The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 51: “Let me go.”

When I opened my eyes, there was no strange ceiling—just the familiar one of my room.

I touched my side. The wound was gone.

Still, perhaps from the blood loss, my head was spinning.

There was no one in the room.

I reached out to grab my pipe… but it wasn’t there.

Maybe it had fallen to the floor amidst the commotion.

A shiver ran through me, though the room wasn’t cold. Strangely, I felt both hot and freezing.

I had no desire to call anyone for help.

Folding the blanket over and over, I brought a chair and tied the long blanket to the chandelier so that it hung down like a rope.

How do you tie a noose again?

I wasn’t heavy, so as long as it was tied tightly, it probably wouldn’t come loose.

Or maybe I should just open the window and jump.

That would make quite a racket. And at just five stories up, I’d probably survive, only to be dragged back by a doctor trying to save me.

Dying was turning out to be a surprisingly complicated ordeal.

“This is hard.”

At least I managed to make a noose out of the blanket.

It was thin, so twisting it into a rope wasn’t too difficult.

Anyway, I slipped my head into the loop, trying to figure out the least painful way to die.

Should I shatter a teacup, cut my wrists, and lie in the bathtub?

In an hour or so, someone would likely find me and patch me up again.

I could burn myself, but even with the scroll, I’d pass on that.

Being engulfed in flames was agonizing, even under opium’s haze.

No, there was no way around it.

This noose was the only thing I had to rely on, a fitting testament to how empty my life had been.

If only I had a pistol. That would make this so much simpler.

I should’ve stocked up on poison or sleeping pills while I was in the capital.

I should never have met Olivia at the ball, that happy woman who lived so differently from me despite her similar circumstances.

I should’ve closed my ears when the prince proposed.

It was foolish to start thinking, “What if?”

I shouldn’t have taken Raphael from the orphanage.

He would’ve become a knight on his own, without me dragging him into my mess.

Without me, he wouldn’t have scars, wouldn’t have lost a finger, wouldn’t be living a harder life because of me.

Alina… I wanted to see you.

If only you were here, I’d tell you how adorable you are, so much like your mother.

I wanted to boast about how you survived that mansion, how you grew strong enough to attend balls.

When the Proxy Manager died, I should’ve died too.

There’s no shortage of ways to die.

If I had swallowed all those sleeping pills during one of my sleepless nights as a child, maybe it would’ve worked out somehow.

After burying my mother by the lake, I could’ve died wandering the streets.

I could’ve provoked some thugs in the alley and been stabbed, ending it all.

Why did I try so hard to live?

Even now, I don’t want to die, but there’s no hope in sight.

How long do I have to keep living like this?

Even when my fingers were crushed, ending my career as a pianist, I didn’t think of suicide.

Does this world, or some cruel god, want to see me broken and driven to death?

If a god exists, surely there are no good ones—only wretched demons.

Standing before the noose, I sorted through my tangled emotions and let myself fall into the air.

Like a fish newly caught, I thrashed and grabbed at the rope with both hands.

Was it instinct? My fingers clawed at the loop around my neck, but it wouldn’t budge. The noose tightened relentlessly.

As my body started to rebel against itself, my feet stretched, toes curling, and I kicked the chair away.

My knees buckled, and the tips of my toes quivered.

Even though I held onto the rope, I couldn’t breathe.

My dizziness was probably from the wild swinging of my hanging body.

“Ah… ugh… ah.”

My knees wobbled as my feet flailed, desperately seeking the floor.

Just slightly out of reach, the ground offered no relief.

It hadn’t even been a minute, but was I really going to die?

There was a faint warmth spreading below my waist, a humiliating result of asphyxiation.

My body lurched forward and backward in grotesque, worm-like movements.

Even as the thought “I might really die” flickered in my mind, it felt surreal.

After what felt like an eternity, dangling from the ceiling, someone knocked on the door.

Then, without hesitation, they opened it.

It was Eileen.

When she saw me, her face twisted in shock. Letting out a scream, she rushed to me and grabbed my legs, lifting me up.

Air flooded into my lungs.

It wasn’t pleasant.

The stale air in the room, unventilated for days, mixed with a faintly acrid smell. It made me feel sick.

“Can you let me down?”

“Don’t die! I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t…”

Eileen’s words poured out in a frantic stream.

