I'm struggling to hold my ground against him, fearing I might be kicked out if I don't do something, but honestly, I thought I would be punished if I got caught. To me, it was a matter of life and death. But why? As I followed her curiously, Isabella's voice drifted out.
"Paula, do you know that quite a few servants have come and gone from this place?"
"Yes, I've heard that much."
"Given the circumstances, I've been more meticulous in selecting and bringing in new people. But those I brought in couldn't properly attend to the Master, and his condition only worsened. Despite this, I had to keep finding new people, but strange rumors started spreading, making it harder to find new ones. That's why I brought Paula, who hasn't received proper training, to take on this task."
Then Isabella stopped and turned around. I stopped too, still holding my apron to my nose, facing her. My eyes, visible through the gap in my bangs, blinked.
"It's time to change our approach since we can't keep replacing people."
"Then..."
"As long as the Master's body isn't harmed, you can take full responsibility for attending to him. Do as you see fit."
This was almost an implicit permission for my actions. Honestly, I didn't think she would turn a blind eye. What kind of strange rumors must have been circulating?
Anyway, it was a good thing for me. I had no intention of hurting him. I wanted to help him get better. But the process was far from easy.
He panics and pushes away anyone who touches him, throwing things and telling them to leave. He breaks and throws everything he can get his hands on, leaving the floor and furniture in shambles. When he runs out of things to throw, he screams or, unable to control his temper, tries to scratch his neck or chest until the skin tears, and I've had to stop him many times, breaking a sweat in the process.
At this point, it's a matter of who will tire out first.
And at night, moans can be heard through the thin walls. The sound of resistance in pain. My light sleeper's ears pick up even the faintest sounds, and I wake up. Listening to that faint, almost extinguishing sound, I find myself staring blankly into the darkness, unable to fall back asleep easily.
He is fighting.
Against death.
Thinking this, a strange sense of kinship arose.
I want to live, even if it's just a little longer, a little more. Some people might want to close their eyes as quickly as possible in this hellish life, but not me.
I want to live. There was a time when I desperately wished for death, but now I want to live. Even if it's a hellish life, choosing death is frustrating. Even if people point and laugh at me for being strange, or call me dirty, I want to survive, even if I have to bow my head and bend my body.
People call me a tough one. I don't mind being called that.
Even if I was taken in as a maid in a prestigious earl's house by a passing old gentleman, and the Master I serve is blind and has an even more insane temperament than I imagined.
When I entered Vincent's room, things flew as if it were a given. A cup flew past my right and shattered against the door. A clock flew past my left and rolled on the floor after hitting the wall. A pillow that flew next hit my face and fell. The shock made the silver tray in my hand tip forward. I anticipated the dessert on top would spill.
Today, I watched him vent his anger with a detached gaze, pondering what to do. Move forward or retreat. I bent down to clean up the squished dessert on the floor. Another pillow immediately flew and hit my face.
The moment the pillow fell, I decided. I had to say something.
As I stood up, a suppressed groan reached my ears. Vincent was huddled up, the earlier ferocity gone.
No, something was wrong with him.
"Master!"
Vincent was clutching his chest and gasping for breath.
Seeing his pale face, I immediately rummaged through my apron pocket and pulled out a small device, placing it in his mouth. Pressing the protruding part on top, he began to breathe, albeit with difficulty.
Recently, while attending to him, I've encountered various shocking situations. One of them is when he suddenly can't breathe.
The first time this happened, I was so startled that I ran to the main house to call Isabella. When I explained Vincent's condition, she immediately called the doctor. It turned out that a dedicated doctor lived here for the Master.
The doctor examined Vincent, who was clutching his chest in agony, and took immediate action. He placed a small device in his mouth, similar to what I did, and pressed the protruding part on top to help him breathe. Vincent soon regained his composure.
When I asked the doctor what it was, he said it was a device to assist breathing.
"I'll prepare one for you. Always keep it on hand."
This small device, small enough to fit in my hand, saved him.
According to the doctor, his nerves were on edge due to his blindness, and he was exhausted. Not eating on time and not going outside had made his body weak, making him more susceptible to illness.
