Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 6
I once read a rather impressive essay while sitting in a dirt hole.

Was it titled The Myth of Sisyphus?

Reading with a serious heart isn’t exactly my favorite way to spend time, so I didn’t particularly enjoy it. But back then, I had nothing else to do but read.

The content was simple yet complicated, the kind of writing that drags you into reality rather than a dream. 

It left me feeling a bit stifled, but what could I do? That was the only book I had in my possession at the time.

I could go on endlessly about my thoughts on that essay—or to call it more accurately, that piece of philosophy—but I don’t feel like doing that right now.

There’s no one to share it with anyway.

Still, there’s one thing that stuck with me, something that insufferable, lanky Frenchman who wrote the essay said:

“Suicide is confessing that life is not worth living.”

I suppose his words have nothing to do with what I’m thinking, but strangely… really strangely… Those thoughts keep circling in my head.

Humans are creatures that interpret what they hear in ways that suit them.

So, is it time for me to confess that my life isn’t worth living?

Or is this just a fleeting wave of despair, one that will make me run away scared when it comes to actually ending things?

How absurd.

…Of course, everything I’ve been rambling about just now is nonsense. Utterly unfounded, false, meaningless, and useless nonsense.

But so is life.

At least, to me right now, it feels inherently absurd and meaningless.

I stayed sitting in place for a long while, utterly drained of strength.

I didn’t have the will or energy to get up.

Was lunch two hours long?

If I sit here like this, wallowing in my misery for about an hour, maybe I’ll be able to stand upright again.

In hindsight, I should have screamed.

If I had, they might have offered some healing magic as casually as flipping a coin.

But instead, only a few stray tears slipped out, and no screams came.

Just as that girl said, I was born this way, and I grew up this way.

After some time passed, my legs felt a little less shaky.

I pressed my hands to the ground, tried to steady myself, and half-rose…

“Eek.”

With a dull thud, my strength gave out, and I fell back down.

I stumbled backward to avoid falling over entirely, brushing against the wall and using it to support myself as I stood.

Then, slowly letting the strength drain from my legs, I leaned back against the wall to rest a little longer.

The cold floor made my whole body shiver.

My nose was slightly stuffy, and I felt a faint warmth—like I was on the verge of catching a cold.

Sure enough, my nose began to itch.

How miserable. Life itself felt miserable.

As soon as that thought crossed my mind, the tears I’d been holding back spilled out all at once.

“What… hic… did I even do wrong…hic…”

Even as I spoke, the burned part of me ached, and my throat choked up.

I think I started crying because it all felt so unfair.

Honestly, I’d been trying to stay indifferent, holding back the flood of emotions about to break through the dam. But after going through something like this, how could I not cry?

Right? No one’s around to see me, so it should be fine.

“…Hic.”

Once the crying started, it wasn’t just sorrow anymore. The energy spent on sobbing made my head throb like it was splitting apart.

Particularly on the left side of my head, where the pain stretched from the back to my occipital region, as if someone were sawing through it.

And then, my eyes began to ache as though they were about to pop out.

At that point, I wasn’t even sobbing anymore—just occasionally hiccupping while meaningless tears fell one after another.

Crying out loud is something you need a healthy body and strength to do, after all.

For a pathetic girl like me, even crying properly seemed like a difficult task.

There wasn’t anyone around to see me.

I roughly wiped away my tears with my sleeve and, leaning against the wall, shuffled toward the classroom door.

Then my strength gave out again, and I collapsed back to the ground.

Should I work out and build up my stamina? But where would I even begin with that?

Should I just quit the academy?

If I lock myself in my room and skip classes for a few months, they’ll expel me on their own.

But then I’d still be stuck in the capital for at least five years because I’m from a provincial noble family.

Three years and a few months left.

There’s no way around it.

So, I’d end up wandering the streets of the capital, maybe getting kidnapped and sold as a slave in some back alley—or I’d walk into a brothel myself and sell my body.

Who would hire a girl like me? Immature, sickly, and too young to call educated.

I’m useless.

But keeping me stuck here in the capital isn’t about me being useless, is it?

It’s because I’m terribly useful.

