Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 3: Home (3)

I returned home and knocked on Ellie’s door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me. I delivered the letter.”

I heard hurried footsteps approaching before the door swung open. Ellie stood there, her face lit with anticipation.

“Really!? So, what did he say after reading it?”

“I wouldn’t know. I just handed it to him and left.”

“…Well, I guess it would’ve been strange for him to read it in front of you. Thanks, though! For delivering it!”

Her tone was as rude as ever.

This is why you shouldn’t spoil a child too much.

They all end up like this.

To others, Ellie was the picture of politeness.

It was only with me that she acted like this—because I was easy to push around, insignificant.

That wasn’t a misconception; it was the truth.

Still, it didn’t make it any less infuriating.

“Mm-hm,” I replied.

Without another word, Ellie retreated into her room and closed the door.

I climbed to the second floor and entered my own room.

“…What are you doing?”

“Oh, you’re back already,” said Daniel.

“What were you doing?”

“Just looking for something interesting. Got bored.”

In his hands was my small notebook.

It wasn’t just a notebook—it was my journal. My life, or perhaps the tragic comedy of someone’s life.

There was no artistry in it, no stories, just raw emotions scribbled down in ink.

“…Give it back.”

“Why so touchy? It’s not like you’ve written anything important in here.”

I lunged at him, desperate to snatch it back.

Daniel casually caught my arm and shoved me onto the bed.

Years ago, I might’ve been able to overpower him, but not now.

He’d grown, and I hadn’t.

Now, even those who treated me poorly could physically overpower me.

Maybe it was because I hadn’t grown properly.

I was significantly shorter than others my age, my body underdeveloped in every way.

Why? I didn’t know.

Maybe it was from all the beatings. But I wasn’t supposed to know that.

“Let’s see… ‘A cloudless day.’” Daniel began reading aloud.

“What’s this? You don’t even put dates on your entries?”

“Stop reading it!”

I struggled, but he easily held me back, laughing as he read on.

Leaving my journal out while running an errand had been a mistake.

With so few possessions, I’d thought no one would bother with it.

“‘Mother locked me in the room again today. It’s hard to breathe in the closet. Goddamn them all.’ Wow, even swearing? If Mother read this, she’d faint.”

“Give it back!”

Next, he’d probably find the parts where I poured out my chaotic emotions.

They’d seem like something written by a lunatic.

I didn’t even fully remember what I had written.

With no one to vent my frustrations to, I’d used the journal as my outlet.

While Daniel was distracted reading, I yanked the notebook from his hands.

Tears streamed down my face—whether from anger or something else, I wasn’t sure.

Recently, I’d started crying only from one eye whenever I was hit.

“…Get out, Daniel.”

“Wait, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’ve kept quiet all this time, haven’t I?

How far are you planning to push me?

Now you even want to pry into what I think, what I feel—forget it. Just leave.”

I sat on the bed, running a hand over my face.

Daniel hesitated for a moment, then left, quietly closing the door behind him.

“…Ahchoo.”

A dainty sneeze escaped me, but the result was far from cute.

Blood sprayed from my mouth.

I’d need to visit the doctor tomorrow—assuming I could get permission.

Then again, they might refuse.

Maybe I’d get better on my own.

Despite suspecting otherwise, I clung to hopeful, optimistic thoughts.

Not that I could explain why optimism felt so bleak and pitiful in my situation.

I wiped the blood away with the handkerchief I hadn’t yet washed.

Then I stared at it for a long time.

Was I really part of this family?

For all I knew, Mother had conceived me during some affair.

That would explain her disdain.

It wouldn’t be out of character for someone who flitted from man to man at every ball she attended.

Ellie had certainly inherited that frivolity.

Even sending letters to Ernst was pointless—he wouldn’t read them.

They’d probably end up in the trash, eventually burned by a maid clearing out the waste.

Trash, just like the words written in them.

Everyone in this house was merely pretending to be human. They were beasts, every last one of them.

