Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 60

“Disgusting.”

At least for now, this much, well…

It’s not like nothing’s been done to me.

Perhaps this is the trigger.

The reason I ended up in this world, no matter how forced it seems, is because of Vivian.

***

I decided to trace the timeline bit by bit.

Starting from the very beginning—the time I clumsily slit my wrists and pierced my throat, dying in a pitiful, sobbing mess.

I’d argued with Evan back then.

Today, too.

Though today, it wasn’t much of a fight.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s enough to just sulk and stay holed up in this room all day.

For two days, maybe three—until I’ve finished all the food and chocolate here and have no choice but to subsist on water.

I won’t go to school.

If I run into that damn Lydia’s face, I might just put a nice, breezy hole right in her forehead.

Wouldn’t that be doing her a favor? Giving her one or two more holes than the average person?

But, helping like that would only make things more complicated for me.

I got up, grabbed a cigar, and poured myself some tea, planning to stare out the window.

Leaning on the railing of the balcony, I first glanced down before fixing my gaze ahead.

After lighting the cigar for about three minutes, smoke started to billow up.

I gulped down the now-cold tea, inhaled a lungful of smoke, and—

“Cough! Ack! Eugh.”

Despite the wild coughing fit, I kept the cigar in my mouth, determined to keep puffing.

I’d get used to it eventually.

Give it an hour, or maybe just one or two cigars more.

Frustrated, I tossed the teacup I’d been holding over the railing.

There weren’t many people passing by below, anyway.

The sound of the wind breaking was followed by a loud crash as the cup hit the ground and shattered into pieces.

Some glanced in the direction of the noise but, seeing no one hurt, simply turned away and continued on their way.

This, too, annoyed me.

By now, Father must have died alone in his room, grieving.

I wondered how he died.

In the framed photo, I sat neatly with my hands clasped, while my brother grinned broadly, resting a hand on my shoulder.

Father, his face stern but with a faintly lifted corner of his mouth, held the hand of my careless, philandering mother with his left hand while his right hand rested on the back of my chair.

Six mistresses discovered at once. A bit much, wasn’t it?

Father had only two, maybe three at most.

I lit a flame on my fingertip and started to scorch the edge of the frame, dissatisfied with the sight.

The frame seemed treated with some special coating, refusing to catch fire.

It didn’t matter.

I had plenty of time.

If I waited until Vivian showed up, that would be enough.

Oddly, though the frame wouldn’t burn, the photo inside began to shrivel and discolor from the heat.

As the picture shrank and warped, crackling sounds emerged from the frame as flames finally began to creep up its edges.

Gripping the heated frame, I carried it to the balcony.

The wind fanned the flames, making them flare higher.

Though blisters formed on my hand from the heat, it was only a mild sting—not worth worrying about.

With a cigar in my mouth, I watched the portrait inside the frame burn, unable to suppress a smile.

How ridiculous it was—no different from my own state.

Once, I’d crumpled to the floor, trembling and wetting myself while watching someone burn alive.

Now, here I was, laughing quietly at the thought of setting myself on fire.

This is why being alone is easier.

When others are around, anxiety wells up. When no one’s watching, even the most deranged actions go unjudged.

Why not? Isn’t it enough to not see a child hurling a rock from his hands, trembling in fear as it rolls under a bench?

“What should I do when Vivian shows up, though?”

Should I start thinking of her as my enemy?

But that’s impossible.

The gap between us—her superiority over me—has already been etched into my mind and heart.

A sudden idea struck me.

I got up and walked to the door.

Pulling it inward, I confirmed it was made of wood.

Closing it again, I fetched a chair and hurled it at the door.

The spot it struck dented inward.

Wouldn’t shooting it make a hole?

If one shot wasn’t enough, multiple would do.

Rubbing the dent with my hand, I pulled out the pistol from my waistband, pressed the barrel to the door, and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The gunshot was louder than I expected.

A sharp ringing filled my ears, and a sting shot up my right wrist.

