Delusion (1)

The room was thick with the mingled scent of dust and stale alcohol.

A ceiling I knew too well.

Falling, apparently, hadn't been enough to kill me.

Even when Levina came and held me, my consciousness had clung on for reasons I couldn't name.

It hadn't hurt.

Maybe landing head-first had something to do with it.

All I registered was the sensation of something inside me breaking, and the vivid, cooling wetness of my own blood.

The earthy scent of the garden, the perfume of the flowers, had mixed with the iron tang of blood into something strange.

I rose from the bed with that same hollow sense of familiarity.

My body felt almost light. Perhaps because I hadn't been burned to death this time.

I shuffled around aimlessly before my eyes snagged on the state of the room.

Filthy.

I opened the window.

Cold air shouldered its way inside.

The stale reek thinned a little.

Then I began cleaning.

I gathered the empty liquor bottles littering the floor.

A few still held a swallow or two. I hunted down their stray caps, plugged them roughly, and shoved them into the corner. The empties I stacked into a neat column against the wall. I picked up the trash scattered everywhere and dropped it into the bin.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ashtray on the table was an anthill of cigarette butts.

I emptied it and scrubbed it down with a rag—or maybe it was a dishcloth—doing a half-decent job. I shook out the wreck of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a bed and made it up. Dust plumed thick into the air. I coughed a few times.

Then I spotted the landscape painting Serepina had given me, shoved into a corner.

The wall was bare, so I hung it back where it used to be.

And I saw the familiar envelope sitting on the table.

The letter I had written.

I'd chosen lilac-printed stationery and spritzed the envelope with perfume so Serepina would smile when she received it. Now I couldn't remember a word of what I'd put inside.

I almost tossed it into the bin, but instead I just stood there holding the letter for a long time.

I thought about opening it. I didn't.

In the end, I laid it back down on the table and called the cleaning done.

I let out a long breath, sank into the sofa, and stared blankly at nothing.

Something was digging into my chest. A crumpled pack of cigarettes.

Out of habit, I rummaged through it and fished out the last bent cigarette. Clamped it between my lips.

Still afraid of lighting a flame?

The thought surfaced.

I took out the matchbox and drew a single match.

I hesitated for a long moment.

A sharp scratch.

A new ember shivered to life at the sound. The orange flame trembled faintly.

Fire didn't scare me anymore. My hand shook, sure, but not badly.

I touched the flame to the cigarette and snuffed the match out.

Smoke coiled deep into my lungs, then drifted slowly back out.

I shut my eyes and kept them shut for a long while.

There had been a time when I craved a cigarette so badly but couldn't bring myself to strike a match, and it had been agony.

When I visited Rineta's house and used kindling to start the fireplace, the thought never even surfaced. Maybe that was when the fear began to fade.

With her, fire had only ever been something warm.

I wanted to go see Rineta. But she wouldn't remember who I was anymore. Wouldn't know what kind of person I was.

I'd need things to be better before I could go see her.

I crushed the spent cigarette into the now-clean ashtray.

Right then, a translucent window shimmered into view before my eyes.

[Collect the Endings. 4/?]

[Current Collected Rewards: Lingering Fragrance, Afterimage]

[Reward: ???]

The promise about sending me back had vanished.

Come to think of it, had I even thought about wanting to go back lately?

I looked at it, waved a hand through it, and exhaled.

Maybe what I was hoping for now was the reward itself. All I could summon was this vague wish to be happy, without any idea what to do about it. I couldn't see the road ahead.

Wasn't the silver lining that even when I stumbled and died, I'd end up back here?

It felt like a downside too, but I decided to take it as a positive. In any case, I did want to go back, yet somewhere underneath I didn't. Especially after meeting Rineta. My memories of that place—how I lived there—were slowly bleeding away. Coffee. A laptop. Just fragmented words drifting through my head. My own face from that world wouldn't surface.

