Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 11

I walked through the front door of the dormitory building and down the hallway.

White.

I walked through the hallway and climbed the stairs.

It was gray — not quite white, but a dull gray.

Staring down at each individual step instead of looking up at the sky, I climbed the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, another hallway unfolded before me.

Vivid, colorful decorations lined the walls.

I turned my head.

I walked right up to the door of my room.

Black.

When I opened the door, the room was dark with the lights off.

Click.

The light turned on.

It wasn’t electric, but I wasn’t sure what kind of mechanism it used.

The only thing that mattered was that the room was now brightly lit.

That was enough.

I realized I was still holding the cookies Vivian had given me.

Pouring a glass of water, I started eating the cookies.

For the first time in my life, I ate without even washing my hands.

The cookies were gray.

“They taste good. She really knows how to bake.”

They were rich with a strong milky flavor, deliciously savory.

“Alright, let’s see what we have here.”

I pulled out a few items.

A sparkling golden pistol.

A long ribbon string, the kind you’d use to wrap up a gift box.

A knife with a blade the length of my index finger.

I rummaged through a blue drawer and found seven bullets rolling loose inside a small box.

I pulled out five of them and placed them on the table one by one.

“Honestly, I can’t really picture it — me dying, I mean.”

More accurately, I can’t seem to picture this girl dying.

Even in death, I imagine she’d sit upright with her back perfectly straight, maintaining an air of dignity.

Well, there are plenty of other ways besides the three I just pulled out.

If I walk up the gray stairs just a bit further, I could step into the sunlit world above.

I could fall from the sky, creating a spectacle that’s shocking but also strangely beautiful — a final flight through the air.

Who knows?

Maybe I could pull off the “most beautiful suicide in the world,” like the bookkeeper from New York who was originally from California.

I looked up at the ceiling.

There was no sky, no sun, and no place to tie or hang the ribbon string.

That leaves only one option: tying the ribbon to the door frame and kneeling beneath it.

It’s ugly.

The position is disgraceful.

It would probably be painful too.

I wouldn’t be able to properly choke myself.

Back then, my options had been much wider.

I used to dream about all kinds of things.

What should I ask Father to buy for me? Should I ask for a mine? What kind of man should I meet so I can control an entire nation?

You know, the kinds of silly thoughts that a wealthy, high-status teenage girl might have.

But now, I’m stuck thinking about how I can disappear from this world in the cleanest way possible.

The useless knowledge stuffed in my head just makes these choices harder.

There’s a man stored in my mind, and thanks to him, I know from experience that dying by hanging is one of the ugliest deaths imaginable.

I’ve seen it.

The way the tongue sticks out. The eyes roll back. The face slowly turns pale.

After about five to ten minutes of twitching uncontrollably, the body goes limp.

Then, as the muscles relax, a foul stench of filth fills the air.

It’s just like those islanders who eat fried potatoes and fish.

They hang people and mock them, calling it “dancing in the air.” Their bodies twist and writhe like mad until they finally go still.

It’s probably excruciating.

I started tying a knot with the ribbon but ended up throwing it onto the bed.

Next, I examined my wrists, flipping them over to check both sides.

I went into the bathroom and began filling the bathtub with warm water.

Once the water rose high enough that my body would sink if I lay down, I dipped a finger in to test the temperature.

It was so hot I thought I might get burned.

This should be enough.

Sure, it’ll smell fishy, but at least it’ll look clean on the surface.

If it gets too painful, I can always just grab the pistol and blow my head off.

All that’s left now is to have faith.

When this girl dies, I’ll wake up back in my original room.

At first, I’ll wonder if it’s real or if I’m still dreaming.

I’ll check my body by touching random parts of it, tugging on my ears, and stretching out my cheeks.

Once I confirm I’m truly back, I’ll probably let out a small cheer of relief.

Then I’ll take a quick shower, change into fresh clothes, and grab my peach-themed checkered debit card — the one with the cute pink peach on it.

I’ll head outside without any real plan.

As I walk along, I’ll feel the familiar texture of concrete beneath my feet.

After about five minutes, I’ll stop by the café I always go to and order my usual oolong tea.

I won’t sit and drink it there. Sitting in a crowded café, surrounded by people, feels too uncomfortable.

So I’ll take it to go.

I’ll head to a nearby park, sit on a bench, and sip it through a straw.

That’s when I’ll see them.

Elementary school kids swinging their shoe bags around as they walk down the street.

Old people will pass by, gossiping about how pitiful I look — a layabout sipping tea alone in the park in broad daylight.

At first, mothers will keep their distance, thinking I’m suspicious.

But over time, once they realize all I do is sit there and drink tea every day, they’ll start greeting me.

They’ll chat with each other nearby, talking about whatever comes to mind.

