When consciousness crashed into the corners of reality like heavy ice, Alan Thor's knuckles were digging into the man's carotid artery. The young man beneath him was wrapped in bandages like a mummy, his blond hair was scattered on the pillow, and the blue eyes that had reflected countless words and stars were now as white as dead fish - he was Theodore Lane, an upstart in the literary world, and she was his craziest reader and the most ferocious jailer at the moment.
The mirror in the corridor was like broken teeth, gnawing at her running figure: her messy brown hair was stuck to her thin cheeks, and her freckles were like splattered blood spots. Only her black eyes, which accounted for one-third of her face, were like two pools of bottomless ink, sucking in all the light and revealing a nerve that sent chills down the spine. She is not a beauty in the traditional sense, not even a "normal person", more like a ghost crawling out of a Gothic novel - which she has been for the past three years. He pried open the window of his apartment, secretly read the unfinished manuscript, and wrote crazy annotations on the margins of the page with scarlet ink: "How dare you let Lillian die?" "Sebastian's tears should be sweet!" Those words were like vines, entangled with Theodore and making him breathless.
He tried to end it all. In his latest novel, he brings all of Alan Tor's beloved characters to collective destruction.
So, in a snowstorm in the Alps, she set up a roadblock. When his car got stuck in a snowdrift, she pulled a wrench from the trunk and hit him in the back of the head just as he was checking the tires. She pushed his car off a cliff to fake a car accident, but changed her mind when he was dying - she wanted him to live and rewrite the damn ending with his own hands.
At first it was just captivity. But when Theodore refused again and again, Alan Thor's love began to rot. She smashed his knees with a steel rod, hot wax dripped on his bare chest, and the scalpel was close to his wrist holding the pen: "Change, or your right hand will always remember the pain." He gave in, but hid a distress signal on the manuscript paper full of compromises. When she discovered the line "HELP" written in invisible ink, all pretense collapsed.
"You are a madman!" Theodore's scream broke the silence, "As disgusting as your stupid fantasies! Lillian should have rotted in the mud!"
This sentence became the spark that ignited the dynamite. She pounced on him and choked him until his face turned purple--at that moment, some strange consciousness slammed into her body.
Now, "Elantor" in the mirror blinked.
The phantom pain of shattered throat bones still lingered in the palm of my hand. Theodore's suppressed cough came from the basement. On the manuscript spread out on the table, the five words "Lillian's Death" were dripping with wet wax tears. The soul of the time traveler is trapped in the body of the murderer. The left hand is the desperate gasp of the victim, and the right hand is the bloody pen.
Should we complete this crazy redemption, or write the final death for this crazy woman?
Intention: Heaven and earth