Even if my family collapsed, even if I had no money, even if I were on the brink of death—or, conversely, if I were doing incredibly well—as long as I’m a noble child, they can use me to flex their authority and force me to remain in the capital.

Ah, long live the great Emperor.

May he rattle his dentures and die a pitiful death.

…

Eventually, I forced myself to stand.

To ignore the fatigue and slight pain in my body, I kept my mind busy with various thoughts.

When a villain falls and exits the stage, no one shines a spotlight on their miserable life—unless it’s to mock them.

At most, they’re given a brief note later: “They committed an extreme act while at the academy.”

And such deaths are usually met not with sadness but with a mix of pity and mockery.

From the readers, or the people of this world.

After all, to them, my death would matter less than Vivian scraping her knee.

So, is it all predetermined?

Then why did they even bother putting me into this body?

Is it some kind of karmic punishment?

And who am I even talking to?

It’s not like I’m speaking to someone; I’m just grumbling.

No one hears me, but just thinking about it helps me relieve some stress.

Anyway, if the alternative to being thrown into this unfamiliar world is opening my legs in front of a bunch of rich pigs, then death might genuinely be the better choice.

“Hah.”

A hollow laugh escaped me.

Prostitutes sell not just their bodies but also their smiles. If even this laugh, born from bitter misery, could be priced…

No, this won’t do.

No more pain, no more fear.

I need to find a new method.

I left the empty classroom and stepped into the hallway where people lingered.

Passing through the doorway, I walked down a corridor where a few kids were chatting.

I straightened my back as much as possible, maintaining a dignified gait.

This dreadful habit, ingrained in me since birth, made me carry myself with elegance as long as I felt someone’s gaze—even if I was suffering inside.

The girl who had been crouched on the floor moments ago, whining in pain, now looked like a sickly but unmistakably noble lady.

Even breathing felt difficult, but I walked down the corridor and descended the stairs.

Jealous, mocking, disdainful, scornful, and at times, pitying gazes—they were all too familiar now, and that fact stung a little.

On my way to the dormitory, I caught snippets of whispers and stares from other students. Eventually, someone stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

Long pants, a top resembling a suit, and a sturdy-looking physique—it must be a man.

I’d heard rumors of girls wearing male uniforms for fun, but they wouldn’t look this flat-chested.

Since I was short, I couldn’t see his face unless I looked up. But holding myself upright and walking properly was already taking all my effort.

I hoped it was just a prank and tried to step aside, but the person in front of me refused to budge.

“Erica.”

A voice, slightly mumbling, called my name.

I was so exhausted that all the sounds around me blurred together faintly.

“Move… please.”

I barely managed to utter two syllables, but even that hurt like hell.

It seemed the creator of this world had no intention of granting me any healing magic. How unfortunate.

Others could just ask a friend practicing healing magic, but I had no such luxury.

At least there was an infirmary for injuries.

But when would I ever make it there? I felt like I might collapse just walking to the dormitory.

Why wasn’t this person in front of me stepping aside?

I didn’t think I’d done anything to earn a grudge from a man.

Then again, maybe Lydia had put him up to this.

She might’ve encouraged someone, saying it wouldn’t cause any trouble now—there’s no one to back me up, and I don’t have any power anymore.

Were these the people who came at night to check if the door was locked?

If it hadn’t been locked, what would have happened?

Maybe nothing at all.

After all, I had been gripping a black pistol with golden accents in my trembling hands, ready to fire.

But now, I had nothing in my hands—not even something that might bring peace to my heart, even if I didn’t know how to use it.

I can’t seem to live with any kind of optimism.

I can’t even manage to sidestep the person standing right in front of me.

I’m just an ordinary person, the kind who crumbles under a bit of misfortune.

I’m not Michel.

Ah, it’s hard.

I just feel so utterly drained.

“I think… I might’ve gone too far with my words last time, so I… huh? Erica?”

My vision began to blur, and nausea crept up inside me.

“Ugh…”

My strength gave out, and I half-collapsed.

Forcing myself to squint, I tried to move forward, and I saw Evan standing in front of me.

What’s this?

Was I dreaming, having fallen asleep in the dormitory?

It must’ve been a dream.