Chapter 22: Humman wordds nott isy

A few days later, I’ve grown used to the brat's presence. I still hate her, though. I hate her a lot. I hate her so much that I’m just waiting for an opportunity to yell at her. I mean, I do frequently yell at her, but like… I want to yell at her really hard. I wanna scold her and scream for the sake of it; release all my pent-up emotions until she cries; reduce her to a mere pebble at the side of the road. Unfortunately, no such situation arises.

I’m only half serious, though. While my words reflect my deepest desires, full of past bitterness and pain, the reality is a lot brighter than that. Sometimes it shows that she grew up as a member of royalty; even I can’t deny she’s truly well-behaved. Aside from her ridiculous fear of the toilet bowl, there’s no reason to keep up my act yet…

“Wrong! That’s not how you use that word!”

…and yet I can’t help but yell at her sometimes. I’m spending several hours a day tutoring her, not because I want to, but because communication proves nearly impossible unless we are proficient in one of the two languages. Even though she’s learning incredibly fast, it’s still not fast enough for my waning patience. I wonder if I’ll grow some grey hair as a consequence?

“Deifff?” She jerks, mispronouncing my name as severely as ever. Taken aback, she apologizes. “Prezzia iss mutsch sorry…”

I want to yell at her even more, but I have the decency to have mercy. She’s learned more of my tongue in a few days than I’ve learned of hers in a lifetime.

“You’re very sorry…” I grunt exasperatingly.

“Prezzia iss ferry sorry,” she corrects herself with a matching expression. Maybe it’s the thoroughness of her behavior that pisses me off the most. I just don’t know how to deal with it. Even through her horrific pronunciation, her sincerity reaches me. I appreciate her attempts to behave, yet I subconsciously want to have a reason to be mad at her. An actual, good reason. I can’t get angry at her trying her best. I’m not that evil.

Just bitter.

“Deifff?” The brat tilts her head. Couldn’t she at least try to say my name correctly? Didn’t I tell her she shouldn’t try that cute thing on me? I’m not gonna yield just because she does the puppy eye thingy. “Juu angree ahr?”

I inhale.

Yes, I am. Very.

I exhale.

“Are you angry?” I correct her, resisting the urge to yell. Since she used a questioning tone, I could deduce she meant to ask a question rather than make a statement. I partially lie when answering the question. “I’m not angry. I’m annoyed and impatient, though.”

She tilts her head again, which means she hasn’t heard these words before. Quickly, I look them up.

“Not angry, but annoyed not and patient not.”

Now having the demon words, the kid scrolls through her book to find and memorize the words. It’s basically how most of the lessons go, although her ability to talk steadily increases, and I have to use the filthy demon tongue a lot less now. Conceiving to her the joys of grammar rules - a concept that demon language mostly lacks, is a different story entirely, though.

“Prezzia understannt, shee needd learn moar.”

I inhale.

It’s not her fault, don’t yell…

I exhale.

“Yes, you do,” I grumble in her direction. I generally avoid looking at the brat if I can avoid it. Now that she’s appropriately dressed and her hair is cared for, she’s actually a little adorable. The dress she wears today has a silly, girly pattern, and Lucy dared to sneak some tiny braids into her hair. The moment I accept that the demon kid looks cute, I will betray the feelings deep inside me. It mustn’t happen. Still, sometimes an intense stare gets the point across much better than my words ever could.

“I understand, you understand, she, he, it understands. Remember that,” I explain while making my frustration known through the expression I wear.

“Prezzia remember it.”

No you don’t you little piece of demon shit, ugh!

I’m on my last straw when I explain it to her.

“Every word, not just ‘understand’! You must add an ‘s’ to every word that describes what’s happening or what someone is doing. They are called ‘verbs’, you should have learned it already!”

“Prezzia iss ferry sorry…” the girl mumbles. “Humman wordds nott isy…”

I can tell she worded herself awkwardly to avoid the 3rd person talk she’s picked up for whatever reason. I haven’t had the patience to tell her to knock it off yet. Besides, this toddler talk puts her just in the right range. She’s belittling herself, just as things should be. But it’s also a little adorable… anyways.

Looks like she didn’t understand the rule; maybe some examples will help?

“I want you to learn. You want to learn. Dave wants you to learn.” The kid listens intently.

“Did you understand?” Her uncertain gaze wanders around.

“Try making a sentence yourself.” She nods.

“Prezzia iss…”

Whatever she meant to say, she stops speaking and reconsiders her words.

“Prezzia thinx…” She eyes me fearfully, afraid to make another mistake. The pronunciation aside, I nod, prompting her to finish her sentence. “She thinx she iss… bad girrl…”

Yes, you are, stupid demon!

A hint of dejection is creeping across her face.

She’s getting discouraged; we should take a break. My patience ran out long ago anyway.

“Let’s call it a day,” I announce with a sigh, despite knowing she wouldn’t understand the idiom. I’m tired of trying to talk in easy words.

“Break?” she asks timidly in demon-speak. I nod. I really need a break from this bloody kid.

“Study more after your break,” I instruct her before making a beeline for the door. I can see the girl tear up from the corner of my eye, but I don’t care. I’m only doing this because Ken asked me to. If the brat gets butthurt over something I said, so be it. Fuming, I leave her to herself. Quickly, I consider locking the door but decide against it.

At the very least, I trust her that much now. She won’t run away.

And even if she does, Beatrix has a tracker planted on her. We’d find her again.

~ Precia ~

He saw…

I can’t hold back my tears long enough. Dave saw some of them before he left the room. It’s so frustrating. I’m studying and learning all the time. I’m being polite and well-behaved. I apologize when I make a mistake. I’m doing whatever he tells me. And yet? He yells at me. He yells all the time. It’s never enough.

I don’t know if Dave is still in his room, so I stifle the sobs bubbling from inside me. I want to suppress the steady river flowing all over my face. I can’t stop it, not even with the sleeves of the pretty dress they bought me. They get soaked quickly in my tears.

The feeling of never being good enough is too familiar. I hate it. The trauma sits deep. I’ve never been good enough for Daddy. Now I’m not good enough for Dave either. No matter how hard I study the human language, it’s not good enough. I’m a bad girl who’s bad at everything. It’s so frustrating, so infuriating… and it makes me so so sad…

I move onto the sofa. I’m hurt. I hide under my blanket so my crying won’t be as loud. I can no longer hold it back. I haven’t cried since that one time on the first day here. Even a worthless princess like me has some pride. I can swallow a lot of bad stuff if I want to. Daddy taught me not to cry. He’s pummelled that lesson into me with force. I’ve memorized it thoroughly. Yet, I’m weeping now. Keeping relatively quiet is the limit of my self-control.

Dave’s way of showing contempt with me differs from Daddy’s. Dave doesn’t hurt me like Daddy, but his cold stares, harsh words, and sky-high expectations hurt nonetheless. They hurt a lot. The longer I have to stay, the more it feels like a prison I can’t escape. I know it’s supposed to be a prison. I’m their prisoner after all. I know I shouldn’t expect anything of him, but still…

I just want someone to…

The last bit of control slips. I curl up on the sofa, forgetting about everything around me. My frustration is pouring out until I feel like I can manage again. When I open my teary eyes again, I’m no longer alone in my room…