To overcome this, he needed to eat regularly, go outside to get some sun, and do some light exercise. But Vincent stayed locked in his room. Even if he took his medicine, he refused to do so.
As if he wanted to die.
So what if he can't see? But if I think about not being able to see, I get scared. How terrifying it must be to live in a dark space, relying only on sound.
Of course, he can feel things by touch, smell, and taste, but none of that can overcome the fear of the unseen. Besides, he had almost died. The fear must be even greater than I can imagine.
But don't die.
It's not out of pity. I just don't want to have to clean up after a dead Master.
But I know. Every night, he struggles to stay alive.
Now that he was breathing on his own, I removed the breathing device from his mouth and put it back in my pocket. I checked his condition as he lay in bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his pale face looked exhausted. But his breathing was more regular than before.
As I tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he fiercely swatted my hand away. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but his furrowed brows revealed his dissatisfaction.
"Don't touch me."
"Seems like you're feeling better, since you can talk."
"Without you, I'd feel even better."
That mouth of his.
"Does suffering give you pleasure?"
"Get out."
"Only if you eat."
Instead of the fallen dessert, I brought breakfast. The usual thin, white gruel. I approached him with a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, not showing my determined face.
"Move—back—suck!"
"Sure, sure."
I grabbed his face, which was trying to avoid my touch, and fed him the gruel. I wanted to hold his face with my fingers, but I didn't. The last time I did, his teeth almost bit them off.
I wanted to feed him calmly, but his resistance made me pour the gruel directly from the bowl. The gruel that didn't go into his mouth spilled onto the sheets, and his face and neck were covered in it.
"No, no, no, choke!"
"Just a little more."
"Let, go, let... let go!"
Unable to bear it any longer, he kicked me. Focused on feeding him, I couldn't resist the sudden force and fell backward. In the struggle, I ended up falling to the floor at the foot of the bed.
"Ouch."
It hurts! I clutched the back of my head, which hit the floor, and groaned. My vision blurred. The bowl that fell next to my face spun and stopped.
The gruel made a white trail from the floor to the bed. His clothes were also stained with gruel. Despite this, he pulled the sheet over his body. The gruel on his cheeks dripped onto the sheet.
How am I going to clean this? A sigh escaped me at the thought of the struggle to come.
"You're crazy."
"The sheet is dirty. Your clothes too. It's better to change into clean ones."
I picked up the empty bowl and looked for the spoon, but couldn't find it. I gave up and brought new sheets and nightclothes. I realized it was better to do everything at once rather than in sequence, given his insane temperament.
"Don't touch my body."
"If you can change yourself, I won't touch you."
After a moment's thought, I pushed the new nightclothes toward him. He pressed himself against the wall, wary of me. I shook the nightclothes, but he didn't take them, so I climbed onto the bed to force him to change. He quickly snatched the nightclothes.
For some reason, he started to change quietly, so I quickly brought a small basin of lukewarm water. Since he refused to bathe, I wanted to use a damp towel to clean him.
"Wait a moment."
As I tried to stop him from changing into dirty clothes, he fiercely swatted my hand away. The sound of the slap echoed. Vincent glared at me savagely, but I wasn't particularly surprised. This was a familiar action.
"If you change into dirty clothes, you'll still be dirty. Use this to clean yourself."
I handed him the damp towel. He hesitated for a moment, and when I said I would clean him myself, he finally started to wipe his face.
However, he only wiped random spots. Even when I corrected him, he did it half-heartedly.
I took the damp towel back and cleaned the gruel-stained parts myself. He immediately tried to move away, but there was nowhere to go. I silently cleaned his face, neck, and hair, then got off the bed.
I needed to change the bedsheet, so I glanced at him, but he showed no sign of moving. After a moment, I grabbed the sheet. He pretended not to notice my intention to move him, but I could tell.
A struggle ensued as I tried to remove the sheet and he resisted. Suddenly, the sheet slipped out, and I fell backward, hitting my head on the floor for the second time.