Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 13

All I can do is laugh.

Well, isn’t it ridiculous?

To think I’m still alive and breathing like this.

This shatters the absolute premise I had in my mind.

The belief that I was contemplating my own death and that I could, at any moment, let go of my own life through sheer force of will.

Not that I ever truly believed it with absolute certainty.

What was that shadow I faintly saw in the bathtub?

Not that I’m particularly curious.

But, but… One thing is certain — it saved me.

A shiver runs through my body.

Sunlight filters in through the window, filling the room and prickling my skin with warmth.

With this much sunlight, it feels like my skin should be turning a slight reddish hue, but this pale skin of mine seems to have no such intention.

Even when I impulsively stabbed my wrist, swept up in a surge of emotion, I didn’t feel anything at the time.

But when the pain started to flood in and my body’s reflex to escape that pain triggered a small, unintended mistake, it seemed to awaken a desire for life I didn’t even know I had.

Now, here I am, still breathing.

A wet bed, the smell of disinfectant, the stench of blood.

On the bed, crimson stains have bloomed and scattered like flower petals.

The smell… I hate it.

But seriously, why is my body so… fine?

Gurgle.

Maybe it’s not so “fine” after all — my stomach growls.

“…Ah, I’m hungry.”

My throat feels so dry it’s startling.

It’s so dry that I can barely get a proper sound out of my mouth.

I had been lying in the bathtub, unable to even stand up, desperately drinking in water. Did I lose that much blood?

But if that were the case, then why is there not a single wound on my body?

I run my bone-dry hands over my neck, feeling around, then absentmindedly rub my perfectly fine wrist.

Not a single hole. This is kind of indecent.

What am I even thinking?

Looking around, I see my familiar, unremarkable room.

Dragging my heavy feet, I head for the sink to get a drink of water.

Maybe I twisted my leg while flailing around in the bathtub?

My left leg is swollen and red, and with every step I take, the pain is bad enough to make me almost collapse.

Limping along, I somehow manage to reach the sink, turn on the faucet, and start drinking.

I didn’t even think to use a cup.

My throat was burning with dryness, so I just drank straight from the tap.

If I’d seen a cup, I would’ve used it, but it wasn’t in plain sight, was it?

As the cold water hits my empty stomach, it stings a little, but that’s a secondary issue.

The important thing is — I’m alive.

By some miracle, I’m alive.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a blood-soaked bed, but aside from being hungry and thirsty, my body seems to be in pretty decent shape.

For some reason, I’m wearing my school uniform, even though I remember taking it off.

Well, maybe some creepy pervert decided to “save” me in exchange for a little dress-up game.

I mean, I’m small, light, and cute-looking, right? I probably make a pretty good doll for that kind of twisted play.

“Heheh.”

I laughed out loud because my own thoughts were so absurdly funny.

If someone saw me, they’d think I was completely insane.

Well, it’s not like any amount of speculation on my part is going to reveal anything useful.

My skin feels sticky. I should wash up.

Since my school uniform reeks of blood, I might as well wash it while I’m at it.

It’s already soaked anyway.

I step into the bathroom.

The bathtub is spotless.

No traces of blood, no smell.

If someone cleaned it, they did a thorough job, right down to scrubbing the floor.

Come to think of it, I had left the blade on the rack next to the tub.

Of course, they must’ve taken it.

Where did they put the gun, I wonder?

It’s the only thing that could really be called a “memento” that I have left.

Why didn’t I get rid of it in the first place?

Was it just because it was a gun?

Anyway, I turn on the water. Warm water cascades from above, soaking me from head to toe.

As the water hits me, red streams of blood slowly trickle down the drain.

It feels like I’m doing something wrong.

Showering fully clothed instead of properly undressing to wash myself.

The wet fabric clings to my body, and it feels a little too suggestive for comfort.

After cleaning myself thoroughly, I apply a bit of magic I’d picked up somewhere, creating a gust of hot air.

I never learned any “cleaning” magic, so all I can do is rinse with water and dry with warm air.

I feel a mix of dampness and dryness as I step out of the bathroom barefoot.

Then, a sharp pain pricks my foot.

Looking down, I see a shard of broken glass embedded in my sole.

I limp my way to the bed and sit down.

With my hand, I pull out the shard with ease.

It doesn’t hurt as much as I expected.

Maybe it’s because I’ve already been stabbed in the wrist once before.

Or maybe it’s because I once put a hole in my throat.

Either way, this level of pain feels almost trivial.

Thinking like this makes it sound like I’m bragging.

And there’s nothing more pathetic than someone boasting about something so meaningless.

