I was locked in a battle of wills, driven by the fear that I’d be cast out if I failed. Honestly, I knew if I were caught, I wouldn’t escape some form of punishment. As far as I was concerned, I was risking my life. But why? As I trailed behind her, Isabella’s voice drifted back.
“Paula, are you aware that quite a few servants have passed through here?”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard whispers of it.”
“Given the situation, I tried to be more meticulous than usual, setting strict criteria to bring someone in carefully. But everyone we recruited failed to serve the Master properly. If anything, his condition only worsened. Still, we had to keep searching, even as strange rumors began to circulate in the shadows. That is one of the reasons why I brought you, Paula, even though you haven’t received proper training.”
Isabella stopped and turned. I halted in tandem, facing her while keeping my apron pressed over my nose. My eyes, visible through the slit in my bangs, blinked.
“We can’t keep swapping people out. It’s time to change our approach.”
“Then….”
“As long as it doesn’t harm the Master’s body, the service is left entirely to you, Paula. Do as you see fit.”
That was as good as tacit permission. Honestly, I hadn’t expected her to turn a blind eye. Just how strange were those rumors, anyway?
Regardless, it was a good thing for me. I had absolutely no intention of harming him. Rather, I intended to make him healthy. But the process was anything but easy.
He would startle and shove away anyone who touched him, throwing objects and screaming for them to get out. Because he smashed whatever he could get his hands on, neither the floor nor the furniture survived. If he had nothing to throw, he would scream at the top of his lungs or, unable to control his temper, try to claw at his own neck or chest until the skin tore—leaving me to break into a cold sweat as I tried to restrain him.
At this point, it was a question of who would tire out first.
At night, groans would drift from behind the thin wall. The sound of resistance, of someone sobbing in pain. I was a light sleeper; I’d wake at the faintest sound. Listening to that voice, as if it were about to flicker out, I would find myself staring blankly into the darkness. Sleep never came easily.
He was fighting.
Against death.
A strange sense of kinship bloomed.
To linger, even for one more day. That was how I wanted to live. While some in this hellish life wanted to close their eyes sooner, I didn’t.
I wanted to live. There had been a time when I desperately wished for death, but now, I clung to existence. Even if this life were a hell, choosing death felt like a defeat. I didn’t care if people pointed fingers at me or called me dirty. I wanted to survive, even if it meant bowing my head and stooping my back.
People called me stubborn. I didn’t mind.
Even if I had caught the eye of an old gentleman passing by, only to become a maid for a prestigious Count’s family, and even if the Master I served was blind and possessed a temper beyond anything I could have imagined.
As I entered Vincent Bellunita’s room, an object flew toward me as a matter of course. A cup zoomed past my right side and shattered against the door. A clock flew past my left, hit the wall, and rolled across the floor. A pillow hit my face square on. Because of the impact, the silver tray I was holding tipped forward, and the dessert tumbled to the floor.
Watching him throw yet another tantrum, I pondered my next move. Advance or retreat. I bowed my head to wipe up the crushed dessert, but another pillow slammed into me.
As it fell, I made up my mind. I had to say something.
But as I rose, I heard a stifled groan. Vincent was curled up. The malice from a moment ago had vanished.
His condition was strange.
“Master!”
Vincent was clutching his chest, gasping for air.
Seeing his deathly pale face, I rummaged through my apron pocket. I pulled out a small device and placed it in his mouth. When I pressed the protruding part on top, he began to breathe, albeit with great difficulty.
Lately, I had grown accustomed to these confusing, terrifying moments.
The first time it happened, I had panicked and run to the main house for Isabella, who then called the private physician. That was when I learned a doctor lived on the premises specifically for the Master.
The doctor had examined him, inserted this device, and explained how to press it to restore stability. He had given it to me, warning me to keep it on hand at all times.
This small device, fitting in the palm of a hand, had saved him.
According to the doctor, his blindness kept his nerves on edge, and his constant refusal to eat or go outside had left his body in a dangerously weakened state. It would be one thing if he took his medicine, but he stubbornly refused that, too.
Like a person who wanted to die.
I couldn’t fathom what it was like to be blind, but the thought was terrifying. To live in a dark space, relying solely on sound—it must be a horror beyond my imagination.
Still, he shouldn’t die.
It wasn’t that I felt sorry for him. I just didn’t want to deal with the corpse of the master I was serving.
But I knew. Every night, he struggled to stay alive.
I pulled the respirator from his mouth once he was breathing on his own. I tucked it back into my pocket and checked on him. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead; his bloodless face looked exhausted. Still, he was breathing more evenly.
As I reached out to wipe his brow, he slapped my hand away. His eyes were turned toward the ceiling, his brow tightly furrowed.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Judging by how you’re speaking, you seem to have recovered.”
“I’d recover even faster if you weren’t here.”
Always that mouth of his.
“You seem to enjoy suffering.”
“Get lost.”
“After you eat.”
Instead of the fallen dessert, I brought breakfast. As always, it was white rice porridge, thin as water. I approached him with the bowl and spoon, refusing to let my resolve show on my face.
“Ge— cu— huff!”
“Yes, yes.”
I familiarly held his face as he tried to avoid me and fed him a spoonful of porridge. I would have liked to insert my finger to hold his jaw steady, but I couldn’t. The last time I tried, I nearly had it bitten off.
I wanted to feed him calmly, but his resistance was fierce. I ended up pouring the porridge in, spilling it over his clothes and sheets. His face and neck were a mess.
“No, ugh, I, c-cough!”
“Just a little more.”
“Let, go, let… let go!”
Unable to endure it, he kicked me. Caught by surprise, I lost my balance and tumbled backward, landing hard on the floor.
“Ugh.”
It hurt. I hit the floor—I groaned, clutching the back of my head. My vision blurred. The bowl that had fallen beside my face spun and came to a stop.
Porridge splattered from the floor all the way up to the bed, leaving white streaks. Even so, he pulled the sheet over himself, hiding. Congee dripped from his cheek onto the fabric.
*How am I supposed to clean that up?* I sighed, anticipating the struggle.
“You’re insane.”
“The sheet is dirty. Your clothes, too. It would be better if you changed into new ones.”
I picked up the empty bowl and looked for the spoon, but it was lost in the mess. Giving up, I went to fetch a fresh sheet and pajamas. I had learned that with his temper, it was better to be prepared for the entire process at once.
“Don’t touch me.”
“If you’re willing to change yourself, I won’t touch you.”
After a moment of hesitation, I held the new pajamas out to him. He pressed himself against the wall, eyeing me warily. I swayed the clothes in front of him; when he didn’t take them, I climbed onto the bed to force him—at which point he snatched them away.
He seemed willing to change quietly, so I quickly brought over a small basin of lukewarm water to wipe him down.
“Wait a moment.”
As I tried to stop him from putting on clean clothes while still stained, he slapped my hand away. The sound of skin hitting skin rang out. Vincent glared at me, but I wasn’t startled. This, too, was familiar.
“If you change like that, you’ll still be dirty. Wipe yourself with this first.”
I pressed the wet towel into his hands. When he hesitated, I offered to do it myself, and he finally began to wipe his face.
He only wiped the wrong places. Even when I corrected him, he went through the motions insincerely.
In the end, I took the towel and wiped the congee from his face, neck, and hair myself. He recoiled, but there was nowhere for him to run. I climbed down from the bed to change the sheets, but he showed no sign of moving.
A battle of strength ensued: me trying to strip the sheets, and him digging in his heels to stay put. Then, in an instant, the sheet yanked free. He flopped backward, hitting the back of his head on the floor for the second time.