Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 49: Childish Thoughts

Ernst returned, but nothing seemed to improve. There were no meaningful exchanges of words, no lifting of the mood.

All Ernst did was glance at me with a troubled expression, sit down, and sigh.

“…The doctor said your body is so weak that even taking medicine must be done with caution.”

“Who said that?”

“The physician who prescribed your medicine.”

“Quack. I’m walking around just fine and even jumped off a roof. What about me seems weak?”

“……”

“So, when exactly are you going to let me leave?”

“At least stay until the scratches on your body heal…”

“Sure, whatever.”

For someone who had seemed ready to imprison me forever, that was surprisingly acceptable.

“So, how long do you think we can keep this up?”

“Keep what up?”

“I’ll go back to the mansion, and another identical day will begin.”

“…Still, I’ll help you. Over time, things will change, even if only a little. And Ernst is right next door, too!”

I didn’t understand why they wanted to help me, but I suppose something might change.

Even if it does, though, it’ll all still be the same at its core.

Even so, nothing will truly change.

The fundamental problem remains unsolved.

I told you the solution, and you refused it.

Ernst, oblivious to the context, asked Aria what the solution was.

Aria, sniffling and teary-eyed, couldn’t even answer.

What… What do you expect me to do?

I’ve never even seen your mother’s face, so I don’t know. But still, she’s your parent—that has to mean something, right?

I was surprised.

I thought Aria would bring out some universal moral principle to crush me, being the upright person she is.

“Well then.”

“And… if you do that, what happens to you? What will you do?”

“I already told you. Living like this isn’t living.”

Aria looked at me, her face conflicted.

I couldn’t quite place her emotions.

If I could understand feelings like that, I’d have opened a fortune-telling shop by now.

An albino running a fortune-telling business.

That’d make me the perfect target to be pelted with garbage for being a witch.

Ah, but they wouldn’t burn me. Only barbarians do that.

“Anyway, nothing’s going to change.

Isn’t that right, Ernst? Nothing’s changed so far.”

“Well…”

I cut him off and started reciting my own dismal story.

It was as if I were narrating someone else’s life.

“So, let’s see… My room is about half the size of the space you’d give your pet.

In the morning, I’ll fiddle with the window, sigh, and then prepare my bedding.

Breakfast? That starts with choking down some shriveled rye bread and water.

That’s how the day begins.”

At least, when I was younger, they used to fry me a slice of ham and an egg occasionally.

Lately, I’ve been having a lot of nightmares.

In these nightmares, it turns out that someone as perfect as me is actually Emily Reichten—a dumb, pitiful girl.

And not just any girl, but an albino one at that.

I mean, if there are people who ride horses, of course there’d be people who ride—ugh, never mind. Just a joke, really.

“…That’s not funny. It’s just unpleasant.”

Of course, it isn’t funny.

Hate is rarely something pleasant.

The remnants of empty people turn into malice, spewing hatred for the sake of it.

And maybe I’ve become a little strange myself.

Before I became Emily, I used to think hating, scorning, and belittling others was inherently wrong.

But now, I do it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That’s me.

I was born as a joke, and the people around me do nothing but mock me.

Even you, Aria, and Ernst—you don’t see me as anything but pitiful, do you?”

I don’t want to be someone who needs protecting.

I’d rather bear the duty of protecting someone else.

But even so, I don’t know.

What do I want?

What do I wish to do?

So, every day, I get swept away by my emotions, drifting aimlessly without direction or rules.

I tell myself this life isn’t so bad, but it’s hard to ignore the bad things around me that constantly influence me.

Someone always seems to be there, unable to leave me alone when I appear remotely happy, burdened with a need to ruin it.

Anyway, I leave the room, walk down the hallway, and head to the bathroom.

If I run into a servant along the way, I throw out a nasty comment for no reason.

If I meet a sibling, I bite my tongue, suppress my curses, and endure their barbs.

Then, I clean myself in the bathroom.

I wash away despair, anguish, or bad luck—whatever it is.