Ah, in novels, isn’t there always a knight—or at least a noble figure—who appears to rescue the suffering heroine?

Why hasn’t someone like that appeared for me?

Because this isn’t a novel—it’s this wretched reality.

How wonderful it would be to suffer for a while and then meet someone who saves me, someone I could live happily with afterward.

I want to run away.

No, I want to escape and live properly.

But this world is too cruel, too unforgiving.

It’s no place for a helpless, clueless girl like me to survive.

If I went to Ernst next door and cried that I couldn’t live in this house anymore, that it was too much to bear, he’d probably just tell me to grow up.

To him, “discipline” from a mother might mean stern lectures and a few swats with a stick—nothing like what happens here.

I picked up the notebook Daniel had snooped through earlier and started writing again, organizing the thoughts that had just crossed my mind.

As I wrote, Fabian, the eldest son, opened my door.

“Come down for dinner,” he said in a low voice.

“Okay.”

“What’s that you’re writing?”

“Just a journal.”

Fabian shrugged indifferently and headed back downstairs.

If someone asked me to name the least terrible person in this household, I’d probably say Fabian.

Not because he was kind or caring, but because he didn’t care at all.

Even if he found me hanging in this room, he wouldn’t blink—he’d just inform Mother so the body could be dealt with.

That’s the kind of person he was.

I tucked the notebook under the bed instead of leaving it in the drawer this time, then made my way to the dining room.

The family was already seated, chatting warmly amongst themselves.

No one acknowledged me as I joined them.

Feeling utterly alienated and resentful, I hated myself even more for still craving their affection.

Dinner was simple: bread, a beef stew, and a few vegetables.

Better this silent exclusion than being scolded like before, I told myself as I ate.

“Emily, Daniel told me something,” Mother said suddenly.

The atmosphere froze.

My family’s eyes turned toward me, filled with contempt, disinterest, ridicule, and mockery.

“I hear you’ve been writing strange things in your notebook. That’s not what I taught you to write for.”

Taught me? As if.

She had thrown a children’s book at me and beat me when I couldn’t learn from it fast enough.

“Come see me after dinner.”

I nodded, leaving the rest of my meal untouched.

Eating too much before getting beaten would just make me vomit, and I’d be the one cleaning it up anyway.

The so-called “harmonious family” resumed their cheerful chatter as if nothing had happened, occasionally glancing at me and throwing in a few loud, mocking remarks for good measure.

Why do I have to endure this?

Why is it only me?

I didn’t choose to be born with white hair and red eyes.

It’s not my fault they think I bring bad luck, that I might cause misfortune if I try to help them.

No, it’s not me.

It’s Emily they think that about.

But I’m not Emily.

Then again, if I’m not Emily… who am I?

When I look in the mirror, all I see is Emily.

If I smile, it’s Emily smiling back, not me—

Ah. My whole body started trembling violently.

“Mother’s waiting for you. You’d better hurry back to her room.”

I don’t know who said it.

By the time I looked around, dinner was over, and I was alone at the table.

Dragging my feet like a prisoner heading to the gallows, I made my way to the room where I used to receive lessons from a tutor.

That tutor had been dismissed long ago—likely because she had shown me kindness.

No, it was because she’d suggested easing up on my education a little.

She’d gotten a slap in the face and been thrown out. A mere commoner, what did she know?

I stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath.

“…Ahchoo.”

The faint taste of blood filled my mouth, but I swallowed it down.

That wasn’t important right now.

Probably a tear in my throat. Some medicine and rest would heal it in a few days.

I knocked on the door.

You have to knock—it’s only polite.

A composed smile, a straight posture, graceful steps, hands neatly placed, shoulders slightly relaxed. 

Keep your head still except when speaking naturally. Breathe only through your nose—no rising or falling chest. Eyes forward, every movement perfect.

Anything less, and I’d be a “bad child.”

But I’m not a bad child. Am I?