Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 13: Coward

Nothing happened.

Though being sick felt significant to me, in reality, nothing happened.

Everyone acted as if it were just another day.

Looking around the house, Daniel and the fourth sibling were chatting about something, Ellie and Mother were playing the roles of a perfectly harmonious mother-daughter duo, and Father and Fabian were discussing work in their cryptic language.

And then, there was me. Alone.

I was used to it, but I couldn’t help feeling pathetic for still craving their affection.

No, it’s not me. I’m not the strange one.

It’s Emily. Emily is the strange one.

All the things Mother said—they were directed at Emily.

Not at me. Never at me.

Then who am I?

I don’t really know.

After all, I was Emily too.

Trying to separate myself from that is absurd.

Anyway, my whole body ached.

I fetched the medicine from the drawer.

Would taking this actually help?

It made me drowsy and dulled the pain, which was a relief, but that was about it.

Swallowing pills without water was a habit, but the bitterness made me gag. I spat them out, broke one in half, and chewed it.

It was bitter, but I didn’t want to leave the room to get water.

My body was too numb to move, even lifting my legs felt like a chore.

After some time, I felt slightly better.

I pulled out a chair, sat at my desk, and opened a notebook from the drawer, gripping a pen.

The first thing I wrote was a collection of thoughts I couldn’t say aloud.

Mostly meaningless phrases, like the morose mutterings of a depressed adolescent—“I want to die”—or quotes from books I’d read before becoming Emily.

None of it really mattered.

I was just filling space, scribbling useless words.

No one would ever see it.

If it were a diary, I might say I was too embarrassed to share, but this was something else—raw, unfiltered thoughts put to paper.

Thoughts as they came, fragmented and scattered, leading nowhere.

Maybe that’s who I am.

Mother’s words guided my actions, but if someone asked me who I was, the answer would still be “nothing.”

It wasn’t a philosophical question.

I’m not one of those people who delight in overthinking until they lose their minds.

I’m nothing, just as Mother always said.

Even with the family name attached, I’m nothing.

I don’t even listen to Mother anymore, so I’m worth even less.

Thin, ugly, with unsettling red eyes and white hair like an old woman’s.

I’m repulsive and filthy. All I know how to do is obey Mother.

She’ll take care of everything, she always says so.

If I listen to her, do as she says, one day, I’ll be happy.

Someday.

Whenever that is.

But treating me so harshly doesn’t mean I’ll just break down and comply.

What about Ernst? It was a moment of weakness, a pathetic complaint, nothing more.

I’m fine.

I’m okay.

I don’t need anyone’s help.

Emily’s feelings for Ernst were big enough to bubble out, but it was just meaningless noise.

It didn’t matter.

You saw it, didn’t you?

That beautiful lady standing next to Ernst tried her best to chase me away.

She’s probably from the same place as me, yet she’s so cold.

At least she’s lived a happy life, her worries confined to trivial love stories.

Why the hell was I born into this miserable place?

Why am I the only one rotting in this hellhole?

I’m not happy.

Not at all.

I wish I’d been born as a street orphan.

Even if my mother had been a prostitute, at least she would have let me live freely.

If anyone asked whether I’d ever received love after being dumped here, I could confidently say no.

“Hey.”

Everyone looks down on me.

Even the daughter of some half-noble prostitute treats me like dirt while throwing Ernst’s name in my face.

She was probably raised in a loving home, cherished and coddled by her parents.

Not raised like me—bitter and vile.

That girl I made cry at tea time is probably far better than me.

I can’t even imagine putting her down; all I know how to do is claw at people.

Pretending to be a proper lady in public, fooling everyone into thinking I am one, only to be treated worse than a dog at home.

No, we don’t keep dogs. I’m more like a bug, a lowly commoner.

Our servants? Machines that cook and clean in exchange for pay. That’s all.

Honestly, can we even call ourselves nobles when we can’t afford decent appliances?

“Emily, Mother says to come eat…”

The sound came from behind, and I hurled the pen in my hand in that direction.

“Shut up. Just keep your mouth shut.”

