Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 44

For a brief moment, something shifted in me. I lost my composure and unleashed every conceivable word, real or imagined, onto Evan.

I spoke as if I were someone who had traveled back in time, as if I already knew what would happen and how he would react.

It wasn’t untrue, but it wasn’t something I should have said aloud.

“Ugh. I asked him to clean up the glass, but he didn’t do it before he left. Oh, wait—I think I kicked him out.”

Muttering to myself, I grabbed the cup I had thrown at Evan earlier and cleaned up the glass shards scattered around the room after I smashed it against the wall.

I was just exhausted.

Could Evan also be experiencing time loops?

It didn’t seem that way.

If he had seen me die, I doubt he’d be able to hold a calm conversation with me like this.

“I don’t know what’s what anymore.”

Humming to myself, I rummaged through the drawer and retrieved a pistol.

These days, I couldn’t seem to shake the melancholy unless I had it close to me, nestled in my hands like an extension of my body.

Feeling a bit bored, I pulled out nine bullets, loaded a single round into the empty chamber, and spun the cylinder.

Just like before, I cocked the hammer. I didn’t particularly want to die today, so I aimed the gun at my hand instead and pulled the trigger.

Of course, it didn’t fire.

After checking the chamber, I realized the bullet would’ve gone through my hand if I’d pulled the trigger two more times.

“Ah. I don’t want to die, but I hate the pain. I’m so miserable, so sad.

And angry—angry at why I even have to live like this.

It must be punishment, being locked in this room reading novels.

For committing that heinous act and then completely forgetting about it.

No, I never really forgot. Every time I closed my eyes, those memories would resurface, as vivid and grotesque as ever. How could I forget?

Though… after I shared some moments with that young lady—let’s keep it vague—I guess the memories didn’t haunt me as much.

Maybe it’s because I’ve buried the memories so deeply in my mind out of sheer exhaustion.”

For some reason, I felt like I could smoke right now, no matter how much it hurt my chest.

“Haha, ha…”

I let out a laugh, trying to smile. But my expression quickly fell flat again.

To tell a story like this while smiling, you need at least one of the three: cigarettes, alcohol, or drugs.

Anyway, if Evan wasn’t looping, what was with that sudden change in behavior?

It was as if he had glimpsed fragments of the future and come back—a half-measure of sorts.

“You’ve always been halfway there. So was I.

Looking back, you were no different.

Later, you didn’t just stop at being halfway—you ended up as a miserable wreck without even limbs to crawl on.”

Even without resetting time, Evan could change himself completely. Why couldn’t I?

I’ve repeated this timeline countless times, yet the only thing I manage to do is grab a gun and shoot bullets into the foreheads of people weaker than me.

“Yeah, I crawled and scraped through rock bottom and somehow kept living.”

Clamping a piece of cloth between my teeth, I held a pistol in my remaining hand and fired aimlessly. Anything that moved became my target.

“It didn’t matter whether I had limbs or not.

Like that time I shot the child holding their mother’s hand…”

These days, I haven’t even punished myself properly.

I grabbed a decorative dagger lying nearby, tossing the sheath carelessly onto the bed.

The blade gleamed in the sunlight as I pressed it to my skin, cutting a long, straight line down my arm.

The sharp edge slid in smoothly, leaving a clean incision that looked as if it had been drawn with a ruler.

“Shut up, you worthless parasite. That damned commie brat was holding a bomb, so of course, it wasn’t a problem. If I hadn’t shot—oh, too deep.”

Foam bubbled up from the wound, hissing as blood sprayed everywhere, painting my face and soaking my uniform red.

“How am I supposed to clean this up?”

I’d acted rashly, and the long-forgotten sensation of holding a blade had led me to overdo it.

On the bright side, it at least silenced the voice of that annoying girl.

“It’s fine. Who told you to be like this?

Don’t worry! Just like those poor black farmhands who aren’t treated as human, those ‘reds’ you talk about must fall into the same category.

I completely understand. Haha. How could beasts dare to speak like humans?”

I glanced at myself in the mirror for the first time in ages.

Blood was pouring from my arm like a fountain, but I could only laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Yeah, laugh.

If I don’t laugh in this tragic world, who will?

Were those voices hallucinations, or were they words slipping out of my own mouth?

The inability to tell left me in despair.

I’d thought—even as a weak, aimless, and useless person—that I could improve, that I could change something, that someday, I could escape this miserable life no matter how many painful deaths it took.

But what is this?

