Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 12: An Ordinary Day

On the way home in the carriage, my mother didn’t hit me, perhaps because Ellie was there. She only resorted to snide remarks.

Still, it felt as though I were being led to the gallows.

They say even death row inmates get a nice meal before their execution.

I never understood why anyone would waste money like that, but the thought crossed my mind nonetheless.

At least I wasn’t hit while inside the carriage.

By some stroke of luck, my mother seemed utterly exhausted.

So when we arrived home, I assumed she’d head straight to bed after washing up. But instead…

“Emily. Come with me.”

I froze, stiffening my body in resistance at the threshold.

But my mother grabbed my wrist and began dragging me along.

I tried to resist, but I was powerless against her grip.

“Sit in that chair with the armrests,” she said.

When I only stared at her and didn’t comply, she slapped my face and yanked my hair, forcing me into the chair.

Then she fetched a rope and bound my wrists and ankles tightly to the chair.

“…I’m tired, so I’ll rest for a bit. I’ll see you later, Emily,” she said, leaving the room.

Left alone, still wearing my dress, unable to lie down, all I could do was mutter one word:

“Shit…”

It would’ve been nice if she’d at least let me take off my shoes.

The sweat pooling under my feet made me feel unbearably gross.

What I really wanted was to wash up.

Cold water stung, but I needed to rinse this sticky, filthy body clean.

The nauseating mix of perfumes from the ball, the lingering scents of tea and desserts—it all clung to me.

I wanted to scream, but no one would hear, and I didn’t have the strength anyway.

I felt drained.

Yes, drained.

How long would I have to live like this?

“Ugh.”

A cough bubbled up in my throat, and I swallowed hard to suppress it.

I was so thirsty it felt like my throat was on fire.

“…Ernst. Please untie me,” I murmured.

Of course, he couldn’t hear me. But if he’d been so concerned about the marks on my neck last night, shouldn’t he save me now?

The ropes were so tight my fingers tingled, barely able to move.

I felt detached, my eyelids heavy, my body sluggish.

Maybe the weather was just hot, but it wasn’t a pleasant feeling—especially with my wrists going numb from the lack of circulation.

Drowsiness overcame me, and I leaned my head against the chair, drifting off.

My mother’s voice woke me as she struck my throat with a switch.

“Ah—ugh—!”

“How many times must I tell you to wake up?”

The smell of sweat clung to me.

The stench of damp fabric, leather from the corset soaked with sweat—it was all nauseating.

A smell that made life feel unbearable.

“You’ve always been a dull, foolish child, but you used to understand words better than this,” she said, lightly slapping my face as I clutched my aching throat.

Seeing the cold sweat beading on my forehead, she smacked me again, this time on the nose, but refrained from using her hand further.

“What happened to you, Emily? Like this, you’re useless. Useless.”

Being tied up is a sad thing.

Even if you can’t avoid the blows, at least free hands and feet let you try to twist away or shield yourself. But bound like this, there was no such reprieve.

My mother kicked me.

Fortunately, her shoes weren’t high-heeled or particularly hard, but when she hit my shins, I wanted to scream.

All I could do was open my mouth, exhale heavily, and cry silently.

“You’ve been acting up lately, Emily.

But isn’t it too late to start rebelling now?

At your age, others are getting engaged or preparing for marriage, yet here you are, with no prospects.”

Each word dripped with rage, likely fueled by her frustration at the ball. 

She hadn’t seemed in a good mood even when she came to choke me earlier.

“Mother,” I croaked.

“What is it, Emily?”

“…Please untie me.”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid I can’t do that.

You’re being punished, after all.”

She continued kicking my motionless legs.

Looking down, I saw the bruises—red at the center, fading into black around the edges.

When that wasn’t enough, she switched to striking my shoulders and arms.

The switch wasn’t flexible; it felt like the kind used to punish criminals, threatening to break my bones with every blow.

Bruises surely covered my entire body by now.

