"Mother, or should I call you Myra?" I paused, watching her closely for any reaction. "You hated hearing 'aunt' from me in the past. Remember when I called you that once? You yelled at me." As I spoke, I could sense her anger simmering beneath the surface. Her jaw tightened, and her nostrils flared slightly, betraying her irritation. I imagined her fists clenching, a silent desire to lash out at me, but she restrained herself. After all, she couldn't physically harm me like she did with Arnold; she couldn't kick me aside like a discarded object. But every dog has its day, and now it's my turn to reclaim my dignity. "I'm not calling myself a dog," I added, a hint of defiance in my voice. "Back then, while I suffered, you enjoyed it. But now, it's my time to enjoy."
"Let's eat something; you must be tired and hungry," Mr. Sheinz interjected, attempting to steer the conversation away from its tense trajectory. His words carried a subtle undertone of discomfort, a palpable desire to diffuse the mounting tension in the room.
As I settled into my seat at Arnold's house, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease lingering beneath the surface. Despite the outward appearance of familiarity, I remained acutely aware of my status as an outsider in this household. Everyone gathered around the table for dinner, a ritual I had only experienced in Rud's company before. Sitting in the place typically reserved for the head of the family, I felt a surge of defiance course through me.
"Get up, you can't sit here. This place is for the main head of the family," Myra's maid interjected, her tone laced with authority. Her words were like a slap in the face, a reminder of my place in this hierarchy.
"Excuse me, whose house is this?" I demanded, my voice cutting through the tension in the room. The maid fell silent, her expression betraying uncertainty.
"Tell me, whose house is this?" I repeated, my tone firm and unwavering. I refused to let them treat me as they once did, like a mere pawn to be moved at their whim. This was my opportunity to assert my authority, to demand the respect I deserved.
In the midst of the escalating tension, Myra and Mr. Sheinz entered the room, their presence adding an extra layer of intensity to the already charged atmosphere. Myra's eyes bore into me, demanding an explanation for the commotion that had erupted in her absence.
"What happened?" she inquired, her voice a mixture of concern and irritation. But before I could respond, the maid burst into tears, her accusations painting me as the instigator of the confrontation.
"Madam, I stopped him from sitting on the head of the family. He started to yell at me," the maid sobbed, her words accusing me of misconduct. Myra's expression darkened, a storm brewing beneath her controlled facade.
"Get up. Don't you have manners? It isn't your first time here. Don't you know it's for the head of the family?" Myra's voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. Even Mr. Sheinz remained silent, his gaze fixed on the unfolding drama.
"So whose house is this?" I challenged, refusing to back down in the face of Myra's accusations. "It's my parent's house, and you are here illegally. If I wanted, I would've thrown you out," Myra erupted, her anger boiling over.
"Did you see, Sheinz? How did he talk to me? Is this how you respect your elders?" Myra demanded, seeking validation from her husband. But I couldn't remain silent any longer, the injustice of their accusations fueling my resolve.
"Hello, Mrs. Sheinz. I don't give a damn about respect because I didn't learn a thing from you all. Aren't you my parents on papers? Shouldn't you teach me manners? When the elders didn't do their duty properly, how can I give you respect? I never learned it," I declared, my words laced with defiance. Deep down, I knew it wasn't entirely true. As an angel, I had been taught the highest etiquette lessons. However, in the human world, where kings and gods held no sway, practical knowledge differed from what I had learned in books. The intricacies of honorifics and societal expectations eluded me, leaving me to navigate this unfamiliar terrain with only the lessons I had gleaned from literature.
In the midst of the tense confrontation, I addressed Mr. Sheinz, my voice tinged with a mix of frustration and defiance. "My sweet adoptive father, didn't you explain to your wife? Legally, it's my house." His usual confident demeanor seemed to falter, his stance rigid like a puppet on strings.
