Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 21

It’s morning.

How many days has it been since I last slept?

Two days, maybe.

I can still manage.

But eating only chocolate for days on end is really starting to get to me.

How did I even manage it back then?

Back then, I was confused after becoming this young lady, and on top of that, she was so far gone in her madness that she was ready to die. I suppose I didn’t have the luxury to worry about such trivial matters.

Well, animals like cats tend to hide in tight, cozy spaces, panting for breath, whenever they’re sick or about to die.

Maybe this young lady’s situation is something similar to that.

Though she doesn’t really have the face of a cat, does she?

This time, I’ve decided to change my approach.

Last time, my goal was suicide, and I failed. If that’s the premise, then this time I’ll try to change the way I die.

If it’s impossible for me to kill myself—no, to be precise, if the problem is that I keep coming back even after I die—then maybe things will work out if someone else kills me.

It’s a simple idea with not even a shred of logic or evidence to back it up, but I have no intention of criticizing myself for it.

That’s just how desperate I am.

“Only eight of them, huh.”

I load six bullets into the revolver.

The other two… well, I’ll find some use for them later.

I’ll just stuff them in my pocket for now.

Come to think of it, I’ve never considered how I’m going to sneak this revolver into the classroom.

All the belongings in my room weren’t even things I brought myself. The servants hired by the family were the ones who moved them all.

If someone were to ask me if I had brought anything here personally, I could maybe say I brought the coffee beans myself, and that’s about it.

So, how do I bring this?

Should I hide it inside a thick book?

With that thought in mind, I pulled a thick history book from the bookshelf.

I didn’t have the patience to hollow out every single page with a knife or something, so I just tore out the outer cover.

Since my body’s weak, even that had me struggling, grunting as I ripped it off.

Moving my body like that made me feel dizzy.

I brewed a cup of coffee and threw in a heap of square-shaped chocolate.

The chocolate melted grotesquely, making the already dark liquid turn an even deeper shade of black.

If I’d only had a whip to go along with it, I’m sure it’d start fetching sugar cubes for me on its own.

Then again, it might be dumb enough to bring back raw cotton instead.

“Heh.”

The silly thought helped calm my trembling hands, if only a little.

I drank the coffee loaded with melted chocolate, then placed the revolver inside the coverless history book and glanced at the mirror.

A face slightly flushed with color.

Dark circles so big they looked like they’d reach all the way down to my mouth.

I used to have this cold, ruthless air about me, but now I just look messy and weak.

With no sense of purpose, I’m like a raft adrift on the sea, carried wherever the current takes me. It’s only natural I’d look like this.

Maybe the phrase “pushed around” fits better than “drifting.”

But whatever. Who cares?

If I’ve already failed once, I can just try again, right?

I’m not sure when I became such an optimistic person, but now that I feel like everything’s coming to an end, I suppose it’s only natural to change, even if it’s just a little.

What was it called again?

I can’t quite remember, but…

They say that people who come back after a near-death experience realize the preciousness of life and start living earnestly again.

Yeah, it’s like that. Just like that.

If someone says, “Doesn’t that seem a bit different?” I wouldn’t be able to deny it.

The people who “live more earnestly” refocus their efforts on living well.

But in my case, I’m just putting in a little effort to die again.

You could say the only difference is a slight shift in direction.

Today, I left my room a little earlier than usual.

To be honest, I wanted to take a shower, but since I wasn’t dirty, didn’t feel grimy, and hadn’t even sweated, I decided to skip it.

Conscious of the word “as usual,” I tried to walk naturally, but it ended up feeling unnatural instead.

My legs creaked, and my vision kept blurring in and out of focus.

Maybe it’s from the stress, or maybe it’s because I haven’t slept properly.

Anyway, I somehow managed to bring the revolver into the classroom.

And there was no one there.

I placed the revolver in a drawer for now.

Then, the students started filing into the classroom one by one.

Lydia glanced at me, wrinkled her nose briefly, and then smiled.

She gave me a small wave, as if to say “See you later.”

When the teacher entered, the class went on as usual.

Some students listened to the lesson, while others gathered in groups to chat as if it were free time.

But there was one foreign element present in that mundane scene.

The object that would protect my body—or easily shatter it—was quietly tucked away.

When class ended, the teacher spoke to Lydia, seemingly having been prompted by her about something. 

The teacher called out the names of the students who had been paying attention in class and asked them to follow her to the staff room.