And yet I screamed silently, gritting my teeth, distorting my face, and enduring.

Seeing me, she called me pathetic and hit me on the nose again, then twisted my body to force me to close my mouth.

“You’ve sweated so much. Are you thirsty?”

“…I’m fine,” I muttered.

Saying I was thirsty would prompt her to fetch the water pitcher from the kitchen.

She’d done it since I was a child.

Even now, seeing a full water pitcher filled me with fear.

“But how could a mother ignore her thirsty child?” she said, tipping the chair back.

She didn’t push me over completely—maybe she thought it would kill me if she did.

“You haven’t bathed, you smell, you’re short, ugly, and even less developed than Ellie, who’s three years younger than you. What am I supposed to do with you?”

She placed a handkerchief over my face, spreading it flat.

Wait a moment while I fetch some water from the kitchen,” she said, leaving the room.

She returned with something that sloshed, the sound of liquid moving inside.

You’re not a child, so I won’t spoon-feed you. Drink up on your own.

My vision was blocked by the handkerchief covering my face. I couldn’t see, but I clenched my mouth shut, holding my breath.

Water began to pour.

It didn’t enter my mouth, but the damp cloth clung to my face, and soon, water seeped into my nostrils.

“Ah—ugh—ack!”

I coughed instinctively.

This time, the water stopped much faster than usual.

“Did you bite your tongue? This handkerchief is useless now.”

She removed the handkerchief from my face.

My lungs, desperate for air, forced me to gasp sharply.

Annoyed, she poured the remaining water from the pitcher over my head.

Even with an empty stomach, the sensation of water splashing on my face and entering my airways triggered a retch.

When there’s nothing to expel, only foul-smelling bile rises.

After throwing the empty pitcher at my face, she untied the rope around my arms and sneered.

If this happens again, expect worse.

She left the room abruptly, almost in a rush.

It didn’t take long to notice the handkerchief on the floor, stained with blood.

I must have thrown up blood I’d been holding back.

Given how much water entered my nose, it wasn’t surprising that I couldn’t suppress it.

I bent my torso as far as I could to untie the rope around my ankles.

My short stature made it difficult, but the urgency to free myself made my hands work faster than expected.

After tumbling out of the chair, I lay flat on the floor, staring at the old ceiling.

How many people had lived in this house?

My mother, grandmother, and her grandmother—this house must’ve been passed down for generations.

It had stood for hundreds of years.

I wondered how many had been subjected to this room’s use in this way.

The remnants of shelves suggest it was once a study.

Now it was just a place of torment.

Still, today wasn’t so bad.

It ended with less pain than usual.

Much less, really.

I cleaned the filthy floor—my saliva, bile, and the water she’d poured on me.

I folded the bloodied handkerchief neatly, carefully, and placed it in the basket beside the bathroom, where the maids usually left the laundry.

Then I borrowed cleaning tools from the staff and scrubbed the room relentlessly.

Though I felt like collapsing any moment, I kept cleaning until the floor gleamed.

When I finished, I entered the bathroom, washed my sore body with water, lathered soap, and practiced smiling in the mirror before heading back to my room.

In my room, I took out a notebook, scribbled random thoughts, then lay on my bed, silently sobbing into the pillows.

It was an ordinary day.

A bit more painful than usual, but manageable.

The thought of the medicine the old man had given me crossed my mind.

I opened the packet, took out two pills, and swallowed them.

They were incredibly bitter, but I didn’t spit them out.

It was just bitterness, after all.

The old man had said to take one pill a day, but two after skipping a day should be fine.

I wanted to believe it would be fine.

I’m okay.

I’m just a little sad.

My mother is still raising me in this house, after all.

I’m not starving.

I’m given plenty of food every day.

How could I ever repay such generosity?

She’s raised me, clothed me, and even prettied me up.

I am happy.

So please, someone take me away.

Confess your love, pay my mother handsomely, and take me far from here.

TL Note: Rate us on NOVEL UPDATES