I have been waiting so long, so much so that I lost track of the time.

I have no clue how long it has been. An hour? A day? A month?

It feels as though a century has passed, and yet... No beeping.

I can't hear the beeping of the machines, the clattering of the doors, no voices of doctors, no shuffling or nurses chattering... nothing.

I hear absolutely nothing.

... But this is alright.

I know how it goes: I'll wake up in a hospital bed, ask someone about where I am, act oh-so surprised and confused that I am in a hospital, look around and realize that I am alive and well, be told that I risked death and that I... I survived.

There's no way I'd die. The world wouldn't do that to me. Not after everything that has happened. Not now.

I must be in a deep coma.

Right.

It's alright, I'll wait some more.

~

It's dark and empty, wherever I am. I feel like I am everywhere and yet nowhere. I have control over nothing, not even my thoughts.

But I have my memories, and that's a positive I must clutch onto.

For instance, I remember that night, when I was hit by the vehicle with the giant lights and dropped something that got drenched in my blood; that book, Wholeheartedly Yours.

I wonder if anyone bothered to pick it up when they took me to the hospital... I hope they did.

It's an object that can never be replaced or replicated. Its memory is a bright, irreplaceable one.

"Happy eighth birthday!!" A raspy voice exclaimed, pushing a rectangular, girthy object on the table, and positioning it next to my birthday cupcake, which sat on a chipped plate.

I looked up at my mother, smiling from ear to ear, feeling tears rush to my eyes from the sheer joy that I had gotten a birthday gift for the first time, in addition to the whipped cream on the cupcake.

"Is this mine?" I asked, watching the excitement paint itself on my mother's tired features as she nodded.

Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose was still bandaged, and her left eye was blue. And yet, she watched me unwrap the gift with a careful, proud gaze.

And there it was, the first gift I had ever gotten; A black, shiny book, with words carved on its cover in such elegant font.

I reached over the table, clumsily wrapping her into a tight hug. "Mom, I can't even read the title." I giggled against her shoulder, making her laugh in turn.

"You'll learn." She giggled.

I didn't know at the time. I wasn't aware that this book would become the best and most exciting thing I had throughout my childhood.

I wasn't even smart enough to understand half the words I read in it. Hell, I couldn't comprehend the plot and events properly until my seventh time re-reading the novel.

The story had been a little puzzle I solved the more I researched the meaning of each word.

And the story was an inspiring little tale, at that.

I hadn't been disappointed, reading about the romantic and magical adventures of Estelle Pureheart, as she navigated her tough world, discovering friendship, trust, and love.

It wasn't until I grew older, that I found out that those three were all but little sweet lies. Falsehoods they whispered into children's ears, hoping to paint their dreams a vivid color before reality suddenly came crashing down on them one day.

To think my childhood idol was living in a fairytale while idiot little me made it a life goal to live like her.

At least now I see how cheap and over-the-top everything was in Wholeheartedly Yours. From the magic to the plot, to the main character and her luck.

It was all such dogshit writing, such impossible dreams.

It was the perfect story to give a lonely child like me a reason to live and look forward to every coming day...

... Wait, I'm being sad again. Thinking about these things is useless now.

I need to wake up!

I have shit to get done. I'm almost done with my residency; I can't be sitting in a coma right now—

“Miss Loraine, would you care to tell us about what your relationship with Miss Penelope Ashdown is, or was?” A voice broke me out of my haze, making me jerk my head towards it.

I looked around where I was, which seemed to be some sort of old-fashioned courtroom.

Uh... What?

The voice belonged to a guy standing far to my left. He wore a long deep brown cloak with two white strips on his left shoulder. This particular shade of brown seemed duplicated in all of the attending staff's clothing, throughout their different designs.

He spoke to a woman sitting in the witness testimony box located beside the elevated judge’s bench.

The witness was a young girl with long red hair and small brown eyes. She wore some sort of light yellow puffy dress and big golden earrings.

Wow… I MUST be dreaming.

The judge’s bench was situated directly before me, a safe distance away. He wore a black robe and held a wooden hammer in his left hand, two things that normally would make anyone in that position intimidating, but... He looks like, twenty-five or something... Is this a joke?

Additionally, I would have expected a white wig to accompany his, uh, costume, but I suppose even vivid dreams like this one are half-assed in my head. Instead, it's just a bunch of blonde curls slicked back on his square-shaped head.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

The blonde judge — a man much too young to be taken seriously — had his violet eyes set and completely fixated on the woman sitting on the witness stand.

Violet eyes, huh?

What a messy dream.

“I have known Miss Ashdown for a very long time, Your Highness— I mean, your honor... Longer than I can recall. We have met through Trevor, my cousin, and her fiancé.” She pitifully looked up at the blonde judge, who offered her his full attention. “I suppose it would be better to phrase it this way,” she threw a sharp look my way. “Miss Ashdown made friends with me to get close to her now fiancé and my cousin, Trevor Vielle.”

The court gasped in unison, which had me rolling my eyes.

The tea isn't THAT hot, guys.

The witness passed a hand over her forehead, sighing.