If I went back just like this, Rineta—who died because of me—

The things I had died for so far—

The thoughts wouldn't stop circling.

Thinking without acting. That was my worst habit.

I pulled a fresh pack from the cupboard. Tore the foil, tapped out a cigarette, and put it in my mouth. Struck another match.

I'd left the window open, so the smoke slipped out instead of lingering.

I emptied my mind, staring out at the peaceful view beyond the glass.

Birdsong filtered in.

The sound of the wind rustling the leaves.

Then I heard the door open.

"You call and then you vanish... Didn't you say you'd quit?"

A slightly unsteady voice reached me from behind. Serepina.

I hadn't heard her enter. She was leaned against the door, arms crossed, watching me.

When I turned and met her eyes, I thought I saw her pupils tremble.

Instead of answering, I ground the lit cigarette out in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ashtray.

"First one in a while."

Serepina stepped closer and perched on the edge of the bed. The frame gave a faint creak under her weight.

"A while? Just a few days ago this room was full of smoke. But at least now you open the window, I guess."

Serepina swept her gaze across the room. The clean surfaces, the bottles stacked in the corner, the painting on the wall. I'd hung it remembering that every time I died and came back, she remarked on how bare the wall was. She didn't seem to have anything to say about it now.

"The room's tidy too. Didn't think you were the cleaning type."

"I just finished. It's the day you're coming, isn't it."

My words made her expression go briefly blank.

"Ah, right. The day I—the day I come. Thank you."

She dipped her head a little, then asked, "So. Why did you call me?"

I didn't answer right away. I thought about it.

Yeah. Why had I called her?

"Why did I."

I picked up the letter from the table and held it out to her.

"Right. The letter. A gift."

Serepina took it and hesitated. Then, standing right there, she opened the envelope. She set the envelope gently on the bed and unfolded the letter inside.

Her eyes moved slowly across the page.

Tears started spilling down her cheeks almost at once.

I watched her, motionless.

"Why are you crying?"

"What crying?"

She said it while wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. But her knuckles only came away wet.

She stared at her damp hand, expression blank.

The tears wouldn't stop.

She kept wiping them away and murmuring, flustered, "What's wrong with me."

Serepina folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into the envelope. Then, with extraordinary gentleness, she tucked it into her clothing against her chest.

I watched her and glanced around for something to offer. But there was nothing in this room except a collection of bottles and cigarettes.

I thought about going over to comfort her, but I couldn't bring myself to move.

As I just stood there looking at her, she rose from the bed.

"Right now I'm a little... I think something's not right. I'll come again next time."

She left those words behind and fled the room.

The door clicked shut, and I was alone again.

I understood that something always changed every time I died, but I could never pin down exactly what. I can't say it felt good.

If I didn't die, no one would worry about me in the first place. Yet the only people I could lean on were the ones whose attitudes only shifted once I was dead. Not that leaning on anyone ever stopped me from dying.

But that girl was different. She wasn't someone who helped me—she was someone I had to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠help. And I still failed to protect her.

Those thoughts circled as I opened the drawer.

My revolver lay inside.

I scooped up the loose bullets, loaded the cylinder, and tucked the gun into my waistband.

The sensation of pulling the trigger on the Duchess still clung to my hand. Someone I'd hated that much, someone who had tormented me for so long, and still—killing her hadn't brought me any real satisfaction. No nausea, no revulsion, but no joy either. A sliver of something crisp, yes, but closer to liberation than happiness. I just felt a little lighter.

I didn't want to be driven so far that I'd look for meaning in a thing like that. I wasn't the kind of man who could find happiness in killing someone.

I got up and washed quickly.

I pulled out the neatest, most presentable clothes in the wardrobe and put them on.

Then I left the room.

I walked the familiar corridor, head turned toward the small chapel near the Academy's rear gate.

Sunlight stretched long through the hallway windows.

Students I passed flinched or whispered. Their voices grazed my ears, but I heard none of it.

I just kept my eyes forward and walked.