The Villain’s Ending

Chapter 13

Falling Briefly

I had been standing on the chair for almost 30 minutes.

The wood beneath my feet creaked precariously, and the rope around my neck felt rough.

For something that had once been a blanket, its texture was far too coarse and shabby.

If I just lifted my feet slightly and kicked the chair, everything would end.

It would be much cleaner than scattering my flesh and blood everywhere, wouldn't it?

The wind seeping through the window's gap brushed against my cheek.

From somewhere, I thought I could faintly smell lilacs, and perhaps a sweet peach.

Only then did I feel as if I could finally do it.

The orange sunset and the cool, brushing breeze eased the tension.I took a deep breath.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

After exhaling as much as possible, I closed my eyes.

And then I kicked the chair.

At the same time, I found myself opening my eyes wide without realizing it.

No sound was heard.

My body, suspended in the air, swayed briefly like a pendulum.

That was all.

The world briefly shot upwards, then immediately plummeted downwards.

The soles of my feet groped at the empty air.

There was no sensation of the hard wooden chair that my toes should have touched.

With resentful eyes, I looked at my struggling feet, which had kicked the chair away.

The feel of the rope strangling my neck was far more vivid and unpleasant than I had imagined.

Rough fibers digging into my skin.

My increasingly narrowing airway.

The pressure of blood rushing to my head.

Cough.

A sound like a frog being crushed came from my throat.

Because the agony was so terrible, I grasped at the rope that was holding me.

‘Fuck, I should have just jumped.’

My legs thrashed wildly in the empty air.

It was an instinctive struggle, a desire to live, or perhaps to escape this pain.

But the more I struggled, the tighter the noose constricted my neck.

The mirror by the entrance reflected my face.

My face was red and bloodshot, streaked with tears.

Saliva and snot, mixed together, were flowing down my chin.

For a necktie, it was truly pathetic and trashy.

My tongue protruded, my body writhed uglily, hands reaching for the rope but constantly slipping.

It was disgusting.

Truly, it was disgusting.

I couldn't breathe.

My lungs burned as if on fire.

What even is this?

This isn't how it should be.

Wasn't death supposed to be a more solemn or quiet scene?

At least, it would have been, unless it was a video of a Mexican holding a chainsaw or knife.

Especially in novels, movies, or comics.

This isn't real.

There should be calm music, slow motion, a dying person's poignant monologue, something like that, shouldn't there?

Even if it wasn't such an artistic production, death shouldn't have been this disgusting.

But my current state is just like a fish flapping on a fishmong's stall, moments before being sold off for cheap.

And an ugly, bony trash fish that no one would buy.

Who would look at this and think it was a tragic end?

It's just a scene from a comedy movie where a third-rate villain dies comically.

If it wasn't me hanging there, I might have laughed at the sight reflected in the mirror.

If I didn't have bullets, I should've just jumped from a high place, what a pathetic sight this is.

If I wanted to scatter my brain fragments spectacularly in front of those proud students, that old spire or the Academy clock tower would have been more than enough.

If I had fallen headfirst, I could have gone cleanly, without even a moment for useless thoughts like these.

Was it more frightening than hanging here?

The high place? Or that brief moment of falling?

No matter how I thought about it, it would have been far better than this pathetic display of struggling with a piece of blanket tied around my neck.

Perhaps, deep down in my unconscious, I might have been expecting something.

Some ridiculous hope that someone would kick open this door, scream, and pull me down.

The worst kind of attention-seeking in the world: ‘I’m in so much pain, so please, just look at me.’

That, you know, that thing.

The kind of thing usually done by adolescents going through a severe phase of puberty, or patients with severe mental illness and attachment issues who crave love.

Come to think of it, ‘Lavin Edelgard’ was a pathetic brat suffering from severe mental illness and attachment issues.

Otherwise, he couldn't have contaminated even my transmigrated mind like this.

This fucking bastard, not once.

Since I opened my eyes here, I’ve never seen him leave anything intact.

If he had talent, or if not, he could have at least lived normally, or if Levina was such a pain in the ass, he could have just died and committed suicide.

So that I wouldn’t have to be ‘Lavin’.

