Please Kill Me - Chapter 83
Yekaterina recalled facing a wildfire.
In the perpetually cold and dry empire, fires were not rare, so she couldn’t remember exactly when it had happened. All she remembered was the acrid smell from that day.
Hot flames devoured the fields, leaving behind ash that the wind scattered. The vast land was stripped of everything, leaving not a trace.
Looking at those massive traces of loss, she felt an inexplicable chill inside. Perhaps she had inhaled too much smoke. It was the field that had lost its life, yet she was the one who felt an emptiness.
The reason she could feel an emotion the field could not feel, felt only because she was alive.
And now, that feeling strangely returned as she looked forward to death.
‘If only I had never known…’
It was an expected response, yet she couldn’t hide her chilled sentiment.
Yekaterina lowered her gaze. She still saw the hand holding hers. Because it was the only intact hand, it was the only one she could hold.
Under the same conditions, she did not feel as she had in the forest.
Just as Yekaterina was about to withdraw her hand.
“Just because Aunt mistakes you for Mother doesn’t mean I do.”
Leonid spoke, his voice suppressed with anger.
“If someone confuses flour with snow because both are white, would that person be sane? If you think just because Aunt sees my mother in you, I must do the same, damn, that would be deceitful on your part!”
“….But your expression when talking about your mother seems similar to when you look at me.”
“That’s because both are damn exasperating!”
Leonid ran his fingers roughly through his hair, his face looking frustrated.
“You always trouble me. You have no caution, always doing as you please. You give me such headaches…”
Despite his frustration, Leonid kept getting annoyed. Leonid grimaced, swearing under his breath.
Yekaterina quietly watched him, then spoke up.
“If I only listened to what you say, I’d think you really hated me.”
“Not entirely wrong.”
Leonid grumbled, wrinkling his nose. His words were harsh enough to hurt anyone else.
But Yekaterina remained calm.
“You don’t actually hate me.”
“Now you’re just spouting nonsense.”
Leonid scoffed and abruptly pulled his hand away. Still, Yekaterina just looked at him steadily.
Her voice flowed evenly, like a music box unwinding.
“…Leonid, I can recognize malice in people.”
She knew the forms it could take and how it could bind her.
“I know because when I look someone in the eye, I can tell. They hate me. It’s something you can’t ignore, even if you want to.”
After she first recognized this malice, Yekaterina developed a habit of not making eye contact. It was better not to know such things.
She didn’t want to be reminded every day that no one she knew bore her any goodwill, that she was still an outsider.
“But with you, no matter how much we make eye contact, I don’t feel that way.”
“…Maybe your sense is dead.”
“You’re still not being honest.”
“I’m just stating facts.”
Leonid grumbled and turned away.
To be frank, he knew it too. He was unusually attentive to Yekaterina’s matters.
But wasn’t it inevitable? Yekaterina was bursting out in all directions, and he had a duty to keep her hidden.
Wouldn’t it be stranger if he didn’t care?
Besides, Yekaterina frequently crossed the lines he drew.
Just like now.
Thanks to that, Leonid felt genuinely exhausted. Regret quickly grew and choked him, making it increasingly difficult to breathe.
‘I should never have mentioned my mother to Yekaterina.’
After all, she wasn’t truly interested in him; she was likely just using his story for some scheme.
He shouldn’t have gone on like that. Yet, he found himself rambling on.
How ridiculous must he have looked, unable to let go of childhood memories of his mother?
The thought made his face burn with shame.
‘Why do I always act out of sorts around that woman?’
Leonid genuinely wanted to slap some sense into himself.
To stop being so easily swayed.
But slapping himself in front of Yekaterina would only further prove he wasn’t in his right mind.
So, with a sigh, he turned away.
“….Fine. Think whatever you want. Mock me if you want, and if you want to curse—”
“Mock what?”
“…Are you pretending you don’t know? I’m talking about my mother.”
“I really don’t understand. What should I be mocking? That you survived? That your memories of your mother are not pleasant? Or should I mock the fact that you still remember all this?”
“You now—”
“When I was seven, an epidemic swept through my village. My entire family died from it.”
Leonid, who was about to speak, froze.
