Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 1

I stole a body.

Ah, to be precise, I suppose I stole a corpse.

Maybe that’s why I’m being punished.

Because I’m inside a human who’s supposed to die in a few days.

Being alive is the problem.

A novel? What kind of cursed novel is this?

If this place is inside a novel, I’d rather shove a gun in my mouth to get back to even a shitty reality.

A horribly rigid barrel.

And yet, like a tiny Viet Cong, the damn thing is so short and filthy that it can’t even reach my throat.

The black laborers working on the farm, whipped as they may be, seemed to work just fine. I can only hope this little guy does its job just as well.

These days, my head feels like my consciousness is blending together, and it’s a bit unsettling.

Every time I turned the barrel, it made a clinking, clinking sound.

There’s only one bullet loaded anyway, so the odds of dying are one in six.

Should I put a finger on the trigger?

I’m trembling like hell.

So much that my teeth feel chilled.

“Phew, yeah, damn it. Damn it. This is it.”

This lady’s lips always seem to utter refined words, so even swearing feels unnatural.

If I pull the trigger like this, I’ll just end up with a hole in the back of my neck and that’s it.

Either I die painfully, or someone patches me up, leaving me unable to die.

I tilted the muzzle upward so it grazed the roof of my mouth, grabbed the trigger with my left hand, and roughly gauged the position of my head with my right.

Then, I closed my eyes.

And pulled the trigger….

Click.

No gunshot.

When I checked inside, I realized if I’d pulled it two more times, I might’ve scattered my brains across the sky.

“So damn stale.”

With that peculiar metallic taste faintly bitter in my mouth, I spat the saliva pooling on my tongue onto the floor.

I threw the pistol carelessly onto the desk and wiped my face with my hands.

Every single day is hell.

Even more so when there’s no chance of escape.