An Ode to Your Survival [Novel] Chapter 12 – A Way Out

Episode 12

Should I just die?

Hunger and thirst had long been smothered by terror and forgotten. I blinked in the dark, listening to the screams and sobs that drifted through the air like ghosts. The tears that had seemed so endless had dried up before I knew it.

No matter how much I turned it over in my head, there was nothing I could do. No one would hear me out, and no one would lift a finger to help me. My only choices were to confess and hang at the end of a rope right away, or let Peterson torture me until I finally confessed and died in agony anyway.

If that was how it had to be, then rather than that…

When I pushed myself up from the cold, hard chair, muscles locked stiff from sitting groaned in protest. A sudden chill rushed over me. I wrapped my arms around myself, but it offered not a shred of comfort.

I thought about trying to kill Peterson before ending it all, but let the thought go. If I failed, I would be plunged into a hell worse than hell itself.

Besides, Peterson wasn't the root of my misery. Killing him wouldn't mean a thing.

I cast a slow look around the room of stone walls and dirt floor. Funnily enough, it crossed my mind that this was the largest room I had ever had to myself.

I had never imagined my life would come to an end in a place like this, but even without this mess, whatever lay ahead wouldn't have been much better. Just like Peterson said, there was nothing good waiting for me in this life anyway.

Iron sconce rings were driven into the stone to hold candles. They were set quite high, so I would have to climb onto the chair to reach them. It was a perfect height.

Looking down at my skirt, filthy with dust and dirt, my eyes caught the hem I had patched the other day, and I let out a dry, helpless laugh. It had only been a short while ago, yet it felt like the distant past.

I caught that section in both hands and yanked with all my strength. A long strip of cloth tore away. A tear I thought had dried up broke loose and dropped, wetting the dirt floor.

Tying the knots to make a loop was simple enough. Tears kept blurring my sight, but it wasn't hard at all. I pulled from both sides to make sure the knot held fast, and suddenly, a sob tore out of my throat.

There was nothing good about staying alive, but even so, I didn't want to die. My life felt far too wretched to just end it like this. Or maybe that was all the more reason to die, but still…

Is Mom getting along well with Mr. Jose? If only I'd caught the epidemic like my sister did, I would have found peace a long time ago.

Will Laurel ever make it back to her hometown to see her little sister? Probably not. Her hard-earned, precious little savings are trickling into the pockets of some worthless loafer at the theater.

Will Father ever hear about what happened to me?

Fingering the knot torn from my skirt, I wiped away my tears.

If I'd known it would come to this, I wouldn't have stood so tall and told him my name when we parted. Then he never would have known that the maid named Lucien—the one rumored to have dared poison a nobleman—was me.

That night.

Even after going through such an ordeal, remarkably enough, I had had a sweet dream.

Under the warm, spilling sunshine on the avenue, I was walking beside Father, wearing a pristine, lovely dress fit for a noble young lady.

I couldn't recall what we talked about, but for the first time in my life, I had smiled with pure happiness. Because those green eyes of his, which seemed so cold at first glance, felt just a tiny bit gentle. Because the warmth coming from his side felt so very reassuring.

Heaven must be a place like that. How wonderful it would be to walk with Father there.

Ah, though for that to happen, Father would have to die too, so it might take some time. But someday.

He's a priest, so naturally he'll go to heaven, but could I ever make it in? I haven't really committed any sins. Sure, I deceived Mrs. Allmon and slacked off from time to time, but if that was enough to send a person to hell, hell wouldn't have room left to stand.

Then again, hell must be far bigger than heaven. There are so many more wicked people in this world than kind ones.

Still… to be sure I reach heaven, shouldn't I do at least one good deed?

Staring blankly down at the ground, I gasped softly and picked up a small pebble resting in the corner. There was one thing nagging at my conscience.

I felt glad Laurel had taught me to read and write. My letters weren't perfect, but I could still scratch out a bit of what I wanted to say. Pleez clos the windo in Mrs. Vino room.

She mite di if she cachs a cold agen. Mrs. Allmon rarely stepped foot into Mrs. Vino's room, so it would take her forever to notice the window was left open. And by then, Mrs. Vino might already be meeting me on the other side.

If we meet in heaven, will Mrs. Vino be able to talk? At the very least, she won't throw dung at me. Not that I can't dodge it well enough by now anyway.

Maybe she'll appear with a dignified face, just like in that old portrait. I don't know what she looked like back then, and she's never seen my face while in her right mind, so we might just pass right by each other without knowing.

Muttering quietly to myself, I set the pebble down and stood up. My legs shook violently as I dragged the chair over to the candle sconce.

I tried to recall a single moment happy enough to lend me strength—anything at all—but my mind was a blank slate. Memories of shoveling snow, hauling firewood, running errands at the market, and doing laundry brought no joy whatsoever.

A life without a single fond memory. The bitter realization hit me so hard that, once up on the chair, I spent a long while catching my breath and weeping. When my resolve began to falter, I forced myself to picture the knife Peterson had held, and goosebumps instantly prickled across my skin.

I refused to let my screams become another stain on that blade. Clenching my fists, I chose to picture the blood on the back of Father's hand instead of the dried crust on Peterson's knife.

That thick, heavy cloak that had shielded my eyes.

The dry, cool scent of evergreens clinging to the wool.

That large hand that had beaten the man who tormented me to a pulp.

I took a deep breath. As I tried to guide my chin through the noose, my limbs kept trembling without end. Choking back the sobs that welled up, I slipped my neck into the loop.