Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 31: Peeling Away

There is only one truly serious philosophical problem.

That is suicide.

Deciding whether life is worth living or not is the fundamental question that philosophy must answer.

“Stop it. That lanky Frenchman wouldn’t even know our language.”

I’m just recalling something from a book I read.

The phrase I came across was quite striking, so it stuck with me.

“Then why don’t you mention this part too?”

Even though it started with a passage about suicide, it ultimately claimed that suicide was a form of surrender to absurdity, whereas life was a resistance against it. Therefore, it argued that life must be lived — that life is worth living.

The idea that even a dreadful, repetitive, or painful life must paradoxically be lived.

“But isn’t the first shocking sentence, not the hopeful part later, what really defines the whole book?”

Sometimes, my mind drifts like this.

When what I want and what this girl wants get slightly misaligned.

In other words, when we both want the same result but differ in how to get there, it happens often.

It’s not like we’re completely separate entities, so it quiets down eventually.

Just sometimes.

When I’m feeling unstable, this is how it goes.

If there were a psychiatric hospital around here, I’d probably be chugging down whatever pills they prescribed — antidepressants, mood stabilizers, tranquilizers, or anything else they’d offer.

Bipolar disorder, schizophrenia (which, I know, is the same thing), autism spectrum disorder, major depressive disorder, dissociative disorder, neurosis — it wouldn’t matter which label they gave me.

This girl is just grumbling.

She claims she doesn’t want to put blades to her skin anymore.

But the feeling of rebellion, of freedom, of truly feeling alive — that’s what it means to live, to feel as much of life as possible.

Therefore, to live, I feel my freedom, and to live as freely as I can, I’m doing what best proves I exist in this world.

So, quit grumbling like a spoiled brat.

I’m just saving myself, that’s all.

At this moment, I’m probably my own greatest doctor.

I step into the bathtub, letting warm water fill it while I shower.

This isn’t another one of those stupid attempts where I fill the tub to drown myself.

I’m just showering, that’s all.

If I rinse it off with water while I shower, cleanup is much easier.

Neat, tidy, and without any ugly mess.

Arms with fresh blood trickling down them are grotesque, but once the water rinses it away, only the scars remain. That’s at least a little more tolerable.

With that thought in mind, I lightly scratch the spot I’d already scratched earlier.

At first, only a small trickle of blood seeped out.

After a brief sting, it stopped, and the spot was clean.

A thin line of crimson drops slowly welled up, beads forming before they trailed down.

I watched it for a while before letting the warm water wash it away.

Once my arms were clean, I wiped down my body and put on my clothes.

“Yeah, this much is fine. It’s not like I’m seriously hurt or anything.”

There was still the faint metallic smell of blood lingering in the bathroom.

Well, since the warm water spread it through the air, the entire bathroom smelled like blood now.

Whatever. If I leave the window open, it’ll fade.

Talking to myself like this — maybe it’s a way of keeping myself company.

Back when my father was still alive, he’d often talk to himself while watching the news or reading a book.

When I asked him why, he said, “I used to have people to talk to about this kind of stuff, but as I got older, I realized I was the only one left watching and reading it.”

So, he made himself his own conversation partner.

What an odd thing to say.

I still remember that.

Why did that thought suddenly come to me?

Anyway, as long as I stay in my room, I’m safe like this.

There’s nothing to bother me here.

I don’t have to accidentally run into Vivian and awkwardly pretend I didn’t see her.

I don’t have to meet Evan’s eyes and force an awkward smile before we both act like strangers.

I don’t have to endure Lydia’s bullying.

I don’t have to worry about bumping into that detestable crown prince on the street.

When life feels so unbearably boring that I feel like I’m going to lose it…

When the pain from the first and second deaths was so unbearable that I feel like I need to feel some pain now to make up for it…

I can just walk into the bathroom, mumble like a lunatic, run a blade over my skin just once, and everything will end.

It doesn’t even hurt that much.

And just like now, my thoughts become so much clearer.

It’s like a rebellion against the absurdity of life, a mark of my determination to keep living.

I suppose it’s a bit pretentious to dress up self-harm like that, but honestly, isn’t it always a matter of how you frame it?

If I jumped off this building right now and died, it would be a “tragic catastrophe” if framed properly.

But if someone with power decided not to frame it nicely, it’d just be dismissed as some “idiot who gave up on life trying to fly.”

“Ahaha.”

It wasn’t even that funny, but I started laughing anyway.

Since I’m in a good mood now, I think I’ll have candy instead of chocolate.

