Miss, stop committing suicide

Chapter 24

Well, what should I say?

For now, I’m on trial.

In the middle of the city, surrounded by a massive crowd, I’m still wearing my tattered school uniform, of all things.

This must be like a festival or an event for them.

And the gathered people must be thinking of it as a kind of celebration.

The judge asks me questions, using complicated legal language.

Most of it boils down to, “Do you admit to committing such-and-such crime?”

All I have to do is nod and answer.

It’s simple. Everything’s already been decided anyway.

But instead of dragging me straight to the square for execution, the people of this country have an almost obsessive love for following procedures.

They’d even haul a pig that’d eaten a child from the yard to a courtroom for a proper sentence, so this shouldn’t be a surprise.

The makeshift courtroom, built with planks hastily slapped together and furnished with a few chairs, was quickly dismantled the moment my sentence was given.

Not that it was much to begin with.

Just some planks and a few chairs.

And what’s my sentence? Of course, it’s death.

The old man in fancy robes raised a gavel, announced my death, and brought it down with a resounding thud.

The crowd erupted into cheers so loud, it felt like the world was shaking.

The oldest, closest-to-death man in the square was the one to declare my end.

It’s almost as if he’s recruiting a companion to join him on his trip to the afterlife.

“Ha.”

The thought was so ridiculous I let out a hollow laugh.

At that moment, I became a villain deserving of divine punishment, a monster worthy of the scorn of all.

What a joke.

Two soldiers in purple military uniforms approached me. One held a bizarrely shaped sword, while the other had a long gun strapped to his waist that hardly looked like a gun at all.

They pulled my arms behind me and clamped on iron shackles.

I didn’t resist. There was no point.

They hoisted me up, half-dragging me along.

I tried shifting my body a bit, but my weak body wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

When I moved too much, they dug their fingers harder into my arms and shoulders, gripping me so tightly that my feet barely touched the ground.

It hurt. I’ll probably have bruises later.

And just like that, the parade of disgrace began.

Rotten eggs, tomatoes, broccoli, and unidentifiable filth rained down on me.

The worst were the mushy, rotting vegetables that splattered on my face.

They clung to me instantly, releasing a horrid, putrid stench.

1- “Rot in hell, demon!”

2- “She’s probably been with goats! Only a monster would commit such terrible sins!”

3- “She’s a devil worshiper, I’m sure of it!”

The shouts of the crowd echoed in my mind, making me feel dizzy.

Poor soldiers.

They’re getting hit with the same filth just because they’re standing next to me.

I hope they’re getting some kind of hazard pay for this.

The crowd’s faces were lit with joy, their expressions practically glowing as they hurled things at me.

This kind of execution wasn’t just an event—it was a celebration.

But if it’s a noble being dragged to their death, it’s not just a little event. It’s a grand festival.

I glanced to my right and saw a gallows with four nooses hanging from it.

Below the ropes were bodies, legs stiff and straight, jerking upward and downward unnervingly, like puppets.

Their heads, like clusters of grapes, swayed gently as the bodies swayed in the air.

It’s fitting, then, that the phrase “dancing in the air” describes it so well.

At least I won’t be left to dangle like that.

They’ll give me a cleaner death with a blade, as befits a noble’s dignity.

If I’d begged the crown prince to be hanged instead, he wouldn’t have agreed.

He’d probably just tilt his head and wave me off like I wasn’t worth the effort.

The execution platform, made of wood soaked in human blood, came into view.

I stepped onto the creaking wooden stairs.

With every step, the metallic tang of blood filled my nose, making my empty stomach churn.

“Ugh…”

I reached the top, where I could see everything below me, and everyone below could see me.

It’s a brilliant spot, really. A stage fit for an execution.

Two executioners, both wearing military uniforms, stood next to the iron restraints.

One was an old man, and the other was a boy.

The old man wielded a fearsome-looking axe, the kind that makes your knees go weak just by looking at it.

