Please Kill Me - Chapter 42
Every day, Yekaterina’s goal was to fulfill her role as a true member of Offenbach, to repay the kindness Sergei had shown by picking up a street beggar like her and raising her with such care.
Yet, why did a part of her heart feel unbearably cold?
– Dmitry! How did you get hurt like this? Look at this face…
– I just fell during training. It’s nothing serious, don’t worry.
– Such a child! What if you get a scar? I need to find you a good ointment. Come here.
When Dmitry got hurt training with Yekaterina, Ludmilla made a big fuss about it.
Perhaps she was more concerned because the injury was on his face, or maybe it was just the pain of seeing her precious only son hurt.
The reason wasn’t clear, but one thing was certain.
The woman fussing over Dmitry’s wounds was the same one who wouldn’t even glance at Yekaterina’s injuries, deeming them disgusting.
When Yekaterina returned from rigorous training battered and bruised, Ludmilla always looked as though she wished she hadn’t seen anything.
– Go get treated, Yekaterina. And stay away from me until you’re healed. It’s quite unsettling.
Ludmilla was a delicate noblewoman, able to neatly eat a T-bone steak with utensils but clueless about how to butcher a chicken. Seeing such a task might even make her faint.
Thus, Yekaterina was genuinely grateful for Ludmilla’s concern.
Mother cared for me despite feeling uncomfortable.
The simple instruction to get treated felt sincerely kind.
That was, until she saw Ludmilla fuss over Dmitry who was bleeding from his injuries, and personally apply ointment with her own hands.
How would she describe that feeling? Perhaps like stepping onto a lake, thinking the ice was solid, only to find it hadn’t frozen and plunging her foot into the icy water.
It was cold and sad.
It wasn’t just about Dmitry’s incident.
From the way Sergei and Ludmilla treated Yekaterina, to the servants who pretended she didn’t exist, it all contributed to that feeling.
There was only one way to not feel sad about all the neglect: to accept it as normal and deserved. Thus, Yekaterina realized her first truth. People are inherently indifferent to others.
She was a stranger in this world. Without anyone left to call family or a place to return to, she was the epitome of an outsider.
So, the alienation was only natural. There was no need to feel sad or bear any resentment. She had known since she was seven that her death would bring no tears.
‘I wish I could die quickly,’ she thought. Life was hard.
As Yekaterina contemplated her life in Offenbach and its echo in Rostislav, someone entered the training ground.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.”
The sudden voice directed three pairs of eyes towards the door. A footman hurried in. He was taken aback at the sight of an injured Leonid before hesitantly speaking.
“Your Grace, have you been injured?”
“Just state your business. What is it?”
“Well… a messenger from the imperial palace has arrived. I was told Your Grace was here and came to escort you.”
“….What?”
Leonid furrowed his brows, quickly sorting through possible reasons for such an unexpected visit.
‘The meeting with Yuri today was informal. Not many should know about it.’
It’s unlikely the Emperor, amidst his illness, would be aware of such matters. So, a pressing issue must have arisen.”
‘Now of all times…’
Leonid glanced at the bandages wrapped around his wound. Vasily, too, seemed concerned about his master’s injuries.
“Do you need to see them personally? Or should I go in your place? You’re not well.”
“If it’s from the imperial palace, it’s only proper for me to go.”
However, given his condition is not great, Leonid was torn. But the matter was urgent, it made his decision swift.
“This is not a grave injury to faint over, so I’ll see them personally. It’s treated so seeing a doctor after the visit won’t be too late. Where is the messenger?”
“They’ve been taken to the reception room for now, this way,”
“Your Grace, I will accompany you, if you permit.”
“Do as you wish, Vasily. When have you ever listened to me anyway?”
As Leonid and Vasily were about to leave the training ground, a voice that had been silent until now suddenly stopped them.
“Leonid, wait a moment.”
Leonid was amusingly easily caught by that voice. Disregarding his own injury as trivial and hurrying off seemed pointless now as he stopped in his tracks at the call.
That voice, always indifferent and detached, what could it possibly want?
Turning around, their eyes met. Perhaps because he had been facing away, or because those deep black eyes were always looking elsewhere, but now they were intently observing Leonid.
What could she possibly want to discuss now?
