Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 5: Home (5)

I don’t sob or wail. That kind of crying feels… uncouth.

Instead, I just think about my reality.

Thinking alone is enough to dry up my emotions and stifle any tears before they can spill.

What remains is a hollow emptiness, but it’s better than being dragged out for making noise at night and beaten all over again.

The door opened again.

Of course.

Someone always comes after a punishment—to mock me for crying, or just to make me feel worse.

“Emily.”

“What do you want, brother?”

It was the eldest brother this time. That was unusual; usually, it was Father.

Father would come in with his endless speeches about how Mother only disciplined me because she loved me. He’d ask if I wanted a doll or something, but his droning would never end.

At least with Fabian, I wouldn’t have to endure that nonsense.

“Just wanted to check if you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“So, what? Did you come to mock me like Daniel?”

“I’m not that childish.

Besides, have I ever tormented you?”

“Plenty. But it’s fine. The victim always remembers better, after all.”

Fabian shot me a sharp look, as if to remind me of my place, before continuing.

“…Karel said she wanted to see you.”

“Who’s that?”

“My fiancée.”

I’d never met her.

“And why would she want to see me?”

“When we were at the ball the other day, you helped her out. She wanted to thank you.

Apparently, she dropped a wine glass, and you caught it and calmed her down.”

Oh, her. The pretty but airheaded girl.

I had no interest in meeting her again.

“…Ah.”

Even in our brief exchange, I’d realized exactly what she was: a beautiful, empty-headed girl raised to be a man’s ideal.

That’s what men wanted.

A woman who was just smart enough, just beautiful enough, and just dependent enough to be endearing without being threatening.

Not someone like me.

Not someone who hadn’t even gone to school, whose wit came only from books, who was too pale, too thin, too lifeless to charm anyone.

Even my silver hair and pale red eyes felt wrong—like a ghost haunting a house.

Mother blamed me for being this way, even though it was her neglect and abuse that had shaped me.

No use dwelling on it. Thinking about it too much would only make me nauseous.

And vomiting was vulgar, which would only lead to another beating.

“Anyway, when I visit Karel’s house tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”

“I have to go to the doctor.”

“Go in the morning and be back by lunch. That’s plenty of time.”

Fabian’s tone left no room for argument. Refusing was out of the question.

That’s what bothered me most—that he acted as if it had already been decided, as if I had no say.

I wanted to lift my chin and defy him, but fear squashed the thought before it could grow.

Fabian noticed my silence and added, “Oh, and put on some makeup before you leave tomorrow.

Your face looks red. It wouldn’t embarrass the family.”

“So, it’s embarrassing to admit your family beats you?”

He paused, his mouth opening and closing as he muttered, “You got hit because you deserved it. Stop complaining. Anyway, I’m leaving.”

And with that, he fled the room, leaving behind his cloying cologne.

The smell made me want to vomit.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

If I asked what I’d done, Mother would say it was because I hadn’t listened to her.

If I questioned whether her words were always right, she’d punish me for talking back.

Maybe I wasn’t even a child to them—just a scapegoat.

That would make sense.

No parent could truly hate their child, could they? Parents must love their children.

Mother must love me.

Anything else is impossible.

It has to be.

I felt like my head was about to explode.

The air was heavy with the nauseating scent of cologne, stale air, and the musty smell of old wood and dust.

It was suffocating.

I wanted to tear my face off, to scream.

I stood and tried to open the window, but it wouldn’t budge.

The lock held firm, no matter how hard I pulled.

No amount of strength could force it open.

I wanted to scream obscenities, to unleash every filthy word I could think of.

But fear held my tongue shut.

My thoughts, too, had to stay locked away.

If they wandered too far, if they spilled from my lips, punishment would inevitably follow.

The unknown breeds fear, and knowledge dispels that fear, driving us forward.

But for someone like me, already too aware, what was there left to do?

My ears remained open, and the sound of children laughing outside filtered in through the locked window.

The thoughts tried to bubble up again, but I clamped my mouth shut.