The boy—who looked to be about my height—held a large, blunt, rectangular sword, one that seemed too heavy for him to lift properly.

His hands were trembling as he struggled to maintain his stance.

Executioners who kill nobles are often treated like low-ranking nobles themselves.

They’re not much better off than social outcasts, but it’s still a noble rank of sorts.

They’re trained to cut cleanly with a single swing, though I’ve heard stories of botched executions.

This boy, at least, could probably chop my neck without much issue.

After all, my neck’s not sturdy—it’s thin and frail.

Maybe that’s why the old man’s training him, bringing his grandson along to pass down the trade.

The boy, wearing a strained, stern expression that didn’t suit him, kept his eyes fixed on me.

I knelt down and my legs were shackled.

A deafening roar erupted from the crowd below.

Cheers filled with joy, laughter, and excitement.

“Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!” they chanted in unison, waving their hands to the beat.

It was a sight to behold.

I hoped this time, I’d finally die, just as they were demanding.

I fought to ease the tension in my face.

I was terrified, my knees weak, my bladder ready to give out.

But I endured it.

Somehow, I endured.

Tears began to trickle down my face, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop them.

Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop.

So, I lifted the corners of my mouth into a smile.

I didn’t want to be seen sobbing and sniffling.

I turned my head slightly to the left and caught sight of the boy.

I could hear the loud gulp as he swallowed his nerves, and then he shouted with a voice loud enough to burst eardrums.

“ERICA-MECKLENBURG!! DO YOU HAVE ANY-LAST-WORDS?!”

“I’m still…”

I tried to speak but stopped midway.

I don’t want to die. It’ll hurt. I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s terrifying.

The afterlife has always been an unknown, a source of fear.

And for me, it’s no different.

Maybe I’ve always said I wanted to die, but deep down, I never truly meant it.

To be more precise, if life hadn’t been so miserable, I’d have wanted to live somehow, in some way.

But it’s too late for that now.

I’ve tried to die so many times, and when none of those attempts worked, I ended up here.

If I’m not going to completely deny the person I’ve been up to this point, I can’t start having second thoughts now.

But perhaps, when faced with death, everyone becomes honest with themselves.

Or maybe it’s because I’m about to die by someone else’s hand—to have my right to life taken away by another—that my emotions are running wild.

Anger, sadness, frustration… I’m not even sure which one it is.

The tears keep falling, and before my feelings can get any more out of control, I say something completely unlike me.

As I wriggle, hoping the rusty shackles around my wrists might miraculously snap open, I scream out:

“Screw all of you! You pathetic idiots!

I hope everything burns to the ground! You, you, and you—I hope every last one of you dies in misery!”

Thud.

Squish.

Usually, they’d wait until the condemned finishes speaking before swinging the blade.

“Ah… ah…”

It’d have been better if my head had come off cleanly.

But the pain… It’s unbearable.

My neck’s only half-severed, and I can’t even make a sound anymore.

After a moment, my body starts to feel sluggish.

Or maybe I’ve lost control of it entirely.

Maybe all my nerves have been cut, leaving me unable to move.

Either way, it’s over now.

But how am I still thinking?

Is it true that even after a person’s head is cut off, they’re still conscious for a few seconds?

My mind’s going blank…

Then I hear it.

A sharp whoosh of air, followed by another slash.

My vision tilts, and I see the world spinning.

The sky, the crowd, the people’s faces as they reach toward me with outstretched hands—I’m sure of it now.

My head’s been cut off.

They’re probably hoping to soak up my blood, thinking it’ll bring them good fortune.

They’ll grab at my head, pulling and tearing at it like it’s some sort of prize.

All with bright, smiling faces, devoid of any sense of cruelty.

As I watch this grotesque spectacle, I notice a girl with blond hair.

Her tear-streaked face is twisted in grief, and her fingers are shoved into her mouth as she sobs uncontrollably.

My final wish?

Burn my body.

Spit on my grave and scorn me.

Don’t cry for me.

And please, let this be the end of it all.