When I woke up, I was already dead.
The body is not mine, but it is so familiar - it is my brother's temperature and my brother's breath. He was alive, and I actually lived a little bit along with him. Very nice.
I don't remember exactly how I died. I just remember that it was very cold that day, and my father and that weird uncle made me drink a bowl of medicine, saying it was to replenish my body. I drank it happily, thinking that I could play with my brother when I got better. Then there is black, very long black.
Later I heard my brother crying, and I tried desperately to comfort him, but I had no hands, no mouth, nothing. I was just an echo in his mind that refused to go away.
Then, the door opened. My father stood at the door and said everything was for my brother's good.
My brother's sadness suddenly stopped, like a string was broken
"I" stood up, picked up the knife, and walked towards my father
When the blood spattered on the ground, I finally saw clearly - I was already dead. What's alive is only my brother's "sin"
Now, here comes a man who calls himself a doctor. The way he looked at his brother was like looking at a mystery.
Concept: When a person's existence is the incarnation of sin, is his self a real existence or a performance for atonement?