Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 4: Home (4)

“Come in.”

At her words, I opened the door and stepped into the room.

Mother was holding a thin cane made of rattan—a so-called rod of love, as she liked to call it.

“Daniel tells me you’ve been acting a little odd.

Saying things like you’re sad or depressed, even while living in such a loving, happy household.

I suppose I’ve been lenient with you lately.”

Of course, she hadn’t punished me because I had been obedient.

If they told me to crawl, I crawled. If they told me to lick, I licked.

If scribbling in a notebook to release my feelings was such a sin, I should never have been born into this house.

“You really do become strange without my touch.

If the beggars on the streets heard your complaints, they’d probably want to slap you senseless.”

“…I’m sor—”

Slap.

A sharp, resounding sound echoed as her palm connected with my cheek.

“Didn’t I tell you not to drag your words?”

She hadn’t put much strength into it—likely to conserve energy for the cane. 

Or perhaps she didn’t want to leave visible marks on my face, in case I was presented at a ball.

The latter seemed more likely.

Recently, she’d been parading me around social gatherings, trying to sell me off to the highest bidder.

Not that I thought anyone would want to buy this skinny, miserable woman.

My silver hair was brittle, my red eyes unsettling.

By Mother’s own words, I looked “possessed by a demon.”

“Pull up your skirt and get on the chair.”

There was a small chair in the room, used for these punishments.

I removed my shoes and climbed onto it, lifting my skirt to expose my bare calves.

The cold air against my skin sent a shiver through me.

“A refined lady doesn’t entertain thoughts of sadness or sorrow,” she said.

The cane sliced through the air and landed on my calf.

Pain jolted through my body, but I didn’t move.

“And she doesn’t flinch or writhe around, even when it hurts.”

She began striking my calves with full force.

I didn’t scream or cry out, but even my heavy breathing wasn’t spared from her critique.

“A proper lady doesn’t let out coarse, vulgar breaths.

Emily, surely you’d rather be a gentleman’s wife than a common whore.

Imagine how much it would break my heart to see my beloved daughter sell her body.”

It was all nonsense.

No one truly practiced the etiquette she preached; they were just convenient excuses for abuse.

No book of manners advocates beating a child like this.

I hated the woman in front of me with every fiber of my being.

If I could, I would strangle her right now.

But I couldn’t.

How could I, when I was barely fed enough to stand?

Even if I tried, the sound would alert the family, and the aftermath would be horrifying.

They might even burn me alive for attempting such a thing.

“Stop….” I bit my lip to suppress the words, tasting the metallic tang of blood.

The pain in my calves began to dull as numbness set in.

“Ah-choo!”

“And of course, coughing is unacceptable,” she added coldly.

The taste of blood rose in my throat, and my body started trembling uncontrollably.

My calves throbbed, my head spun, and my whole body felt feverish.

“I’m sorry… I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, my voice weak and shaking.

The world blurred around me, but her strikes only grew harder.

“Knowing you’re wrong isn’t enough. If you understand, you must be punished for it.”

She raised the cane higher. “Lift your skirt more.”

My hands trembled as I obeyed, exposing my thighs.

One strike. Two.

Each one made my vision flash white, though closing my eyes did nothing to dull the pain.

I knew that screaming would only make things worse, but I couldn’t stop the small cries that escaped my lips.

My head felt hot, as though it were slowly cooking from the crown down.

“If you have no skills, aren’t that pretty, and have no remarkable talents, you should at least obey me.

If you listen, I’ll marry you off to a rich, handsome man, dress you up so you won’t be embarrassed at balls or social gatherings, and make you into a proper lady.

But why must you be so stubborn and cause me so much grief?”

There are no words to adequately describe the horror of listening to that nonsense while being beaten.

My thighs were already throbbing—sitting down later would be unbearable.

If I slouched even slightly, I’d get beaten again for improper posture.

In moments like this, it was impossible to believe this was just a story.

Whether in joy—though I’d never known joy—or pain, I felt alive, and that was enough to remind me that this was no fiction. It was my life.

It always seemed like everything was my fault, even when I knew it wasn’t.

But Emily thought so.

And because I was Emily now, I felt like I had to think so too.

It wasn’t my fault, was it?

They just needed someone to vent their frustrations on.

Someone to blame for their inferiority complex toward other nobles.

Why me, though?

What was it about me that made this acceptable?

They called it love. Punishing me because they love me. What a joke.

Weren’t authors supposed to look down from above, treating their characters as though they were gods?

If so, it would’ve been nice if whoever was writing this story had spared me a glance.

Just one line: Emily’s family ignored her, but at least they didn’t hurt her.

People can understand each other, but understanding changes nothing.

I understood perfectly why my family treated me this way, yet I couldn’t change a thing.

There was no miraculous transformation just because some clueless idiot reading romance novels was inserted into my life.

It was precisely because I understood that I suffered like this.

My family had come to a tacit agreement about why I had to be treated this way, and I had chosen to comply to avoid being thrown out.

I could’ve chosen to run to Ernst or run away entirely. Or perhaps even died—something dramatic and final.

But I didn’t.

Mother does this because she loves me.

Isn’t that right? Parents always love their children.

The books I read said so.

It’s impossible for a parent not to love their child.

That’s why Mother does this—to ensure I don’t stray, to help me grow into a proper lady, to instill good manners in me.

Because she loves me. That’s why she beats me until I can’t move.

A proper lady must never indulge in thoughts of sadness or sorrow.

Growing up in this family meant whining was out of the question.

Even in the sweltering heat of summer, I had to wear long sleeves to cover my bruises.

When I’d asked if I could avoid being bruised, I’d been told, You brought those bruises upon yourself. What do you expect?

Of course she loves me.

She’s just trying to make me into a woman any man would find charming—someone worthy of marriage.

How could a child ever defy their parent’s wishes?

It’s just… a little hard sometimes.

“Emily.”

Yes, just a little hard.

I’m the one who gets locked in closets, the one who gets beaten.

“Emily!”

Slap!

This time, the slap was hard enough to turn my head.

“Why aren’t you answering me?”

“…I’m sorry.”

“You may go now. That should be enough for today.”

My legs trembled so badly I could hardly descend from the chair.

“Oh, and since we’re attending a ball in two days, you should visit the doctor.”

A small mercy, I suppose, though it was hard to see it that way. 

At least I hadn’t needed to ask myself—an act that would’ve gotten me accused of feigning illness and beaten again.

“Good night, Emily.”

With those words, she handed me some money. I accepted it as gracefully as I could and tucked it into an inner pocket.

It would be just enough to cover a visit to the doctor, where I’d likely be handed some useless medicine.

“Good night, Mother,” I said.

My legs felt like they were burning, but I made sure not to limp or move awkwardly. A proper lady’s bearing must remain flawless.

Flawless? No. That’s for the Ellies of the world, for the beloved daughters of respectable families who grace balls and charm everyone they meet.

I was no lady.

I was a product—a commodity meant to be sold at the highest price.

I left the room and began walking back to mine.

The occasional passing servant or family member glanced my way but didn’t approach.

Keeping my posture perfect, I climbed the creaking stairs, walked the worn hallway, and finally reached my room.

Only once I closed the door behind me did I allow myself to crumble.