Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 19

Whenever I walk by, everyone glances at me.

It’s only natural. I can’t walk properly, and I look far from presentable.

This isn’t me.

This isn’t Erica Mecklenburg.

No matter how broken my limbs may be, I’m supposed to walk with my back straight. No matter who I’m speaking to — be it my mortal enemy or my closest confidant — I’m supposed to maintain perfect etiquette. And if the other party fails to uphold it, I’m supposed to make them pay for it accordingly.

But I’m not able to do that now.

If that’s the case, then this isn’t me.

This is just something that resembles me on the outside — a broken remnant of someone who was once called a noble.

Then, who am I?

My thoughts, my body, and even the way I think have all become twisted and tangled.

I don’t even remember what I used to like. My tastes in food have changed, too.

After struggling down the hallway, I finally made it to my room.

The stench of sweat, body odor, and something more pungent lingers in the air.

I push my way inside, strip off all my clothes, and turn on the water in the bathtub. I give my body a light rinse.

“This isn’t self-discovery or anything. So what is this?”

The distinct smell of my body — a mix of sweat and all kinds of unpleasant odors — rises as the hot water touches my skin.

No wonder. I’d been sweating so much that my clothes were soaked through.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror.

When I lift the corners of my mouth, I’m smiling.

So, this is me.

At the very least, as long as no one’s around, I’m free to do whatever I want with my body.

“What do you mean ‘this isn’t me’?

This is just me. I’ll leave it at that.”

I clean myself thoroughly and step into the bathtub.

The water’s so hot, I wonder if my skin might boil.

A small, breathy sound escapes from my lips — something close to a sigh.

“I’m hungry.”

Dripping wet, I step out of the bathtub and grab a few pieces of chocolate.

Then, suddenly, a thought crosses my mind.

The gun.

Or, more accurately, the time I tried to blow my head off in the bathtub.

I open the drawer, pull out the gun, and place it on the table.

It’s unloaded.

The cold metal against my skin sends a faint chill up my arm.

I load two bullets into the chamber and spin it, letting the position of the bullets become unknown.

“If I’m unlucky, I’ll die before I even get to eat my chocolate… but I guess it doesn’t matter.”

I press the gun against my temple.

Click.

Nothing.

Back then, just pulling the trigger had been terrifying.

But now, I’m surprisingly calm, thinking that maybe if I die, I’ll be able to go back to how things were.

It’s strange how something like this can feel familiar after just one try.

I return to the bathroom.

Since my head didn’t get blown off, I can still eat my chocolate.

I stuff a mouthful of chocolate into my mouth and sink back into the bathtub.

“Somehow, being underwater feels the most comfortable.”

Why am I so fixated on taking baths?

Maybe it’s because of the unpleasant thoughts swirling around in my head.

I’m trying to wash away the negative thoughts about death by letting them flow down the drain with the water.

Even if I babble on like this in my head, no one’s there to listen.

Ah, even if I say it out loud, there’s still no one to hear me.

“I should cut down on talking to myself.”

The more time I spend alone, the more I’ve found myself muttering to no one in particular.

Knock, knock.

As I’m lying limp in the bathtub, I hear a knock at the door.

I’m too lazy to move, so I stay where I am.

The knocking grows louder, more persistent.

Then, after a moment, I hear a snapping sound, like something breaking, followed by the sound of the door opening.

“Erica! Where are you?!”

It’s Vivian.

I’m too tired to even answer.

I told her to leave me alone, didn’t I?

She never listens to me.

I’ve told her so many times — not to follow me, not to care about me, not to stand between Evan and me, not to act friendly with me, not to think we’re friends, and not to touch me.

But she never listens.

She’s been wandering around my room for a while now. Eventually, she opens the bathroom door.

Her face flushes red as soon as she sees me.

I’m naked, sure, but blushing at the sight of someone of the same gender feels a bit questionable, doesn’t it?

“Vivian, do you enjoy barging into other people’s rooms and gawking at them naked?”

