Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 23: Reflection and Memories

Calling it “tears of blood” might sound dramatic and strange, but even before I became Emily, this happened often.

When I worked too hard, became tired, or rubbed my dry eyes too much, blood vessels in my eyes would sometimes burst, leaving them streaked red.

So, my body is fine.

It’s just exhaustion, frustration, and dizziness manifesting in this way.

Rather than worrying about bleeding, I was more concerned about dirtying the bed and my clothes. 

I sat on the bare floor in my undergarments, wiping the blood away cleanly each time it dripped, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

If I went straight to the bathroom, the smell of blood might cause a fuss.

I ate so much earlier, yet it didn’t seem to make a difference.

My ribs still jutted out visibly.

The conclusion I drew from observing my body was simple:

Horrible.

I don’t fully understand how my friend used to whine about how they’d die when the last leaf fell, but I think I can now grasp the feeling of despair.

When nothing works out, when your body aches, and when you start wasting away, it’s natural to feel that way.

I’m turning into a useless body, one that struggles even to hold a pen.

Still, as long as I take my medicine, I’ll manage.

No matter how grotesque I become, I’ll keep clawing at life, trying to live just one more day.

Don’t spout nonsense about giving up.

Emily may have thrown this body away like trash, but to me, it’s a treasure.

To breathe fresh air, to jot down random thoughts in a notebook, to notice weeds, flowers, and stray cats on the roadside—

Goodness, even thinking about it fills me with so much joy. How could I possibly die?

I won’t succumb to illness.

I won’t wither away and die in misery.

If I’m to die, it’ll be beautifully or, at the very least, meaningfully.

Taking a shallow breath, I pushed thoughts of death aside.

The bleeding seemed to have stopped.

I crawled into bed, pulled the blanket over myself, and drifted off to sleep.

The air outside must’ve been warm. The windows were locked and couldn’t be opened, yet I felt an odd chill in the night air.

Mother seemed delighted by the idea of me meeting someone, whether it was Ernst or one of Father’s subordinates. As long as they had money, she didn’t seem to care who it was.

The meeting spot was a park not far from the mansion.

I wasn’t walking there alone—Father walked beside me, which made the outing less burdensome.

A street performer had set up a chair and was playing the violin in the busy thoroughfare.

Though the crude performance managed to capture the attention of passersby, it wasn’t particularly impressive.

Father, noticing my gaze fixed on the performer, spoke.

“Do you still want an instrument like that?”

“It’d be nice to have one.”

You were always so interested in instruments, even as a child.

For some reason, you seemed to play better than the teachers I hired for you.

Father’s voice trailed off as though recalling a fond memory.

Of course, I’d been interested. How could I not have been?

I had to surpass my teachers—it was inevitable.

What started as a hobby had spanned over a decade, encompassing various instruments.

Though all I had to show for it were a few shallow trophies from small competitions.

“All of it… because of your mother—”

“There’s no need to continue, Father. It was all my fault, anyway.”

“…All I can say is that I’m sorry.”

Now, I’m stuck in my room, scribbling words into a notebook.

And yet, there was a time when the house was filled with instruments.

The room that is now used as the punishment room was once a sanctuary for my collection.

Violin, some obscure woodwind instruments, trumpet, trombone (though it was too heavy to hold properly), and even a piano—there was nothing I didn’t have.

Perhaps it was guilt.

Father had always treated me kindly, perhaps as penance for once believing I wasn’t his daughter.

Even now, though he’s busier and more exhausted than ever, he still treats me with care.

If I asked for something, he would somehow procure it, even when the household was stretched thin.

And, as always, he greeted me first before anyone else.

Back then, I harbored a deep hatred for waltzes, polkas, or any music pretending to be sentimental.

For reasons I can’t explain, that was my way of rejecting the world at the time.

The music I played was composed by geniuses; it was inherently beautiful.

Everyone in the household was amazed.

Even Mother, who despised me, couldn’t deny it.

At that time, even Emily thought the world would be better off without someone like me.

Of course, things didn’t end well, to the extent that Father still apologizes to me for it.

But it’s not an important story.

“I hope meeting this friend clears away some of that heaviness,” Father said, his tone tentative.

I answered with a faintly reluctant “Okay.”

