Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 43: Madwoman

The word hit me hard.

It lingered in my mind, demanding denial—yet I couldn’t immediately dismiss it.

“That’s…”

After some thought and mental acrobatics, I finally came up with the perfect response.

“I’m the sane one. It’s the rest of you who are strange.”

Madwoman, what a ridiculous notion. The real madwoman is my mother.

Would a sane person do such things to her own daughter, all because she had red eyes and white hair?

The madman is my father. Sure, at first, he pushed me away because he thought I wasn’t his daughter. 

Fine. But even after learning the truth, he treated me with reluctance, offering material support but withholding affection.

If he truly thought of me as his daughter, he’d treat me like Ellie.

Or maybe, as Mother says, it’s because I’m ugly. Ha.

The madman is Fabian. He joined Mother in tormenting me, and now that I’m breaking down, he doesn’t try to fix me. Instead, he tries coaxing me, like I’m a fragile toy he still wants to use.

What a vile person.

The madman is Daniel. I’m his sister, yet the way he treats me is unbefitting even for a servant, let alone family.

To him, I’m a toy—a stress reliever, nothing more.

The madman is the fourth sibling. I barely even remember their name. Some shut-in, holed up with books, socially inept.

And the madwoman is Ellie. After treating me like garbage, she now claims she doesn’t hate me. She even cried when I fell.

If Ellie had been the one to fall, I would’ve laughed, wondering what the hell she was doing.

So, clearly, I’m the normal one. It’s my surroundings that are the problem.

I moved toward Aria, who stared at me as though I were something alien. 

My broken leg slowed me down, but she was just sitting in a chair by the bed.

“Do you think this world is normal? This patched-together mess, cobbled from scraps of the world we used to live in?”

I grabbed her wrist. Her skin was warm.

Maybe this warmth is normal. My fingertips were always icy, whether due to poor circulation or because my body was just cold.

Aria flinched slightly at my touch. Though I lacked strength, when I tugged lightly, she let herself be pulled toward the bed.

I stared at her face for a long time.

Still breathtakingly beautiful. If I were still a man, I might have acted on my desires by now.

“No matter how miserable this body may be, I can still achieve anything. I could write a book for factory workers, miners, or farmers, and turn this world upside down.”

This world lacked the fiery propaganda that could hypnotize the masses back home.

“In my mind, I hold countless beautiful melodies from the geniuses of the paradise we left behind. And my head is filled with all sorts of random knowledge.”

“What does any of that have to do with you throwing yourself off a terrace?”

She spoke with pointed logic, as though trying to reason with me.

But logic and reasoning are wasted on someone who’s deeply down.

And I was profoundly down.

Maybe it was because of my broken leg. Or because I realized my fall had been utterly meaningless.

That’s why I didn’t call for anyone after falling. Even though I knew my leg was broken and in excruciating pain, I just sat there, grinning.

I wanted to be alone.

I was tired.

“Hmm. It doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

I slid my hand down from her wrist, entwining my fingers with hers. One by one, I laced my fingers through hers. Aria didn’t pull away.

“But you don’t have anything to do with me either.”

“…We came from the same place. Didn’t we agree to be friends?”

“Friends, friends. Sure, it sounds nice. Feels nice. But we’re not friends.”

I leaned in closer. My chest brushed against hers—it seemed larger than I’d expected.

“No matter how many times we hold hands, talk, hug, or even have fun together.”

“…Why?”

Her voice carried a faint edge of irritation. I hugged her, patting her back soothingly.

Resting my chin on her shoulder, I whispered softly, though the posture felt awkward—likely because I couldn’t move my legs freely.

“I don’t need help. I can handle everything myself. Has Ernst—or you—ever truly helped me?”

The room seemed to spin slightly as I spoke.

“You two—happily saving the pitiful lunatic! Sickly, filthy, ugly, strange, cutting herself all the time—but you’re such good people, so you’ll save her!