I don’t bother covering myself or acting embarrassed.

Sure, it’s a bit awkward, but it’s not something to make a big fuss over.

“Ah, I—I—I thought something had happened to you, so I just— I’m sorry!”

“It’s embarrassing, but I’ll let it slide.”

Lying there with my body relaxed, I figure I should do something now that there’s a guest.

I get up from the tub.

My legs are still shaky, but I can manage.

After all, I’ll just sit down and talk with her for a bit before kicking her out.

I grab the fresh clothes I’d left in the bathroom, get dressed, and stand in front of the mirror to dry my hair.

When I come out, Vivian is leaning against the wall instead of sitting in a chair.

“Why are you standing there like that? Sit in a chair.”

At my words, she quietly moves to the chair next to the table and sits down neatly.

She’s holding a small bag in her hand, which she places on the table.

“Um… These are cookies I baked this morning. Would you like some?”

My throat’s sore, so I just nod.

Seeing that, Vivian’s face lights up with a bright smile.

The cookie tastes like chocolate, but the texture’s a little different from the chocolate I’ve been eating nonstop lately.

As I’m chewing the cookie, Vivian fidgets a bit before finally speaking up.

“So, um… why were you locked in that locker earlier?”

“Because someone locked me in there, obviously.”

Hearing my response, Vivian’s face goes blank with shock.

I suppose it’s hard for her to imagine.

Not long ago, I was the confident young lady who led others around, so she’s probably struggling to understand why I’m suddenly being treated like this.

Her eyes are filled with confusion and a hint of pity as she looks at me, and at that moment, whatever pride I had left crumbles completely.

Pride was all I had.

Useless stubbornness, obstinacy, and an obsession with living life a certain way.

Not with being alive, but with living “properly.”

Both this young lady and I are broken in some way.

When the “proper way of life” shatters, people are left with nothing.

Most people in that situation feel despair, and with just the right excuse, they’re driven to what’s commonly referred to as “extreme measures.”

I just want to die beautifully, even if I’m going to die alone.

At the very least, I want to see myself as something that’s not ugly.

But death isn’t as beautiful as the noble lines in tragic novels make it out to be.

If I can’t even endure a bit of pain, if I can’t even control my emotions, then how could I ever hope to achieve a “beautiful death”?

Is that it, then? I’m not worthy of it?

Did I not even have the right to die?

Is that why I’m being dragged back to this moment over and over again?

By who? For what reason? Why? For what purpose?

The words swirl around in my head, rearranging themselves like pieces of a puzzle.

There’s no answer.

Ah, I’ve been lost in thought for too long.

Vivian’s looking at me with a mix of concern and unease.

I’m starting to recognize that look.

“Hey, Vivian, I’m sorry for earlier. I was just a little worn out.

I’m fine now, so you don’t have to look at me like that.”

“Okay, I’ll believe you!”

“It’s not about belief. I’m telling you it’s true.”

Come to think of it, where’s the gun I left on the table?

Well, whatever.

“By the way, Vivian, we’re not close enough to be visiting each other’s rooms, are we?”

“Well, considering you just got out of a locker and stumbled back to your room looking like you’d lost your mind, what do you think I’d do? Especially since you looked so anxious.”

“Are you worried about me?”

I cross my legs and ask with a sarcastic tone.

Vivian doesn’t care about my attitude. With a serious look, she answers firmly.

“Yes.”

“I’m fine.”

Hearing that, Vivian’s face scrunches up a bit.

Or maybe she’s about to cry.

Her face is so pretty that it’s hard to read her emotions sometimes.

“And Vivian, we’re not the kind of people who worry about each other or check in on each other’s well-being.

I’ve told you before—no, never mind. Just forget it.”

Vivian says nothing and just sits there quietly, watching me.

The silence between us grows increasingly irritating.

So I ignore her, brew some coffee, and start eating chocolate like I always do.

By the time I’ve eaten five or six pieces, Vivian finally speaks up.

“…What was that gun doing on the table?”