I must be weaker than I thought, unable to handle the recoil properly.

The reason it hadn’t hurt before was probably because anger and adrenaline had drowned out the pain.

When someone’s enraged or agitated, a bullet grazing their head might go unnoticed.

I shouldn’t let my words get too violent.

Wait, they’re not words—they’re thoughts.

Does it matter?

No one would come running.

At most, someone might glance curiously toward my door.

When I’d blown out my own throat in the bathtub, not a single person had come looking for me.

Or had they? My memory blurred toward the end.

Anyway, the door now sported a small, round hole—just big enough for a pinky to fit through.

I grabbed a scrap of cloth to stuff the hole, moved a chair in front of the door, and sat down, legs crossed, smoking my cigar.

When I was hungry, I ate chocolate. When thirsty, I brewed tea.

If my skin itched, I showered.

When boredom became unbearable, I played a game with one bullet loaded in the chamber.

To keep my promise not to kill myself, I pointed the gun at my foot, not my temple.

The scene was laughable.

Half-wishing for death but lacking the courage to fully commit, I once pressed the muzzle to my temple, pulling the trigger with a shaky hand.

The gods of fortune must have been furious at my halfheartedness, for they granted me a small hole in my foot instead.

Though I didn’t scream, a low groan escaped as I dug out the bullet with my fingers and wrapped the wound in a white cloth.

It stung when I walked, but it was manageable.

Evan came by several times after that, but I sent him away each time.

The wound on my foot was easy to hide with a bandage and socks.

How many days have passed since then?

The cigar I had been smoking had long since burned out, so I stuffed my pipe with scraps of paper and sawdust, sprinkling a bit of tobacco on top to make it more tolerable.

Today, the once full jar of chocolates finally hit bottom.

If I didn’t head out to buy something soon, I’d have to starve.

But I didn’t want to go out.

“When will Vivian show up?”

I stood by the door, waiting for days on end.

Knock, knock.

The sound came after noon, just as I was feeling a little peckish and had popped five or six chocolates into my mouth. I’d been passing the time smoking again.

Having stayed up all night waiting, my head felt foggy.

My throat was parched to the point that it felt about to crack, and my voice refused to come out properly.

As I stepped forward, the wooden floor creaked beneath my feet.

When I didn’t answer, the knock came again, louder this time.

I grabbed the now-cold cup of green tea from the table and downed it in one bitter gulp before pulling out the pistol from my waistband.

“Miss, I was worried about you. Could you open the door, please?”

Worried, were they?

They should worry about themselves first.

The voice was feminine, so it wasn’t Evan, at least.

Though, even if it were, it wouldn’t matter. A bullet wouldn’t be much of a problem—he could probably heal himself.

Was this how Vivian had come to me the first time?

I couldn’t quite remember.

Oh, who cares?

I pressed the barrel against the door, steadying my shaking right hand by gripping it tightly with my left.

Then, I pulled the trigger.

Bang!

“Eh?”

When I opened the door, it wasn’t Vivian or Evan.

Instead, Lydia stood before me, clutching her stomach, staggering, flanked by two other girls whose names I didn’t know.

Their faces were etched with shock.

“Ah. My mistake.”

I took the cigar from my mouth and held it in my left hand, the acrid smoke curling into the air.

“Lydia, it’s been a while.”

I glanced at her stomach. The wound didn’t look too severe.

The blood wasn’t spreading like paint on a blank canvas.

Had the bullet merely grazed her?

It must have lost power passing through the door.

“Step aside, please.”

I pointed the gun at the two girls standing next to Lydia. They bolted without hesitation.

“L-Lady…?”

Lydia stared at me, her expression frozen in confusion and panic.

I had no patience for this.

I struck her upper lip with the gun’s handle.

“So, Lydia, why have you come looking for me?”

I aimed the barrel at her as I spoke, but she only trembled, unable to answer.

It was utterly ridiculous.

She was ridiculous.

And so was I.

It was all just ridiculous.

That’s all there was to it.