Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 37: Love?

I could feel a gaze on me from behind.

It felt like Ernst was watching me.

I stopped at the entrance of my house and looked back.

It seemed he had already gone inside.

I glanced at the neighboring house for a long moment before letting out a small laugh.

I felt both a sense of relief, knowing there was at least one person who truly cared for me, and a pang of self-reproach because that person wasn’t family.

It feels like the only thing I’ve developed in life is a sensitivity to being watched.

To survive—or for appearances, or perhaps just to avoid being hit—I always had to react with sharp awareness.

As I stepped back into the house, the atmosphere felt oddly cold.

Ellie sat at the dining table, eating fruit with a slightly gloomy expression.

When she heard me enter, she glanced at me briefly.

Our eyes met.

Normally, she would have thrown some snide remark or chattered on about something.

This time, she reached out her hand and opened her mouth as if to say something, then shook her head and retreated to her room.

Still, it was much better not having to see her at all.

I headed toward the stairs and was about to go up to the second floor when I heard a voice calling my name.

“Emily. You seem to be getting along quite well with Ernst.”

I turned my head in the direction of the voice and saw Mother sitting with her legs crossed.

Had she just been chatting with Ellie?

“…Yes.”

At my response, Mother stood from her seat and slowly approached me.

Her expression didn’t seem pleasant, and a learned fear began to take over my body.

I didn’t tremble.

I just froze, paralyzed by the fear.

“Well, marriage is marriage…”

Mother came closer and stroked my cheek.

Then, suddenly, she slapped me hard.

Smack! My head whipped to the side with the sound, but I didn’t make a sound.

Perhaps some of the painkillers were still lingering in my system.

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

I looked at her.

There wasn’t any emotion in my gaze.

Lately, you seem like you’re listening, but there’s this subtle defiance about you.

It’s as if you’re arrogant, pretending to be something important.

Just like that time you suddenly asked your father to buy you an instrument.

Was it that she lacked emotions when she looked at me, or did she hate me so much that she couldn’t even vent her anger, leaving only this dry, hollow stare?

You’re nothing until you leave this mansion.

If I say something, you listen. If I hit you, you take it. If I get angry, you beg for forgiveness. That’s your role.

Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward a chair, forcing me to sit.

She picked up a piece of fruit from the table—one Ellie had been eating moments ago—and began speaking softly.

Or did you think that now that you’re grown, your father might protect you a little?

That frail excuse of a man didn’t say a word when I smashed those instruments you cherished so dearly. He just stood there watching.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m far too good for him.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“You should be.”

Mother placed my arm on the table and pressed down.

The wounds reopened, and blood began to seep through the once-white bandages again.

“You crawled into this world thanks to me, yet you always manage to make me so disgusted.”

Rather than focusing on the pain, I found myself trembling at the thought that she might drag me into the punishment room again.

That was the only thing I feared.

Emily, you looked so close with Ernst in front of the gate.

It’s not because you’re talented, or beautiful, or charming.

It’s because he likes the image of you that I created.

What should I say to that?

Should I explain that Ernst was only worried about me?

Or should I tell her that because she treats me like this, Ernst pities me enough to look my way?

But if I said that, she’d probably just take the credit and thank me sarcastically.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“If you’re sorry, you should be punished.”

“But what did I do wrong…?”

“You just talked back to me.”

For a moment, I almost let my expression slip in disbelief.

Mother smirked at me and continued.

And you’re still breathing.

Those disgusting eyes of yours—haven’t plucked them out yet.

And you’ve still left that hair as it is. How can I not be angry?

She was yelling, and I was afraid, but even so, I didn’t lower my head or shed tears.

Maybe it was pride—just a sliver—or maybe it was because Ernst had told me he would help me.

Because of that, I stared back at her quietly.

I kept my face composed.

No matter how much I suffered, how much my body rotted away, or how often Mother tormented me, I had been taught never to let my expression falter.

And now, it seemed that very composure dissatisfied her greatly.

Mother, visibly irritated, picked up a fork.