I took out a hardened lump of sugar — not mixed with any flavor or ingredient, just pure, compressed sugar — and popped it in my mouth.

Then I drank a cup of coffee that had gone cold while I was showering.

The sweetness that coated my mouth blended with the aroma of coffee.

I’d run out of chocolate long ago.

Just as I was savoring the sweetness, I heard a knock at the door.

Knock, knock.

It wasn’t that obnoxious knock the young maid used, where she’d pound with the side of her fist, making an irritatingly loud sound.

This was a light knock, like she was worried the person inside might find it too loud.

When I opened the door, I saw her.

Vivian, holding a bag filled with cookies.

Now?

Ah, right.

Yeah.

Or maybe not.

“Uh… Erica. It’s been a while.”

“There’s no need to call me ‘young lady’ anymore.

Come in. I can’t just leave you standing at the door.”

“Ah… ah! Yes!”

Vivian looked surprised, as if she hadn’t expected me to say that.

Of course, she probably thought she’d be kicked out.

Or maybe she assumed I’d just leave her standing outside without even opening the door.

Come to think of it, I didn’t even think to check who it was through the peephole.

Well, it doesn’t matter.

It’s not like I’ve got a loaded gun sitting on top of the shelf like last time.

Not this time.

The knife I’d been using earlier for my “little game” had already been cleaned thoroughly and neatly placed back on the shelf as decoration.

Who’d ever think something that fancy-looking could be used to hurt someone?

“Would you prefer coffee? Or I could brew you some tea.”

I couldn’t offer her any chocolate.

I’d already eaten it all as a substitute for three meals a day.

Thanks to that, I was feeling a little hungry, but maybe this works out.

At least, unlike before, I’d been eating more sparingly lately, so I still had a lot of food left.

The coffee? Well, thirty more cups and it’ll all be gone.

But the tea? I had mountains of it.

“Tea! I’ll have tea, please!”

“Go ahead and take a seat.”

Vivian walked in and sat down, but she wrinkled her nose as if something about the room was bothering her.

“Is something wrong?”

I brewed a simple cup of herbal tea and placed it in front of her as I asked.

“Uh, well, I’m not sure how to say this… and I know it’s rude to bring it up after just walking in, but…”

“You’ve already been rude enough, so just say it.”

“Well, it smells… like blood.”

I’d thought the smell had completely dissipated.

Maybe I’d just gotten used to it after being in this space for so long.

But I had a good excuse ready, so it didn’t really matter.

“Ah, it’s just… you know, one of those days.

Do I really have to spell it out?”

Of course, the smell wasn’t just faint. It was probably strong enough to be noticeable.

But if I insisted otherwise, that’d be the end of it.

I mean, who’s going to argue with me?

“It’s not a big deal, is it? So, what brings you here?”

“I, um… I heard you haven’t been attending classes for a while, so I got… w-worried and came to check on you.”

Her voice trailed off, especially on the part about being “worried,” as if she knew I wouldn’t like hearing it.

She was right.

I hate it when people pity me or worry about me.

And yet, for some reason, I still want people to care about me.

What a contradictory mess.

“Right. You said you were worried, so it’s not like I can just kick you out.

Ah, and about slapping you last time — I’m sorry about that.”

Vivian’s eyes widened in shock.

No, it was more than that.

She looked so startled that she completely failed to keep her expression in check.

“Why? Did you think I wasn’t the type to apologize?”

“…Yes. I mean, no, I… well, yes…”

“Anyway, I’m doing just fine. I’ll be sure to enjoy the cookies you brought.

So now, please leave, Vivian. We’re not the kind of friends who sit around sharing life’s worries and easing each other’s minds, are we?”

“…Erica, weren’t we friends?”

“No, we weren’t. And we won’t be from now on either.

So, hurry up and leave.”

And just like that, the number of people I could talk to went from two to one.

Having fewer connections means less loneliness, but at the same time, it also means less emotional effort to maintain them.

Vivian looked hurt, like she was about to cry, but then she made a face — a determined one.

It wasn’t anger. It was more like she’d come to a decision.

“I’ll leave for now, but I’ll be back.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t.

Now get out, Vivian.”

Surprisingly, she left quietly.

But she’s a stubborn one. She’ll keep coming back.

Maybe I should just escape to the classroom instead.

Most of the food I have left is running out, and the cookies Vivian brought will only last about two days.

But Lydia…

Should I just ask Evan for help?

It’s a tempting thought, but at the same time, it feels like my heart is screaming in protest, telling me it’s a terrible idea.