2025年1月8日 晚觉January 8, 2025 · Night

在漫天大雪与死寂的灰暗色调中，主角伫立于尸体旁

早上7点32分，梦境尚未散去，突然一阵"duang duang"的敲门声将我惊醒。带着几分警惕，我问："谁？"门外却一片沉寂。透过猫眼望去，一个陌生的男人站在那里，表情冷漠。再次发问："你干什么的？"依然没有回应。

我提高了声音，试图威慑他："赶紧走，不走我报警了！"可他不为所动，继续敲门。忍无可忍，我爆粗口想吓退他，然而他却像得了激励一般，敲门声更猛烈了。我心生不安，觉得事情不会这么简单，他一定还会回来，或者就在楼下藏着。我决定激将他，喊道："你在楼下等我，看我咋收拾你，别走！"

出乎意料，他竟然真的抬头看了我一眼，然后冷冷地说："你开门。"随即，他再次跑上楼，敲门声像鼓点般震耳。

这时，我拨通了110。就在电话接通的瞬间，他突然撬开门，破门而入。他目光凶狠，直扑向我。我顺势一躲，反手一个过肩摔将他掼倒在地。电话里传来接警员的声音："110，请讲。"我急促报出地址，努力保持冷静，但心脏狂跳不止。110那边不紧不慢的和我沟通，我已经没有心思理会。

这时倒在地上的男人一言不发，大概是没缓过神，但手却缓缓伸向口袋。我意识到危险，可能口袋里是刀，也可能是枪。情急之下，我拉开客厅抽屉，拿出一把尖刀，用尽全力刺向他的心脏。第十二刀后，我感到他的生命在逐渐流失。为了确保安全，我用力在他的颈动脉上深深划了一刀。他终于没了声息，血泊蔓延开来。

我喘息着，把他的尸体拖到门外，开始搜身，却什么都没找到，只有一部老旧的小灵通手机。此刻，警察依然未到。

就在这时，楼上一位五十多岁的阿姨提着菜淡定回家。她看了我一眼，仿佛这不过是生活中的一部分，然后继续上楼。大雪无声落下，灰蒙蒙的天笼罩着整个小区，仿佛一切都静止了。

我站在血迹斑驳的门口，望着远处的白雪，心中忽然生出一丝疑惑。这个男人是谁？他的沉默，他的疯狂，究竟隐藏着什么？这一切的意义又是什么？

天寒地冻，周围一片寂静，唯有心中那无尽的疑问回荡。生命的脆弱，人与人之间的隔阂，究竟何时能解？这一场突如其来的暴力，仿佛在诉说着某种无法言喻的真理——或许，最深的恐惧，来自于未知本身。

In the silent, gray-dark tones of heavy snowfall, the protagonist stands beside the body.

At 7:32 in the morning, before the dream had faded, a sudden "duang duang" pounding on the door jolted me awake. With some caution, I asked, "Who is it?" Outside, only silence. Through the peephole I saw an unfamiliar man standing there, his expression cold. I asked again, "What do you want?" Still no response.

I raised my voice, trying to intimidate him: "Get lost, or I'm calling the police!" He did not budge and kept knocking. Unable to bear it any longer, I cursed at him, trying to scare him off, but he seemed to take it as encouragement—the pounding grew fiercer. I felt uneasy; things would not be this simple. He would surely come back, or he was hiding downstairs. I decided to provoke him and shouted, "Wait for me downstairs—see how I deal with you. Don't leave!"

Unexpectedly, he actually looked up at me, then said coldly, "Open the door." He ran upstairs again, the knocking thundering like drumbeats.

I dialed 110. Just as the call connected, he pried the door open and burst in. His eyes were fierce, and he lunged straight at me. I dodged, then threw him over my shoulder, slamming him to the ground. The dispatcher's voice came through: "110, go ahead." I hurriedly gave the address, trying to stay calm, but my heart was pounding wildly. The 110 operator spoke to me in no hurry at all; I had no mind to pay attention.

The man on the ground said nothing—he probably hadn't recovered yet—but his hand slowly reached toward his pocket. I sensed danger; there might be a knife, or maybe a gun. In desperation, I pulled open a living room drawer, grabbed a sharp blade, and stabbed him in the chest with all my strength. After the twelfth stab, I felt his life draining away. To make sure, I drew the blade deeply across his carotid artery. He finally went still, and blood pooled around him.

Gasping, I dragged his body outside the door and searched him, but found nothing—only an old PHS mobile phone. The police still had not arrived.

Just then, a woman in her fifties came upstairs carrying vegetables, perfectly composed. She glanced at me as if this were simply part of everyday life, then continued upstairs. Snow fell silently, and the gray sky hung over the entire neighborhood as though everything had frozen in place.

Standing in the bloodstained doorway, looking toward the distant snow, a flicker of doubt suddenly arose in my mind. Who was this man? His silence, his madness—what was he hiding? What did any of it mean?

The cold was bitter, the world around me silent, with only the endless questions echoing in my heart. The fragility of life, the distance between people—when could it ever be resolved? This sudden violence seemed to speak an unsayable truth: perhaps the deepest fear comes from the unknown itself.