The pen didn’t hit its target.

It landed near Daniel’s legs, far from his face. Weak, I suppose.

When I looked up, I saw Daniel’s startled face.

His blue eyes were fixed on me—shaking, pale, and furious.

I couldn’t get up. My legs trembled uncontrollably.

“Come eat? Sure, let’s go.

Even if my legs are broken, I’ll walk because I’ve been summoned.

So move, Daniel. Get out of my way.”

I tried to stand by gripping the chair’s back, but it toppled, taking me down with it.

I fell, hitting my head on the bed frame. It didn’t hurt much—probably because I was so used to getting hit.

Grabbing the bedpost for support, I slowly made my way downstairs.

Creak, creak, creak.

The cursed sound of the stairs echoed with every step.

Why couldn’t they fix this? A little oil, or some proper maintenance—it couldn’t cost that much, could it? If Mother hadn’t bought a new jewel for every ball, the house would’ve been repaired ages ago.

“…If you’re feeling unwell, I’ll bring it to you. Just lie down if it’s too much,” Daniel said as he followed me.

I let out a dry chuckle, mocking him.

“Suddenly so worried, aren’t we?”

“Well, you just fell, so of course I’d be—”

“Don’t bother. It’s pathetic. Heh.”

I tried to push him away when he reached out to help me, but I didn’t have enough strength.

Giving up, I focused on descending the stairs slowly.

I forced a faint, serene smile.

This isn’t a face I should show anyone.

For whatever reason, I’m supposed to maintain appearances, and I have to comply.

I straightened my back.

It’s bound to hunch eventually from all the beatings, but for now, I kept it upright.

My steps were measured and graceful.

Even though the slightest breeze against my shins sent sharp pain through me, and my thighs and calves were blackened with bruises, I moved with as much poise as I could muster.

My posture was dignified, hands neatly placed.

The fabric covering my body hid my repulsive skin, so at least my hands, spared from beatings, could appear presentable.

Shoulders relaxed but not slouched, to prevent anything from looking improper.

My pale skin, stark and ghostly, had turned mottled and dark from injuries.

My head stayed still, except during conversation or natural moments—it wouldn’t seem fidgety.

Fidgety girls got their necks wrung or water poured on them during discipline, after all.

I breathed only through my nose, just as I’d been taught.

That way, the water went straight in when a cloth covered my face.

Chest movements were minimal, inhaling just enough to keep my body in line.

My body was a wreck, whether from sickness or beatings, but my mind refused to collapse.

I kept walking, the edges of my vision narrowing.

Normally, the world felt wide open, but now it seemed closed, suffocating.

At the bottom of the stairs, the dining table came into view, with my family already seated.

I felt the nausea rising.

But if I could suppress blood-filled coughs, I could handle this.

I inhaled deeply and swallowed the bile.

“Daniel, Emily, take your seats. You’re a bit late,” Mother said.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

I answered with a polite, bright smile and took my seat.

A plate was set before me.

Was it real food? It felt unlikely. Even if it was, it might as well have been poison.

I silently offered a prayer to the gods for the meal, then waited my turn to serve myself, transferring food to my plate.

Cutting it into small pieces, I began to chew slowly.

Sitting there, pretending nothing had happened, smiling, and eating was excruciating. But I forced myself to swallow bite after bite.

Because I wanted to live.

The world was beautiful, I always told myself.

Unlike pathetic Emily, I wouldn’t give up on life.

Unlike foolish Emily, I wouldn’t surrender my body to others just because of pain.

The food had no flavor.

Still, I kept chewing, swallowing diligently.

It was tiresome. The endless repetition felt empty and dull.

Life had always been boring, but this was suffocating.

How long would I have to keep this up?

The thought crossed my mind to hurl the knife in my hand at Mother.

But I didn’t. I simply placed it back down quietly.

I was a coward, after all.

But the monotony was inescapable.

“Cough.”

“Emily, how many times must I tell you not to cough at the table?”

I smiled politely and answered with decorum.

It was tedious.

Everything was.

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