Since you don’t care for your own body and treat it so carelessly, it doesn’t matter if I treat it the same way.

Seeing as you ignore my words and behave like this, I suppose you think you deserve punishment.

Who would think they deserve punishment?

I certainly didn’t intend to part with my hair or my eyes.

My blood-red eyes and brittle white hair were mine alone.

As for the scratches on my arm, they were nothing more than spilled emotions—just a way to let out what had been festering inside.

They weren’t inherited from that repulsive, vain, and monstrous woman.

Nor were they passed down from my weak, indecisive father, who always let himself be dragged around by his wife.

They were entirely mine.

Mother’s words, though, would follow me everywhere—no matter when, how, or where.

But, well… I suppose I’ll brush them off with the same meaningless responses as always.

Unlike Emily’s self-loathing, I can at least recognize that I’m beautiful.

The world around me is beautiful too, if I exclude this cursed woman.

Oh, and maybe a few others.

Mother smiled faintly as she spoke.

“Ellie told me. She said the wounds on your arm were self-inflicted.”

I couldn’t recall why I had done it. Perhaps it was to erase traces of something, or maybe it was just out of emotion.

I tried to think back, but all that surfaced were scattered, incoherent thoughts.

Still, I didn’t want to offer excuses in front of this woman.

“If the body I gave you is so worthless to you, then I suppose it doesn’t matter if I do this.”

And with that, she drove the fork into my arm.

Not hard enough to cause deep damage, just enough to pierce the flesh slightly.

The fork dangled from my arm in a way that seemed almost pitiful—and oddly laughable.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said with a faint smile.

It didn’t hurt, so I could afford to smile.

Mother’s expression cracked slightly before she pulled the fork from my arm.

Blood began to seep out slowly.

“Have the servants replace your bandages,” she said.

“Yes, Mother.”

The crack in her expression quickly faded, replaced by a satisfied smile.

“Oh, right. Speaking of which, at the next ball, you should spend some time with Ernst. You seem to get along so well.”

“I will, Mother.”

And I heard that noisy stray cat that used to prowl around the front of the house ate something bad and died.

It was lying in front of the house, so I had Rin move it to the yard. You should go bury it.

“…”

“Answer me, Emily.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mother patted my shoulder lightly before walking off to her room.

My vision blurred for a moment.

My instruments, my studies, my books, the plants and flowers I’d grown—and now, even the stray cat.

My lips quivered slightly.

Before going to bury the cat, I grabbed the fork and walked into the bathroom.

I scratched at the spot on my shoulder where Mother had touched me.

“Ah… ugh… ngh… ugh, ngh…”

I clenched my teeth and cried.

Sitting on the floor, I cried silently, biting down hard to muffle any sound as I scraped at my shoulder with the fork.

I clawed at the area on my arm where Mother had touched me earlier.

The feeling of scraping my flesh with a fork was strangely unique.

I had expected it to feel like my skin was tearing in four directions at once, but the sensation was singular, concentrated.

It didn’t hurt much.

Perhaps because of the painkillers.

Though I don’t think I took any today.

I had been trying to cut back, hadn’t I?

Maybe I was mistaken.

After all, with blood spilling like this, there’s no way it doesn’t hurt.

Does this even mean anything?

That thought froze my expression instantly.

At least the crying stopped; I suppose that was fortunate.

I wanted to make myself some coffee to deal with the pounding in my head, but the atmosphere didn’t allow for it.

Besides, the only coffee in this world seems to be the watered-down, bitter kind, nothing satisfying.

I got up and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.

I didn’t look pathetic.

My hair wasn’t like that of an old man, all brittle and dry.

My eyes weren’t ominous, blood-red ones.

No, they were like jewels, vibrant red, with pure white hair that shimmered faintly in the light.

My face didn’t resemble either Mother’s or Father’s, and it was beautiful.

There’s no way someone like me could be hideous.

There’s no way anyone could wish for me to die.

If such a person existed, they wouldn’t be human.

Those who don’t love aren’t human.

The reason I’m human is because I love the world.

And those who aren’t human but pretend to be…