Irene Decided to Die - Chapter 14
“Next time, please prepare a different method.”
“I will.”
“There are wheelchairs, you know.”
“I will have one ready next time. Shall we go now?”
“Suppose we must.”
Irene closed her eyes tightly.
The prayer room. The only place where one could meet the goddess.
Only the saintess and those of the archcleric rank could enter.
As Irene was carried by Burt through the corridors, the eyes of those around them were drawn to them.
Some harbored goodwill, but there were more who did not.
‘It seems only clergy who are favorable to me have been placed around me.’
This realization made Irene appreciate Burt’s competence anew. Regardless, he was an incredibly vexing individual.
Had it not been for him, she might have been at risk of dying, which made it hard to look at him kindly.
“Here we are.”
Burt stopped in front of a large door carved with elaborate decorations.
It was a door she had always passed by but never entered. She had never thought she would be allowed inside.
“I cannot enter with you. Can you stand on your own?”
“Somewhat.”
Irene answered firmly, but it seemed that Burt found her response unsatisfactory.
“Shall I call the archcleric?”
“No need.”
The archcleric. There were two under the saint, neither of whom had favored her when she was a candidate for sainthood.
One had ignored Irene, and the other had only harassed her whenever they met. She had no desire to see either.
“I can go alone.”
“Please, do not collapse this time.”
After giving Burt a fierce look, Irene stepped down from his embrace to the ground. Although her body ached as if it were being crushed, she wasn’t so incapacitated that she couldn’t walk.
Taking a few steps forward, Irene placed her hand on the large door.
Creak.
Merely placing her hand on it, the heavy door opened on its own. Inside, only a few self-igniting candles lit the space, surrounded by darkness. Yet, strangely, not a hint of fear crept in as she stepped inside.
[Come in, my child.]
A gentle woman’s voice welcomed Irene.
Thud.
Irene walked slowly deeper inside. Then, floating among the lights, a large statue of the goddess, glowing white, came into view.
Clutching her chest, she asked with a trembling voice,
“Why me?”
It was the question she had been repeating to herself since she had awakened.
It was a mistake. It’s not you. She closed her eyes tightly, afraid that such an answer might come.
[Because it was you.]
But the response she received was unexpected.
‘Because it was you.’
[Because you were the one meant to be the saint.]
At those words, her head spun, and she felt dizzy.
She really was the saint. It was neither a lie nor a mistake by the goddess.
The old Irene might have been overjoyed to the point of exuberance.
She would have run to her father, chattering excitedly about becoming the saint, boasting about it. Even to those she normally despised, she would have said, “Now, don’t look at me with those eyes anymore, please love me instead.”
If it had been before she was branded an assassin and tortured…
She bit her lip hard.
Even now, the mere thought of that pain made her break out in cold sweat and filled her with fear. Despite putting on a brave face, those tortures weren’t something she could easily forget.
Screams she had let out day and night still echoed in her ears. She didn’t want to live and serve as the saint for such cruel people.
“I don’t want to be the saint.”
Irene collapsed onto the floor, crumbling down.
[You’ve suffered a lot.]
“Suffered a lot, you say?”
Her voice choked up, unable to speak further.
From her birth, there hadn’t been a moment she felt truly happy. There were times she mistook the approach of happiness, but all of it quickly dissolved into vain bubbles that burst too soon.
Even her family, sharing the same blood, despised her.
‘Why were you born and ruined my life?’
‘I never wanted to birth something like you.’
Every time she heard those words, her heart was torn apart.
“Are you asking me that now? If I’ve suffered?”
Tears fell like droplets of blood from her crimson red eyes.
Her fingers clenched tight around her shoulders, the force reopening wounds that the physicians had carefully tended to.
“Why didn’t you make me like Ramiel!”
Then she wouldn’t have had to endure such pain. She could have been a saint candidate and then become a saint in the usual way.
She might have been loved by everyone and able to smile.
[Your black hair and red eyes are beautiful.]
“No!”
Irene screamed, tearing at her own hair. There were many times she had wished she could gouge out her eyes.
“This isn’t beautiful! Everyone hates it!”
Irene cried out.