I can’t even control my own emotions. I’m swept away by every feeling.

Maybe my mind is starting to break in strange ways.

Let’s think positively.

The fact that I’m so overwhelmed with emotions that I can’t control myself means I’m still mentally intact, right?

Healthy? Who knows.

Maybe “still here” is a better way to put it.

I’ll probably stay like this forever.

I’ll keep telling myself “someday,” but nothing will ever change. I’ll keep doing foolish things, like slashing my arm just now.

But Evan… Evan somehow managed to change.

What a remarkable person he is.

Why is it that, living through the same time, in the same circumstances, he alone has changed?

How is that possible?

Maybe my struggles are being watched by some incomprehensible force urging me to give up.

Look at him: no loops, no repetitions, yet he changes instantly. And you, despite dying over and over, despite getting countless chances, cling to your pathetic pride, stubbornness, and arrogance, dragging out your worthless life.

At least, that’s what it seems to say.

I headed to the bathroom, took a hot shower, and pressed a towel against my wound to stem the bleeding before wrapping it tightly with a white cloth.

The bandage soon turned red, but since I’d be wearing my uniform over it, it didn’t matter.

I dressed neatly, put on my shoes, and walked outside.

My conversation with Evan hadn’t taken that long, so it was still early evening. People were out and about on the streets.

I returned to the shop I’d visited earlier and bought a tin of cannabis leaves and a box of premium cigars.

The box claimed to hold twelve cigars. That should be enough to smoke to my heart’s content before I die.

Or maybe I’ll smoke too much and die that way instead.

No, let’s stop with the death talk—it’s too morbid.

I threw the seven gold coins I had at the shopkeeper, refusing any change, and left.

I walked to a garden with a pond full of carp, intending to engage in the mindless act of watching the fish while poisoning my lungs.

Sitting down and crossing my legs, I opened the cigar box, picked one out, and clamped it between my teeth.

As I reached for a lighter, a voice called out to me.

“Ah, Lady Erica…?”

“Vivian? You weren’t here earlier, so what’s the matter?”

“Oh, no. I just remembered what happened earlier, so I thought I’d stop by.”

“I see.”

The air between us was awkward, to say the least.

To me, what happened felt like it was a month ago. But for Vivian, she had just been slapped by me not too long ago.

The dissonance in our timelines sent a shiver down my spine, but I ignored it and lit the end of my cigar.

I didn’t bother leaving. If Vivian was uncomfortable, she could walk away on her own.

I didn’t mind her presence—it didn’t make much of a difference to me.

I took a drag from the cigar, and, just like the last time, an overwhelming cough wracked my chest, accompanied by sharp, searing pain.

So, I just cried while I smoked.

It hurt in a way that felt oddly similar to the pain of carving my arm with a blade earlier.

And then I remembered that Vivian was standing right in front of me. Hastily, I wiped my face with my sleeve.

At times like this, I was grateful that my face was naturally presentable without makeup.

If I’d been one of those students who caked on layers of foundation and blush, my tear-streaked face would’ve looked like a ghost or a panda by now.

“Vivian, I’m sorry for slapping you earlier.

Could you leave? I’d like to be alone.”

As soon as I became aware of her gaze, I felt the need to say something.

It was as if her mere presence made me feel exposed, vulnerable.

“Oh, uh? What? Uh, okay.”

Vivian looked taken aback, like she hadn’t expected an apology from me.

But I wasn’t the poised, noble young lady she used to know anymore.

Now, I was just a cowardly, pathetic mess who feared pain.

“Vivian, does my apology bother you?”

Slap!

The sound wasn’t from me hitting Vivian’s cheek—it was my own.

Before I could let more words spill out, before I started spewing self-deprecating nonsense, I instinctively slapped myself.

“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, after all.

To slap someone just because they held my hand… what kind of vile person does that?”

Vivian’s eyes widened in shock as she stared at me.

I wanted to tell her not to look at me like that. I wanted to yell it at her.

But instead, I clamped my mouth shut, biting down on the cigar still in my lips as smoke lazily curled upward.

Cough!

“Ah, maybe my hands weren’t cough cough clean enough to hold yours after all.”

“No, I’m the one who acted rashly by grabbing your hand. I’m sorry!”

“Haha, sure, cough cough. Don’t worry about it.”

My chest felt like it was burning, but that didn’t stop me from drawing the smoke in deeper.

If my lungs were already metaphorically on fire, why not set them ablaze for real?

Ah, the pain was bitter, like a slow, smoldering ache deep within me.