Even though she’s mentally ill, even though she’s always carving lines into her arms, you’re such saints to help someone like her! Hah.”

This wasn’t what I wanted to say.

I didn’t want to vent like this. So why were these words spilling out?

“I’m just angry. That’s it. Angry, and blurting nonsense…”

I cut myself off mid-sentence.

“Listen. My life was perfect. I got a lucky break, landed a job paying twice the average salary, and despite retaking a year after slacking off, I went to a prestigious university.

During that year, I even dodged active-duty military service and served as a reservist instead.

When I was younger, my mind was sharp, and I absorbed all sorts of knowledge like a sponge.”

Wanting to Be Saved

“Love life? Ha. God, what am I even talking about…”

Faint memories began surfacing, as though obscured by clouds.

I worked slowly, bought a house, watched movies, read novels, played the piano, and the violin. 

Sometimes I’d mess around on the drums, blow a trumpet, or pluck at the contrabass.

I didn’t like jazz much, but everyone around me seemed to love it. It was an ordinary, typical life.

If you asked whether I was happy, I probably wasn’t. But I was content.

It was enough to feel like I was leading a normal, decent life.

“Back in our world, the standard for ‘normal’ was ridiculously high. Here, the peasants feel accomplished if they can manage one meal for their family.”

I slowly started unraveling my story. Aria was the first person to hear this from me.

Although, her real name probably wasn’t Aria.

“I’m not… I’m not this pathetic. I’m not some wretched lunatic. I don’t even use polite speech. That’s something my wretched mother forced onto me.”

A trembling sensation crept over me. It wasn’t Aria who was shaking—I was.

“This isn’t me. If this is who I am, isn’t it just too pathetic? I was perfect. I’d prepared for a perfect life.”

The thought of being someone with no control over anything—it was too miserable to bear.

But that’s all Emily is. Not me, but Emily.

I’m not Emily Reichten. I don’t have brittle white hair, nor these red eyes. My skin was a healthy yellow. Back there, I was a mocked ‘monkey’—an Asian.

Now, it’s this pale, ghastly shade. Not even white—just pale.

It’s disgusting. I’m—I’m not Emily. I’m not!

“…If you’re not Emily, then who are you?”

“Exactly. Who am I, then?”

I nodded, thoughts tumbling over one another. No answers came.

After mulling over it for a while, I shifted the subject. I didn’t want to dwell on it anymore.

I used to tell myself I wanted to live. But honestly, I’ve always wanted to die. Today, tomorrow, yesterday—I’ve always wanted to die.

But every time I try, I start seeing beautiful things.

The words I’d buried deep inside were surprisingly easy to dig up.

Aria, have you ever seen stray cats in the streets?

Even the rats scurrying near the sewers are kind of cute, as long as you don’t touch them.

When I see weeds or wildflowers growing by the roadside, they remind me of myself. It’s comforting in a way.

I coughed several times, spitting out words that scratched my throat. I dirtied the expensive blanket with my blood.

“When I want to die, I start noticing these things. But when I want to live—oh, God. Why did my cat… why did my cat have to die?”

Suddenly, I hated Rin.

What was that cat thinking as it suffocated, leaving its kittens behind? Maybe it wasn’t thinking at all—it was just an animal.

Or maybe, because it was an animal, it thought of its offspring more than a person ever could.

“I don’t want to die miserably, wasting away.

I want… you know, a meaningful death.

Like sacrificing myself heroically for a great protagonist or dying tragically for a noble cause.”

I loved movies like that. The protagonist survives, but the supporting characters—charismatic and compelling—die in memorable ways.

I wanted that.

I knew I wasn’t the protagonist, after all.

Aria pulled me into a firm embrace and began patting my back.

I buried my face in her chest and stayed like that for a long time.

“Save me.”

The words weren’t mine.

But they came from my mouth.

Maybe Emily said them. But I was Emily.

So who spoke those words?

After pondering for a while, I simply pressed my face deeper into her chest and stopped thinking altogether.