Though I feel like I’m also washing away any remaining good fortune, that’s just something I have to accept.

If I had a clear goal, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

Ultimately, this is all my fault.

I should have escaped long ago, even if it meant dying or facing misery.

Or I should’ve knelt before Ernst and begged him to save me.

Blaming Emily isn’t fair.

I’ve never truly made a choice in my life.

I just delayed decisions and cursed the time as it came, lamenting my situation.

Sometimes, I used to cut my arms or wrists in the bathroom.

But lately, I’ve been feeling slightly better, so I haven’t done that there for a while.

Probably because I no longer feel the need to see blood directly.

With just a single cough, thick blood splatters from my mouth. Why bother dragging a blade to my wrist when the evidence of my frailty is already so visible?

“You always said nothing was wrong when I asked,” Ernst said, his tone laced with frustration.

I had hidden it intentionally. Wearing long sleeves to cover my arms, stepping away when Ernst got too close—it was deliberate.

Thanks to that, we weren’t much more than acquaintances, exchanging polite greetings when we saw each other. It wasn’t the kind of bond you’d call childhood friendship.

Ernst, you only just found out that I’m sick, didn’t you?

Not that I’m blaming you; I’m just stating the obvious.

Ernst looked like he wanted to argue, but he closed his mouth instead, wiping his face with a weary hand.

Maybe he thought any words he said would just make me twist things and label him the strange one instead.

“You were kind enough to talk to someone like me just because I looked a little pale, and I responded like most people would when approached—politely, that’s all.”

When someone as insignificant as me speaks, poor commoners quake and act grateful as if they’ve been bestowed a royal blessing.

It’s the same thing here.

When Ernst speaks to me, I should quake and act grateful in return.

When people of high status show kindness, those below them feel burdened and avoid them.

And even now, I feel incredibly burdened. I’m pretending not to, but the truth is, I don’t need your so-called help.

Unless someone comes riding a white horse to pluck out my mother’s hair, simply dragging me out of the mansion won’t solve anything.

If that were enough, I would’ve run away a long time ago.

I’d have become a prostitute, or a tavern server—basically the same thing—or maybe gotten a job handling books, given that I can at least read and write.

The point is, I’m not strange.

I’ve always been like this, just hidden it well.

It might seem stubborn, maybe even absurd, but I believe in untangling things that are negatively tied. That’s the right answer.

And I’m tired of putting things off, tired of hiding, tired of pretending I’m fine.

What’s the point of helping me?

The tangled mess between my mother and me could be solved simply.

It’s crude, sure, but when a knot is too messy, the best solution is to cut it.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the strength for cutting, so I need a gun.

A weapon for the weak, a friend to the powerless—a single pull of the trigger is all it takes to solve everything.

“All I ever do is respond with ungrateful sarcasm, mock you, and laugh at your efforts. So why bother?”

Aria and Ernst’s attempts to help me, giving me comfort here, only hardened my resolve.

Even if my body is at ease, if my mind isn’t, the peace won’t last.

It’s contradictory, but that’s the truth of it.

I know how to resolve this.

I believe in it with an eerie sense of certainty.

It will solve everything.

Things will work out somehow.

Tomorrow will be happier than today.

And even if tomorrow doesn’t come—still.

A sudden sting in my throat.

I coughed. Blood.

The two of them looked at me with trembling, worried eyes, running around to call for a physician in a frenzy.

I told them it wasn’t necessary, but they wouldn’t listen.

Maybe they genuinely pity me, truly feel sorry for me, and perhaps they even think of me as a friend.

But believing that to be true felt too pathetic.

Friendship can only exist between equals.

Just like I told Aria—masters and servants can’t be friends.

It’s not that I don’t want friends.

But if I’m to be a friend, I’d need to break free from this life of being dragged around like a dog on a leash.

Yes.

To be a friend.

That’s a good excuse.

I couldn’t help but smirk, feeling a strange, giddy excitement.

Even though my throat felt like it was on fire, I was happy.