Or maybe I’m the problem?

Blaming others, blaming the world until my dying breath, yet still a repulsive human who craves someone's pity?

What’s wrong with wanting to be loved?

As soon as I opened my eyes here, even after inheriting all of that pathetic ‘Lavin’s’ memories, I still tried to love.

Thinking I’d get back as much as I gave.

Even a novelist famous for suicide, as soon as he hanged himself, instead of recalling some grand literary inspiration, must have simply thought, ‘Fuck, this hurts like hell.’

Those esteemed individuals at least left behind their writings; what have I left behind?

Since coming to this world, I haven’t left a single thing of substance.

The only words I’ve heard while living here were curses every morning, wishing I were dead.

One rotting peach, a dirty room, and one soon-to-be-cold chunk of meat.

Really, these are too pathetic to be called belongings; it’s enough to make me cry.

What would Levina think if she saw me?

She might even be pleased, thinking, ‘The family’s disgrace has finally found its proper place.’

Why, fuck, she’d probably be sitting to Kyle’s right, spouting nonsense like, ‘My brother’s death is sad, but I might feel relieved.’

Seraphina would be sitting on the left.

I hate that. Really. I don’t want to see her while I’m alive.

No, I don’t even want to see her after I die.

To think my mind is still so clear even while dying.

If I hadn’t hanged myself, I might never have known this my whole life, so should I be glad?

I felt as if my eyes were being ripped out.

Just as my vision began to blur, the door opened.

Creak.

A familiar sound.

The sound of those footsteps, coming to find me every morning.

Seraphina entered.

She, as always, was wearing a white apron.

In her hand, she held a duster.

She didn’t see me.

Her gaze always went to the bed where I might be lying, or the sofa where I might be sitting.

She had no interest in decorations hanging from the ceiling.

Seraphina glanced around the room with practiced ease.

Directly below where I hung, struggling in the air, she knelt and began wiping the dust from the floor.

‘Seraphina.’

No voice came out.

I merely mouthed the words.

She didn’t hear my voice.

She merely hummed a tune and wiped the table.

The peach Estelle had given me.

Her hand brushed past the peach.

The peach was rotten.

One side had caved in, black with decay, and fruit flies buzzed and circled above it.

She picked up her cloth again and began wiping around the chair I had kicked away.

Then she looked towards the bed, where no one was lying, and opened her mouth.

"The weather is nice today, Lavin."

Above her head, my shadow stretched long.

The shadow swayed grotesquely, like a prisoner hanging on a gallows.

"I should have at least left the window open. There's too much dust."

She walked to the window and flung it open wide.

The hazy outdoor air seemed to flow into the room.

"Kyle came by yesterday. He was talking about you.

He asked if you had some kind of leverage over me, making me do your bidding.

He said he'd help me anytime if something was wrong."

And when Seraphina set the chair upright again, my feet didn’t reach it.

Even when I pressed down on the footrest, it merely brushed past.

"So I just said you were a good person. Though he didn’t seem to believe it."

I never thought I’d die listening to such nonsense until my very last breath.

What kind of life review? To think I’d die watching Seraphina clean my room.

My consciousness gradually faded.

My vision slowly darkened.

From a certain point, I couldn’t hear any sounds either.

Even the pain grew faint.

My body was nothing more than a heavy chunk of meat, hanging in the air.

The edges of my vision were stained black.

In the landscape narrowing like a tunnel, only Seraphina’s back remained vivid.

She was looking out the window.

I couldn’t tell what she was looking at.

Perhaps she was looking at the nice weather she had mentioned.

I should have just jumped from a high place.

Even if it was a little scary, it wouldn't have been as utterly fucked up as this.

My thrashing legs lost their strength and drooped.

My arms were the same.

My fingers, clinging to the noose, released their grip weakly.

I could no longer do anything.

My lungs convulsed, craving the last remaining air.

My heart thrashed madly, then gradually slowed.

Seraphina seemed to turn around.

Though my vision was growing darker, so I couldn’t be sure.

At least next time, I wouldn’t do something so idiotic as hanging myself.

The last thing I saw was the afternoon sunlight, dancing with dust motes.