Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 57

“Ah.”

I shot up from my seat.

Looking down at my body, I saw I wasn’t on fire.

And yet, the image of myself burning refused to fade, so I turned to the mirror.

A girl stared back at me—her face beautiful, yet hard in its expression.

“Damn pistol, this stupid pistol.”

I stole a body.

No, to be precise, I probably stole a corpse.

Maybe that’s why I’m being punished.

I’m stuck inside a body that was supposed to die in a few days.

Being alive is the problem.

Would everything be resolved if I just died?

I rummaged through the drawer anyway.

There it was: an ivory-gripped pistol adorned with ornate gold embellishments.

The barrel was absurdly short, but it was still a powerful weapon, capable of taking a life in an instant.

The black workers in the fields, always beaten and whipped, worked diligently, and this thing? It worked just as well.

Thinking about how many heads this gun has blown off, I guess it’s at least… no, maybe not double digits. Still, it shoots reliably.

Not that I’ve ever actually fired it myself, but anyway.

Every time I load a bullet, I hear that distinct metallic scrape.

Every time I spin the chamber, there’s that rattling sound.

When I pressed the muzzle to my forehead, all I felt was the soft give of skin.

With only five bullets loaded, my odds of dying are five out of six.

Far too low.

Should I put my finger on the trigger?

I trembled violently, my teeth aching as though from the chill.

“Phew… yeah. Damn it. This is it.”

The girl’s lips, always accustomed to speaking with refinement, seemed unaccustomed to even cursing properly.

I thought I’d emptied my emotions out.

But here it was again—that damned déjà vu.

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

Maybe I’ll drown in my own blood, dying slowly, miserably, painfully.

Or, perhaps someone will save me and I won’t even get to die.

Has that ever happened before? I can’t remember.

I angled the barrel upward so it grazed the roof of my mouth, gripping the trigger with my left hand and loosely guessing the position of my head with my right.

Then, I closed my eyes.

I pulled the trigger.

Click.

“Ha!”

The gun didn’t fire.

When I checked, I found there were still five bullets in the chamber.

It was a sign. A sign that I should live.

A sign from me, to myself.

“This metallic taste is disgusting.”

The bitter taste of iron filled my mouth, and I spat the saliva onto the floor.

I tossed the pistol onto the desk and ran my hands over my face.

Every day was hell.

Especially when there was no opportunity for change.

But perhaps the truth was that I hadn’t sought out opportunities myself.

What had I achieved, aside from cursing my fate and wallowing in this room?

There is no God.

If there were, I wouldn’t be left like this.

Unless, of course, God intended to drag me to hell.

I’d heard plenty of times that humans, in their stupidity, weren’t even worthy of worshipping their own reason.

In situations like this, all you can rely on is yourself.

And moving forward? That requires faith in none other than yourself.

No one beside you will guarantee they’ll take the same steps you do.

“Where’s that cigar… ah.”

I remembered I needed to buy some.

I didn’t have a pipe for tobacco leaves, so I’d have to settle for expensive cigars.

No big deal—the taste and aroma were good enough.

Still, as I reached into my pocket, I found half a cigar, clearly put out hastily.

“Hold on.”

And just like that, the cigar crumbled in my hands, scattering to the air.

“Is this an illusion?”

Time felt slightly off, too.

Last time, I remember a table set with tea leaves, cups, and a teapot.

No, no problem at all.

The tea leaves, the cups, the teapot, even the cigars—they were all from Mecklenburg.

Everything from Mecklenburg, whether this girl or that cigar, was faulty.

“Enough with the gloomy face; let’s smile a little.”

At that, the girl in the mirror smiled brightly.

Maybe she had a rough idea of where her facial muscles were, having been burned once before.

After all, the memory of the places scorched stiff and unresponsive by fire lingered.

What a load of nonsense.

Her face, once rigid and unmoving, now beamed with a radiant smile.

It must be because she burned away her life—her pain, her boredom, her sadness.

Neither being shot, nor bleeding out, nor having her head blown off had achieved this.

Perhaps burning people at the stake during witch hunts had its merits after all.

Soon, Vivian would come by the room.

I didn’t want to see her face.

Didn’t want to smell her distinctive fragrance.

Didn’t want to witness her impressive spells.

I hated how she worried for me sincerely, yet failed to grasp the real issue.