If an unpleasant memory suddenly rises to the surface, I’ll spit the phlegm building up in my throat.

Then I’ll leave the no-smoking park and squat near a trash can, smoking a couple of cigarettes before heading home.

When I get home, I’ll rinse my mouth with mouthwash, turn on the computer, and play music.

Yeah, September Second would be nice.

There’s something comforting about listening to the hopeful, delicate notes played by that short French pianist.

I’ll turn up the volume until the music fills the entire room.

Then, I’ll either play a game or read a novel I’ve already read before.

Too many authors end up dying, so there aren’t many completed novels.

But it’s still better than here.

Unlike this place, my room is cozy and peaceful.

I know this is just an excuse, but I’m not committing suicide.

I’m just embarking on an adventure to find a new life.

I load the revolver, filling the chamber with bullets.

I shove the last remaining cookie into my mouth and examine the gun.

A bird-shaped ornament, a lion-shaped ornament, gold, jewels, an ivory grip…

Every kind of extravagance is packed into it.

The metallic click-click-click of the spinning cylinder feels oddly satisfying, so I spin it a few more times.

Then I grab the knife and head to the bathroom.

I’m a bit embarrassed to think about how someone will find my lifeless body.

So, instead of taking off my clothes, I climb into the bathtub still wearing my white dress.

Warm water seeps through my clothes and sticks to my skin, making me feel uncomfortable.

“Ugh… I hate this.”

But even so, warm water has a way of relaxing the body.

It pulls a small sigh out of me and leaves me feeling drowsy.

I bet someone will have something to say about this.

Wouldn’t it be enough to just live like everyone else?

To endure a few hardships, study, work, and then somehow fabricate a sense of meaning in life before finally dying from old age or an accident.

But I think that kind of life is no different from slavery.

It’s the kind of life where you blindly accept the general way others live — a way of living that doesn’t align with my own thoughts at all, yet is somehow considered “normal” by the world.

Even if I tried to escape it and sought a life of my own, I doubt I’d discover anything new.

That’s not arrogance rooted in status or privilege — it’s just baseless optimism.

If I saved up money and hid away in some rural backwater, who would come looking for me?

Some guys are trying to get involved with a “pretty young woman,” aimless drifters from the town, or maybe thugs looking to kidnap me and sell me to a brothel.

Not that I’m saying such a life is bad, necessarily.

It’s just not the life I want.

Some people say it doesn’t matter what kind of life you choose because you’ll never escape the swamp of absurdity.

They ask, “Is it even meaningful to think about that?”

But I think it’s still worth a try.

That, too, is a form of resistance.

The feeble wriggling of a worm trying to crawl out of the absurdity of life.

When I say “absurdity,” I’m not talking about something that defies logic.

I’m talking about the kind of absurdity that bespectacled philosophers discuss when they preach nihilism and declare that life offers no real meaning.

It’s kind of funny that the word for “contradiction” is often translated as “absurdity” in this context, but whatever.

Anyway, if there’s no hope to be found, and if there’s a guaranteed conclusion of “freedom” after just a brief moment of pain, then maybe it’s not such a terrible choice.

Sure, some might call it a coward’s escape.

But if abandoning something worthless to seek something new is considered “running away,” then isn’t every repetitive daily life just an escape from new adventures?

I allowed myself to entertain such pointless thoughts for a moment.

The warm water is still running.

That means the bathwater won’t get cold.

I pick up the knife and press it against my wrist.

Just the feeling of the blade touching my skin stings a little.

Maybe I’m imagining it.

This lump of iron, forged by fire and hammering, is sharp enough to leave a mark on the fragile body of a girl.

It hurts.

But this much isn’t enough.

A lot of people have the wrong idea.

They think that cutting the visible veins on the wrist is enough to kill you.

But most of the time, it just results in a bloody mess.

You’ll feel weak for a bit, but it usually ends up being nothing more than a “scare.”

“Ugh… damn it…”

This is only the second time this girl’s ever cursed out loud in her life.

The first time was probably on a day when I was feeling particularly down and decided to play Russian roulette.

I dip my left hand into the water, letting the blood flow freely.

The sharp, metallic stench of blood fills the air.

It’s unbearable.

I hate it.

I hate the sluggishness in my body.

I hate the sight of this bathroom in front of me.

I hate the sensation of weakness I feel every time I breathe, like my lungs are failing me.

Now that I think about it, the air quality in this place isn’t great either.

That’s why I brought the pistol.

Just in case it came to this.

A dull thumping noise echoes.

Is it the sound of water dripping onto the floor?

Or is someone knocking on the door?

It resonates faintly in my ears.

I act quickly.

I put the gun into my mouth and pull the trigger.

The sound echoes.

The sound of a gunshot.

The sound of an explosion.

The sound of gunpowder igniting.

Or, more simply —

Bang.