Libian, who had just entered, looked like she was in a daze, her expression the same as when she shot me with a gun.

They must’ve been struggling too.

If they’d just left me alone, they’d only need to prepare another coffin. But they had to walk in early and save this pathetic parasite.

“I said, let me down. I want to bathe.”

At that, Libian and Eileen began to lower me—

“Ugh!”

—only to almost strangle me again.

As my legs kicked and hands flailed, Libian grabbed my legs again, while a flustered Eileen hastily untied the blanket.

The chandelier swayed before finally snapping loose and crashing to the floor.

A massive glass piece fell, but it didn’t shatter—probably because it was too sturdy.

I shoved past the dazed Eileen and Libian, who were staring blankly at me, and left the room.

Even the servants trailing behind me irritated me, so I pushed them aside too.

Yet they continued to follow me, shuffling after me like shadows. Even when I spoke, they only stepped back a little, their gazes glued to me.

With a sigh, I entered the bathroom, washed myself thoroughly, and changed into fresh clothes.

When I looked in the mirror, my neck was covered with bruises, deep and purplish.

I touched them for a while, then let out a faint chuckle before moving on.

As Eileen trailed behind me, I spoke softly to her.

“Hey, Eileen. Whose fault do you think this is?”

“It’s… it’s my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” she stammered, hiccupping through her sobs.

Watching a sixteen-year-old girl cry and apologize like that wasn’t exactly pleasant.

She wasn’t a child anymore, not really, but children, no matter their age, should at least be happy.

The reason I hadn’t killed myself before—when my fingers were crushed, when I became a useless wreck of a person—was simple.

Once, I had two nephews who lived with me.

To them, an uncle who had lost everything and locked himself away was just a pitiful, useless piece of trash. But an uncle who lost everything and killed himself? That would leave a tragic scar on their hearts.

So I spent my days numbly watching boring novels and movies.

Saying it out loud, it really does sound like a flimsy excuse.

“Maybe it’s my fault,” I said.

It was always me who got hurt, me whose heart was torn to shreds. Yet I was the one who had to comfort myself, for some reason I still couldn’t figure it out.

I patted Eileen on the shoulder, trying to console her.

“Don’t you think it’s about time we stopped living like this? How much longer are you going to keep doing this? Apologizing, groveling, and acting pitiful every time you see me?”

“If you want, I’ll keep doing it,” she replied, her voice shaky.

“I don’t even want that,” I said flatly.

Leaving the now calmer Eileen behind, I headed toward the office where Libian was likely to be.

Before I could reach the office, I found Libian pacing erratically in the hallway, his movements restless and chaotic.

“Hey, Libian,” I called out.

His face, already somewhat vacant, darkened with guilt. His mouth opened, but instead of forming words, it released an unintelligible sound.

“…Ah.”

“You’re the duke now,” I reminded him.

He nodded slowly.

“So what?”

“I want to ask for a favor—one your father would never grant.”

“Let’s talk inside,” he suggested.

I nodded and followed him.

The office hadn’t changed much.

It was probably the same design they’d had for decades.

Settling into the familiar sofa, I said to Libian, “Let me go.”

He didn’t respond, nor did he make any gestures.

“…What do you mean by that?”

“Let me go. Release me from this estate. Hanging from the ceiling was the happiest I’ve ever been here.”

I could understand his hesitation. If someone said something like that to my face, I’d also struggle to know how to respond.

“And if I say no?” he asked.

“I’ll bash my head against a wall and kill myself,” I said.

At that, he bit his lip hard before speaking again.

“Tell me where you’ll go.”

“Anywhere, as long as it’s not here,” I replied.

After what seemed like a rapid calculation in his head, he added a condition.

“Fine. But take a knight with you—yes, that one you’re close to—and the servants as well.”

He agreed far more readily than I expected. Maybe it had something to do with the hole he’d put in my side.

“Ask me to stay here,” I said.

He hesitated, clearly flustered, before mumbling, “Stay here, Marisela.”

“Screw off, Libian.”

Why not? I wanted to try that sentimental moment where someone clings to the departing.

It’s just a shame the one doing the clinging was Libian.

As I opened the door to leave, I heard him mutter under his breath, perhaps thinking I wouldn’t catch it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Ha, ha.”