hill at Golgotha, no one will save you as you trudge along. They choose instead to scorn you, to talk about you behind your back, their stares fixed on you — the whole time.
There is no way you can continue to endure this.
After walking for some time, you suddenly stop where you are, then turn and start back the way you came.
Coming and going to and fro like you are, you’re the perfect embodiment of a lost child.
You head back toward those gazes, their eyes pregnant with malice and disdain, but you ignore them, lowering your head as you walk on. Finally, at a break in the road, the dense forest once again begins to stretch into your line of sight.
Such seas of trees are known for being places where people commit suicide. They should be melting pots of life, as they provide a home to a variety of trees, insects, wild animals, and birds — yet, for some reason, they cannot seem to rid themselves of the stench of death.
Untamed nature, not shielded by the armor of reason, of civilization, of the urban life, can easily snatch away the life of a feeble human.
If you die out here, you’ll be broken down by the greater swell of life forms — your flesh and bones and everything else will be greedily devoured and consumed, leaving nothing.
Or perhaps you’re like those who come to this forest seeking death, wandering about with heavy breaths and a mind locked on bitterness. The forest becomes thicker and thicker, while the road becomes more narrow and difficult to travel. Every now and then on this highway, there are stoplights emitting yellow and red lights that alternately indicate “stop” and “caution.”
You open the red umbrella and hold it close, as if to shield your eyes.
With the unending rain blocked out, you take a deep breath, as if you finally feel a bit of relief.
And then, you suddenly notice.
Something is lying on the ground right in front of you.
It looks like a corpse.
The corpse is lying face-up in a sea of blood. It is crushed flat, as if it has been run over. If parts like the arms, legs, and head weren’t just barely spared, one wouldn’t be able to tell that this was a human corpse — they would only be able to see it as a pulpy mess.
The body has already begun to putrefy, the flesh now a venomous green. Maggots that have eaten their way through the flesh poke their heads out of this corpse, apparently that of an adult male, which they have left full of holes.
With the rain mixed in, the decomposing corpse has become viscous, the remaining bits of ashen hair and clothing fluttering about listlessly.
It looks like a frog hit by a car. That sight is often the first graphic view of death that children living in rural areas experience. The placement of a frog’s limbs is much like a human’s, and the arrangement of its organs also very similar. That’s why they’re used for dissection — it makes death so relatable.
As if washed away by the rain, the smell of decomposition seems to be gone.
Expressionless, you rest the umbrella against your shoulder and squat down beside the corpse.
With your head lowered, some impulse compels you to rapidly open and close your mouth, as if you’re making an appeal.
Desperately.
Like you’re fighting back a severe headache. Or perhaps, like you’re trying to repent.
In reality, there’s no way you will ever see a deceased person or their corpse again. Either because you would avoid them or because chance encounters with the dead are practically impossible. So, the fact that they’re appearing in your dreams must indicate that you’re seized with guilt or regret over something in your past.
You are bound by something.
On the other hand, the sight of a corpse makes one fact bitingly clear — that all humans will inevitably die. Life will someday end in death. There is a bad ending waiting for you, no matter what.
You are face-to-face with an ominous sign of the future.
However, as one might expect — there is no reaction from the corpse.
The only sound is that of your own heavy breathing.
You are hiding something, something you want to get out, and yet it’s tucked away deep inside you — in the furthest recesses of your heart.
You grit your teeth, as if you’re about to say something.
However, you seem to stop yourself.
The stoplight hanging over your head begins swaying rapidly in the wind, likely due to years of decay, and abruptly falls. It heads straight for you.
It’s so sudden that it leaves you unable to react, you just hear the strange sound and look straight upward...
Almost comically, the stoplight hits you right on your head.
With its remaining power supply, the stoplight blinks repeatedly between “stop” and “go.”