No matter which path she chose, I couldn’t bear to see Vivian succeed.

Before I burned, I had been optimistic—believing I was happy and gradually improving.

And when I cried out, begging her to save me because staying by her side felt like it would kill me, she ignored me.

If that insufferable Crown Prince hadn’t handed me that potion and powder, telling me to burn to death, how would I have died?

I might have flung myself out a window during a lecture, aiming to land headfirst.

If I was lucky, I’d die instantly.

But I don’t resent her.

I simply dislike Vivian as a person.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Clinging to anger and sorrow over things I couldn’t even remember was exhausting.

I didn’t want to waste my emotions like that anymore.

I once thought the mind was infinite, but as time passed, I realized it was limited.

“Maybe I should step outside for some air.”

Evan would come soon.

Perhaps he’d show up changed again, like last time.

With that thought, I grabbed a few coins from the drawer and headed out.

***

“Erica, shall we head to class now?

Or perhaps you’d rather skip today’s lessons!”

Vivian appeared, hands behind her back, leaning forward slightly, her chest deliberately in view as she asked her question with a smile.

I had to escape.

If I didn’t, she’d cling to me for months, maybe until the day I died, just like last time.

Then again, was there even a need to run?

I reached into my coat, drew the pistol, and aimed straight at her before squeezing the trigger.

“Ack! I’m sorry! Whatever it is, I’m sorry!”

The scene blurred, and there she was—a bratty little maid on the floor, having wet herself.

“Ah, sorry. Got the wrong person.”

“I put the gun behind my back as I speak.”

The little maid, trembling violently, couldn’t even muster a reply, her fearful gaze fixed on me.

Last time, she just looked at me like a friend. But after something like this? Casual chatter like before would be impossible.

It was kind of fun back then, in a way.

Finally, I think I understand how those people locked up in asylums must feel.

No, I’m not so far gone that I’d crawl under the bed at the sound of clapping, but I just nearly killed someone.

For the flimsy excuse that she reminded me of Vivian.

I made my way to the tobacconist’s as if nothing had happened, casually browsing through the wares.

I picked up one of the tea leaves the Crown Prince had recommended last time, along with a cigar box.

Before heading to the counter to pay, someone lightly tapped my shoulder.

When I turned around, it was the Crown Prince.

I offered a perfunctory bow out of courtesy, then turned back toward the counter, trying to make a quick escape.

But when someone like him speaks, you can’t just walk away without replying.

“Those tea leaves,” he said, pointing at my selection. “Mix them with this other kind, and you’ll find it much more beneficial.”

“Ah, Your Highness, I’m short on funds.”

“Well, I can just pay for it.”

He took the cigar box and tea leaves I was holding, along with the tea he had just recommended, handed them to the shopkeeper, and paid for everything.

Then, as if it were a small favor in return, he asked me to spare him a moment.

As always in these endlessly repeating moments, he led me to the same bench by the pond, where carp swam in lazy circles.

I bit into a cigar and lit it, trying to stifle a cough.

It was my first time smoking, after all.

A few small coughs escaped, but I swallowed them back, as if determined not to give in to the harsh smoke.

The Crown Prince packed his pipe with tobacco and lit it, puffing away as he spoke.

“Today, I believe, marks the day your family has been completely and utterly destroyed.”

“Is that so.”

“And so, what I want to say is—”

I didn’t want to hear it.

I hated everything. Hated what I’d just done in my room. Hated pointing a gun at the little maid who had just cleaned my room.

But the world doesn’t stop just because I hate it.

If anything, it just stomps on me harder.

I stole a body.

This is the punishment.

Even if I wanted to return it, its owner wouldn’t take it back.

“Just shut up already.”

I cut him off.

His eyebrow twitched once, but he said nothing, continuing to smoke as if unbothered. After a moment, he opened his mouth again.

“Did you know? I thought it was just a decorative flower—”

“I’ve heard this nonsense from you so many times I’m sick of it, you insufferable bastard.”

“You have quite a foul mouth.”

He looked at me as if he already knew exactly what I was going to do. Calm, composed, utterly indifferent—like he was staring at something inanimate.

“Go ahead, take care of it.”

I pulled out the pistol, aimed it at him, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

…

When I opened my eyes, I was back in my room.