I glance over at the crumpled piece of paper on the table.

I walk over and unfold it to check the contents, but the paper is scratched all over with deep marks, as if someone had gouged it with their nails.

The words are so obscured I can’t read them.

From the faint traces of the design and the elegant handwriting, it looks like it came from my family.

But who would send me a letter?

I don’t have any money, after all.

Who would send it?

Half-wit. Fool. It’s probably one of those two.

If that’s the case, it’s probably not worth reading anyway.

With a sigh, I toss the paper back onto the table and drag myself over to the bed.

I’m so tired that I feel like I can’t do anything.

Honestly, if I just lay here like this, I might die without even trying.

Maybe I’m already in a coma and dreaming right now.

If I could, I’d stay in this lucid dream forever, lost in a world of my own happiness.

As long as I don’t scream out that “this is a dream,” the world will keep running as if nothing is wrong, right up until I disappear.

I close my eyes for just a moment.

When I open them again, the sky has gone black, as if mocking the fiery red sunset that had once screamed in desperation before sinking below the horizon.

The moon now hangs in the sky, laughing brightly.

I glance at the clock — it’s about 9 PM.

And I’m still in my room.

On the wall hangs the family portrait I had once shredded to pieces in a fit of rage.

Even so, it’s still taped back together and hanging there.

On top of my wardrobe sits the fancy plate, engraved with the family crest, a “gift” from the family traitor.

At one point, I cherished that thing.

The wardrobe doors are wide open. Inside, I see all the fancy dresses and clothing I once tore apart in a fit of hysteria.

Beneath them are fragile glass ornaments, still unbroken.

Jewels I once considered throwing out the window or flushing down the toilet still glimmer in their original brilliance.

It doesn’t seem like anyone has been in my room.

If someone had tried to restore all this, there would have been some trace of it left behind.

Or maybe someone opened up my skull and is showing me hallucinations.

My head right now feels like it’s filled with cheesy movie poster taglines.

“Where does reality end, and where does fiction begin?”

But it’s not some deep philosophical question like “Do humans truly exist?”

No, I genuinely have no idea what’s going on.

Come to think of it, everything about this is absurd.

A drunk who lived drowning in alcohol, too broke to afford a stay at a mental hospital.

I remember vaguely trying to call for help once — 1577… 01… something? What was it? And what was the name of that facility, anyway?

My memory feels like it’s getting fuzzier.

Anyway, imagine calling some random counselor one day and telling them this:

“I woke up one morning and found myself in the body of a ruined noble family’s villainess straight out of a novel. The life that followed was so full of suffering and worthlessness that I became buried in despair and tried to end it all. But now time has rewound, and I’m back again!”

Who would believe that?

They’d just think it’s the ramblings of a lunatic.

They’d probably tell me to contact the Mental Health Center or the Suicide Prevention Hotline and offer me some platitudes about hope.

And then I’d hang up, pretending to be “grateful for their help.”

Damn it.

They’d probably think I’m mocking them too.

The problem is, there’s no phone here.

Ugh, why am I even bothering to think so hard about this?

None of it is going to solve anything anyway.

Sigh.

So, what is this? One of those cliché stories where you die and then time rewinds?

Cliché, meaningless, cruel, and ultimately just something to torture me.

If that’s the case, they shouldn’t have let me realize this is a “story” in the first place.

At least then, there’d be a bit of thrill or suspense.

I glance at the mirror again.

A girl stares back at me, looking bewildered.

Her expression eventually fades, and she returns to her usual cold, expressionless face.

Her eyes, which had momentarily flickered with a spark of confusion, slowly lost their light and turned icy cold again.

I’m hungry.

I open the drawer where I used to stash a ton of chocolate, and sure enough, it’s packed full of chocolate.

There are even kinds I’ve never seen before since becoming “this girl.”

Right next to it, I checked the drawer where coffee beans were usually stored.

It’s half-filled with ground coffee, just as I expected.

Instead of dwelling on thoughts like “Am I back?” or “Did I return?”, I prioritize something far more urgent — eating.

More than hunger, it feels like a desperate need to survive.

The taste of premium chocolate after so long, along with a cup of coffee, is absolutely divine.

It soothes my mind and brings a brief sense of happiness.

But that happiness doesn’t last long.

This isn’t a “return after death” situation.

I just fell back into a slightly earlier point in time.

I realize it as soon as I see Evan standing in front of my door with a furious look on his face.

He’s wearing the exact same clothes he wore on that day.

Holding the same book.

Wearing the same expression.

It’s the same day I slapped Vivian across the face.