Then, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a few coins, and tossed them into the tattered hat lying in front of the violinist.

The street performer, thanking me for the coins, threw out remarks that bordered on mockery. A vagabond with no home, though—maybe that’s just how they speak. I let it go.

Father, however, was furious. But when I said, “Aren’t commoners all like that?” he begrudgingly dropped the matter.

The park was filled with families and couples.

Some women shaded their faces with deep-drawn parasols, while others hid in secluded spots between trees and shrubs. A few spread blankets on the grass, eating sandwiches.

They all looked happy.

Unlike me.

Walking along the park path, we came across a man sitting on a bench in a light uniform. He had one leg crossed over the other and smoked a pipe.

The smell was unpleasant, and I furrowed my brow involuntarily.

Noticing us, he stubbed out the pile of tobacco in his pipe on the ground with his shoe and tucked the pipe into his coat. 

Then, stiffening like a soldier greeting a superior officer, he greeted my father.

“This is my daughter, the one I mentioned. Isn’t she lovely?”

“Yes, sir! She’s very beautiful!”

His eyes twitched slightly, betraying nervousness.

Well, I’m just here to drop her off. You two can talk or walk around as you like.

Since it’s your first meeting, things might be awkward with me around, so I’ll leave you to it. Make sure she’s back by dinner.

“Yes, sir. Understood. Safe travels, sir.”

“And take it easy on the smoking around my daughter.”

“Yes, sir!”

With that, Father returned to the mansion.

He’ll probably just drink himself to sleep anyway. Couldn’t he have stayed nearby for a little while longer?

The atmosphere was painfully awkward.

Honestly, being paired up with a stranger like this by one’s parents was bizarre.

And Father, as usual, respected my “freedom” in the most half-hearted way.

Yes, half-hearted.

I didn’t want to be here, but I didn’t let it show.

Father had been so eager about this meeting that my feelings hardly mattered.

“You can smoke if you want. I don’t mind,” I said.

The man gave a sheepish laugh.

“By the way, may I ask your name?”

He didn’t even know my name? And now that I thought about it, I didn’t know him either.

“Emily,” I said simply.

I didn’t bother with my last name.

He surely knew my father’s name, but I didn’t feel like saying it aloud.

It’s not that I hated what I’d inherited from my father.

It’s just… adding that surname made me feel like a product Mother was trying to sell.

“Fritz Mauser,” he replied. Standing around felt tiresome, so I asked, “Would it be alright if I sat next to you?”

He nodded, and I took a seat at a reasonable distance—far enough for another person to fit between us.

For a while, neither of us spoke. I wracked my brain, trying to think of something to say to break the awkward silence.

“I’m sorry about my father. He probably forced this on you,” I said.

He chuckled awkwardly, not denying it.

“If you’d rather head home or go somewhere else, feel free. I’ll just tell Father we didn’t get along and decided to part ways.”

“We’re both being dragged along, aren’t we? Might as well kill some time together.

Sitting alone in a park on a day like this, smoking a pipe, draws too much attention.”

He pulled out his pipe, packed it with fresh tobacco, and lit it with a sulfurous match. 

The acrid smell of burning, moisture-soaked leaves filled the air, and I couldn’t help but grimace.

Noticing, he asked, “If it bothers you, I can put it out.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, and he shrugged.

Crossing his legs again, he resumed puffing on the pipe, watching the people in the park.

“Alright, then.”

I found myself observing the park-goers as well.

What’s so amusing that they’re all smiling like that?

Propping my chin on my hand, I watched them—though seeing couples kissing wasn’t particularly entertaining.

“Do you have any hobbies?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Since we’ve got nothing else to do, would you mind keeping me company for a chat?”

“And what would I talk about with someone who’s been puffing away on a pipe since we met?”

“If I were a decent man, I’d have run off at the sight of those marks on your wrists. But I’m still here, aren’t I? That’s worth a little conversation, isn’t it?”

I must have propped my chin in a way that made the faint scars visible.

At balls, I always wore thick long sleeves to hide them, but today, I wore a thin, slightly translucent white blouse.

These marks weren’t new. If they were, he’d have called them wounds instead of scars.

Since I had nothing else to do, I decided to indulge him and be his conversation partner.

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