I wanted to scream but instead bit hard on the part of my lip that was already sore.

The pain settled me, if only slightly.

Let me out of here.

I wished the window would shatter.

How long did they plan to keep me locked away?

I grabbed my notebook and furiously began writing.

Every word was a plea: Let me out.

This handwriting was what my tutor had taught me—the proper way to write.

She’d been the only one who taught me without hitting me.

It had been a novel experience.

“Discipline requires force,” Mother always said, but my tutor had proved otherwise.

Though, her gentler methods had cost her the job.

Mother’s words had already begun eating away at me, though.

Properness was essential, and failing to uphold it invited disaster.

I didn’t want to be punished.

Punishment hurts, and who likes pain?

So, I wrote.

I couldn’t scream with my voice, so I screamed with my hands.

That’s why I preferred being hit on my thighs or calves—when my hands were injured, even writing became impossible.

My thoughts were jumbled, scattered, frantic, just like my words.

This notebook was something I desperately wanted no one else to read.

Father had given it to me as a gift, along with the pen, and no one needed to know how I used them.

Thankfully, Daniel had skimmed only the beginning pages and hadn’t seen the chaos in the later ones.

After staring at the locked window for what felt like forever, I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow, I’d have to visit the doctor.

Whether it was the pain in my body, the soreness from the beatings, or the fever burning through me, I couldn’t sleep.

“…Achoo.”

A sharp sneeze sent blood spraying from my mouth.

I wiped it away with the filthy handkerchief I kept nearby.

It reeked of dried blood, and I wondered if it was even worth washing anymore.

I longed for a proper cup of coffee.

I longed to be loved.

I wanted to throw open the window and feel fresh air on my face.

But I didn’t want to be slapped again.

I didn’t want the cane to bite into my legs.

I wanted a simple hamburger, even a cheap one.

Just some lettuce between a bun, even if it lacked rich sauces.

Reaching toward the ceiling, I thought about how red eyes didn’t make the world look red.

The world was just dark, like always.

And so I passed the night with open eyes, unable to sleep.

The Next Morning

When I stepped outside the house, I wasn’t Emily, the wretched girl of this cursed household.

To the world, I was a dignified, graceful, and noble lady.

At least, that’s what they’d see, thanks to my mother’s careful curation of my outward appearance.

Even a simple trip to the doctor wasn’t immune to her scrutiny.

I asked a servant to fetch me a dress.

I also handed over the bloodied handkerchief to be washed, though its smell would probably linger forever.

While the servant worked, I headed to the bathroom to clean myself up.

My hair felt like straw, rough and brittle to the touch.

The mirror reflected a skeletal figure, my ribs stark against pale skin.

It wasn’t as though I had some eating disorder.

I could devour a good meal with gusto if given the chance.

But on the rare occasion I did eat well, I’d be scolded for being “unladylike” and hit hard enough to make me vomit—cleaning it up myself, of course.

I didn’t want to go through that again.

Using a vaguely scented soap, I scrubbed my hair and body clean.

Thankfully, my hair wasn’t long, so drying it took only 30 minutes.

After slipping into my undergarments, I put on the dress the servant had brought.

The socks, reaching to my thighs, added to my discomfort as I moved.

After putting on my simple yet polished shoes, I descended the stairs.

Outwardly, everything about me seemed elegant.

The reflection of nobility.

If I looked pale, makeup could cover it. If I looked too thin, the right dress could hide it.

The money pouch I tucked into an inner pocket, out of sight.

No carriage, of course.

Someone like me didn’t warrant such expenses.

Instead, I walked to the hospital, the hard soles of my shoes clicking on the pavement.

When I passed someone familiar, I offered polite smiles and greetings.

Every step rubbed the fabric of the dress against my bruised skin, a constant agony.

But I didn’t let it show.

My posture had to be perfect, my movements refined.

Instead of sighing, I tilted my head upward and looked at the sky.

The sky was as clear as ever.

Back at home, I only ever saw it through the window.