Mr. Sheinz, visibly afraid of his wife's wrath, mustered the courage to speak up. "Honey, didn't I explain this to you inside just now? Just let him do whatever he wants." His words were a feeble attempt to diffuse the situation, and he pulled out a chair and sat down, hoping to avoid further conflict. Myra, realizing the tide was turning against her, begrudgingly followed suit, her silence a testament to her defeat.
As the food was served, I eagerly indulged in each course, from soup to salad, appetizer to entrée, and finally dessert. Yet, despite the feast laid out before me, my stomach remained unsatisfied. "Are you planning to keep me hungry? This is barely enough food. I eat this much for breakfast alone. Are you trying to starve a growing child?" I challenged Myra, my frustration evident in my tone. With a single hand gesture, she signaled for more food to be brought, and I continued to eat, determined not to be deprived.
"What a barbarian," Myra muttered under her breath, her disdain palpable even though she thought I couldn't hear her. Her words stung, a reminder of the disdain with which I was regarded in this household. But I refused to let her judgment affect me, continuing to eat with an air of defiance.
As I observed Myra's critique of my lack of elegance, I couldn't help but notice her own lapses in etiquette. Was she truly in a position to judge when she herself used the wrong spoon for dessert? And her audible soup-sipping hardly exemplified the refined behavior she claimed to value. But why should I concern myself with her standards of elegance when it was my house, after all? I resolved to eat as I pleased, regardless of her opinions.
While they hesitated to touch their food, I eagerly consumed each dish placed before me, determined not to waste a single morsel. Their incredulous stares as I cleared plate after plate only fueled my determination. "I want a two-tier cake. Let's have something for dessert," I declared, asserting my authority over the meal. The maid hesitated momentarily, perhaps taken aback by my voracious appetite, but she quickly complied with my request.
As I continued to eat, undeterred by their judgmental gazes, Mr. Sheinz ate slowly, savoring each bite, while I polished off my eighteenth plate. Despite their disbelief, I refused to apologize for my appetite or my appreciation for good food. After all, in my own home, I would eat as I pleased, without reservation or restraint.
"What are you waiting for?" I questioned, a hint of shame coloring my tone as I observed their hesitation.
"We were waiting for the cake you ordered," Mr. Sheinz replied tentatively, his words tinged with uncertainty.
"Why are you waiting for my cake? Are you expecting to share it, one slice at a time? If you think I'm going to share with you, then sorry, it's solely for me," I declared shamelessly, making it clear that my indulgence would not be shared with them. With that, they silently retreated to their room, perhaps contemplating their own actions.
Meanwhile, the maid arrived with the cake, a small consolation for the turmoil of the evening. It seemed to have taken an unnecessarily long time to prepare, considering the resources at our disposal, but I wasted no time in devouring it. Satisfied, I turned to retire to my room, only to find it transformed into a storage space.
"Where is my room? Who did this to my room?" I demanded angrily, my frustration bubbling to the surface. While it had once been Arnold's room, it was essentially mine now, as I inhabited his identity. The audacity of someone to invade my personal space incensed me, and I was determined to reclaim what was rightfully mine.
The maid who had confronted me earlier approached me once again, her demeanor tentative as she delivered the news. "It was young master," she explained, her voice barely above a whisper.
The anger within me surged at the realization that in my absence, my belongings had been callously discarded. "Are they saying that just because I'm not here, they can toss my things in the garbage?" I demanded, my expression dark with fury.
"Where is his room?" I pressed, my tone brooking no argument. The maid hesitated to respond, but I refused to wait for her answer. Instead, I relied on the memory of Arnold to locate the room myself.
Upon finding it, a wave of indignation washed over me. "Tell your young master to sleep in the garbage he created. From now on, this room belongs to me. And anyone who dares to object will find themselves shown the way out. The door is always open for those who have objections," I declared, my voice laced with authority.
With that, I slammed the door shut in anger, the weight of the situation settling heavily upon me. "This is the life you lived, Arnold," I whispered, feeling a pang of pity for both myself and the previous occupant of the room. The injustice of it all weighed heavily on my conscience as I grappled with the harsh realities of my new identity.