Mrs. Hawthorne Insists I Killed Mr. Hawthorne

: Death Sentence

Mrs. Hawthorne insisted that I was the one who killed Mr. Hawthorne. That belief is what kept her alive for ten years.

And she tormented me for those ten years.

The last time she flew into a rage and smashed a bottle at my head, I didn't dodge.

'Because I'm about to die anyway. If my death can bring her some peace, then maybe it's worth it.'

Ever since Mr. Hawthorne died, Mrs. Hawthorne has blamed me for it. I'd grown used to it. But then one day, I received my own death sentence.

My consciousness grew hazy. The last thing I heard was the wail of an ambulance siren before I passed out.

When I next opened my eyes, I heard the hospital's Chief Physician speaking to Mrs. Hawthorne.

1

"It's a Severe Brain Hemorrhage and Aggressive Leukemia. I suggest you prepare for the worst."

The doctor's words struck like a bolt from the blue, shattering Mrs. Hawthorne's composure. She froze, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"That Useless Freeloader... is she really going to die?"

For years, she'd called me a Murderer, even in her sleep. But the suddenness of this news seemed to have caught her off guard.

I sat up in my hospital bed. Gazing at the IV bag dripping above me and the oxygen mask, I heard every word.

'Maybe... death is a kind of release.'

I repeated the thought to myself, but my eyes drifted instinctively toward Mrs. Hawthorne. I could vaguely make out the look of disgust and contempt on her face.

The past few years had completely destroyed any bond between us. We were like strangers, even if we passed on the street.

She quietly signed the papers the hospital gave her, but the doctor grabbed her by the arms, questioning her again and again.

"Ma'am, please think this through. Are you certain you want to stop treatment?"

The moment he finished speaking, my heart plunged into an icy abyss. She had just shattered any chance I had of being saved.

'Then again... why did I have any expectations at all? Perhaps she can't wait for me to die.'

After that, Mrs. Hawthorne stopped paying the hospital bills. I was kicked out of my room and taken home by her.

What awaited me there was endless humiliation. Her opinion of me hadn't changed one bit.

That night, I decided to end my own life. I placed the tip of a blade against the artery in my arm and sliced.

Blood gushed out instantly, spilling onto the floor. I lay in the bathtub, waiting for death to come.

But then I heard a pounding on the door. "Wretched Girl, did you drop dead in there? What's taking you so long?"

The next thing I knew, she'd kicked the door open. She saw my drowsy state, saw the blood, saw my severed artery, and her expression changed as if she finally understood.

"You want to die? Did I say you could?"

Her question left me frozen in terror. The face before me was becoming more and more unrecognizable.

"Isn't this what you've wanted for all these years?"

"If you die, who's going to carry the blame? You deserve to live a life worse than death!"

Mrs. Hawthorne rummaged through a battered First-aid Kit, pulled out some Styptic Powder, and poured it over my arm. It worked surprisingly well.

But I'd lost too much blood. My head was swimming, and my thoughts were becoming a jumbled mess.

From that day on, she kept me locked in my room. She took away anything sharp, terrified that I might try again, leaving me with no choice in the matter at all.