Then, she left the classroom in a rush.

Only after she left did the students, who’d looked puzzled when their names were called, start moving.

That’s when Lydia approached me.

Her face had the kind of look you’d give a particularly stubborn puppy that demanded a lot of attention.

“Miss, I heard you ran away from that little place last time.

Well, I’m guessing some kind soul unlocked the door for you? Who helped you out?”

Now that I think about it, could Lydia use magic?

I can’t quite remember.

Given how she’s always bossing people around instead of doing things herself, maybe she’s not actually capable of much on her own.

“Hey, everyone. Stand behind her. She might try to slip away again.”

At Lydia’s command, two tall girls—both at least a head taller than me—moved to stand behind me.

As if I could even run properly. Even if I tried, I’d just stumble around pathetically.

If I’m going to run, I’d rather escape to heaven.

Hell wouldn’t be so bad either.

No matter how terrible it is, it’s still a place where people live. How much worse could it be?

For all I know, maybe the humans in hell have overthrown the demons and created their own afterlife.

If that’s the case, it’d make things much simpler for me.

After all, look at how Lydia treats the kids around her.

“Miss? I’m asking you who let you out. I’m talking to you.

I thought you’d be a little more obedient by now, so why aren’t you answering?”

“Why should I have to answer—”

Slap!

Lydia’s hand moved with a twist of her waist, striking me across the cheek.

Was that the second time? Maybe not. I’m not sure.

Has Lydia hit me before?

Not that it matters.

After something like this, most people would probably cry out in humiliation and curse her in their hearts.

But I have something much better than that under my desk.

I’m going to act like I’m in shock, like the slap really threw me off.

It’s not hard to do.

After two straight days without sleep, my dark circles were massive, and my vision was already blurry. 

I just had to stare off vacantly in the direction my head had turned, my mouth hanging open.

“Hey, Lydia.”

“Yeah? I’m sorry for hitting you, okay? I’ll answer you if that’s what it takes.”

“Why do I exist?

Why do you exist? Have you ever thought about that?”

I reached below and pulled something out.

Lydia’s expression started to change.

“E-Erica… Miss…?”

I took out the revolver I had hidden in the desk drawer and pulled back the hammer.

With a sharp click, the gun was ready to fire.

Since I’d failed to kill myself before—not dying instantly after shooting myself in the head—I didn’t want to take any chances this time.

I pressed the muzzle against Lydia’s forehead.

Our eyes met.

Her pupils shook wildly, and she was so shocked she couldn’t even speak.

She was so terrified that her body froze up, unable to run even if she wanted to.

“L-Let’s just… put that… down…”

Bang!

At point-blank range, the bullet pierced through the girl’s forehead.

The recoil made my right wrist tingle slightly after I fired the shot.

The thing that had once been called a girl named Lydia lost her balance and collapsed in the direction the bullet had gone.

At the same time, a scream echoed through the room.

I glanced at Lydia’s body—her eyes still open, her head trickling a faint fountain of blood—then aimed my gun at the student who was screaming.

I asked, “Why did you come up behind me?”

“L-Lydia told us to! She said not to let you escape! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

The girl’s excuses dissolved into frantic apologies as she dropped to her knees, pressing her hands together in a pleading gesture I hadn’t asked for.

“I’m just following my heart,” I replied with a smile.

Then I pulled the trigger.

The girl, still kneeling and begging whoever she believed might hear her, toppled forward.

Blood seeped into my shoes.

The lukewarm wetness and the sharp, iron-like smell of blood put me in a foul mood.

Maybe that’s why I started thinking about just using this thing to blow my own head off.

While I was lost in that thought, the other students and the teacher in the room took the chance to flee, turning their backs and running.

I fired the remaining four rounds in random directions as they ran.

One bullet grazed someone’s back, but they didn’t fall. They just clutched their side and kept running.

Was it adrenaline? Is that why they didn’t collapse?

Lucky them.

I pulled a chair closer and sat down.

Click, clack. I ejected the spent casings and emptied them from the revolver, then reloaded it with the last two bullets from my pocket.

As expected of the academy—their crisis response is quick.

A blond figure entered the classroom, wearing the same uniform as the other students but somehow giving off a uniquely commanding presence.

“What… is this…?”

I pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger.

But, no matter how many times I pulled, no bullet came out.

“Why?” I thought, confused as to why the gun wouldn’t fire.

Then I realized why.

My right hand was gone.