“I knew of that. I was fully aware of her nature and what type of person she was. She is my friend of 17 years…” She spoke lowly, though her voice was (somehow) echoing through the entire courtroom.

Dream logic.

“And for her to go this low… Your honor,” she looked up at the judge once more. “I am not surprised at all.” She shook her head, solemn. “It is Trevor we are talking about, after all... And that woman, who once was my friend, I know would do anything for the sake of Trevor. To hurt an innocent girl because she felt her presence around her fiancé to be dangerous is no exception to this rule.”

While the witness spoke, I got bored, so I opted to explore the rest of the faces present.

To my left was a table with words in a language I couldn’t understand. I would expect no less from my dreams.

Two people were sitting at said table, a woman in her forties, with luscious brown hair and large, charismatic eyebrows. Next to her, dozing off, was a cloaked figure, leaning back and tapping his index on the rest-arms of his chair. He wore a black cloak and mask, and the only elements about him I could discern were the sharp black eyes with which he blankly stared at his desk.

Before I could inquire around anymore, something registered in my ears.

“Stand straight.” A deep voice spoke to my right, startling me and making me realize I was hunched over trying to peek at other people to my sides.

I instinctively turned to the voice’s owner, body still tilted forward, only to have the breath knocked out of my lungs as soon as my eyes met his.

Blood. His eyes were the color of blood. The thin black circling them, the hints of a golden hue lost in the crimson color of his irises. They looked clear, too real.

My heart tightened and chills ran down my spine.

This dream feels real, and it’s making me want to throw up.

The crimson eyes’ owner wore a collarless black blouse with puff sleeves. He was several centimeters taller than I was, had a sheath tied to his waist, and disheveled soft red hair. His eyes looked tired — puffy, even. He looked irked, sharing my gaze.

“Stop looking around like an idiot!” I heard a hiss behind my back, urging me to check the source of the new voice.

Turning back, an unexpected sight greeted me.

There was an entire crowd watching this trial. So many people were present that several were watching standing up at the very back of the spectator seating.

A woman sitting in the first line was leaning over me, looking up to meet my gaze.

“Look concerned. A little sad!” Her eyebrows were drawn together, her nose red and cheeks wet. “Attempt to appear as though you regret what you did!!” Her words were low, but as aggressive as possible.

What I did?

Something dawned on me at last.

I looked down at the square inside which I stood, at my shackled hands, shabby clothes, and bare feet.

Oh, I’m the culprit of this trial. I'm the defendant.

The woman who had spoken to me just now was sitting in the first row, her wrinkly cheeks were drenched in tears and her complexion was pale. She seemed to be in her forties, wearing her chocolate brown hair up in a bun and wearing a simple, black, puffy gown — the kind that’s in fairytales.

A man cleared his throat to her right.

He was dressed to the nines. A three-piece grey suit, luscious neck-length golden hair. He was holding onto a black cane that was positioned between his thighs. His posture was immaculate, and so were his features. Despite the wrinkles around his eyes and the few white hairs on the sides of his head, he looked better than most men in their thirties.

“Richie, stop teasing your sister!” Another woman spoke, this time to the crying senior woman’s left. She looked much like her, just younger. She had the same long brown hair, an identical hairdo, green eyes, a pointy nose, and the same color as her dress but with a different pattern needlework.

She was holding a baby in her arms, wrapped in deep green satin cloth while a young boy of around four years old sat on her lap. There were two other kids to her left, a boy and a girl of around the same age, and the girl was on the verge of tears while their assumed mother scolded the boy in an attempted whisper.

“Don’t you see that your aunt is getting punished? Sit straight, people are watching!” She hissed.

I couldn’t help but scoff at the sight of this supposed family of mine. Really, what a joke.

“I cannot find it in my heart to excuse her behavior, your honor.” The witness spoke, catching my interest again. “What she did to Miss Estelle is unpardonable.” The witness’s eyes found a certain person far to my right, sitting at the prosecution. “Goodness. Trevor, too. Look at the state of my poor cousin,” the woman winced, watching the two supposed victims in tears.

I turned to see what she was talking about, and who the victims were. But because they were sitting to my right, and thanks to some random attorney (I think) sitting closer to me than they did, all I could see was the back of their heads behind the attorney's side profile. The color of their hair, more specifically. A redhead, with wild auburn locks and another blonde dude’s head.

The witness stood up in solidarity, giving the two a reassuring look.

“Trevor Vielle and Estelle Pureheart, I truly wish you two find closure in the end.”

… And there it was, my confirmation.

The guy playing judge, the one sitting behind me looking like a Greek statue, and the guard keeping an eye on me so begrudgingly. They all had such peculiar appearances. Such familiar descriptions.

The attorney covering Estelle and Trevor’s faces from me leaned back to stretch, letting me catch a glimpse of her at last.

Sun-kissed skin, rosy cheeks, wild, curly red hair, sitting softly on her shoulders, and the purest set of purple eyes to exist. Those were the exact features of Estelle Pureheart, the female lead of my favorite childhood novel.

I had dismissed it at first, because of how ridiculous it was. But my silly little suspicion was right. I am indeed dreaming about Wholeheartedly Yours of all fucking things.

Estelle Pureheart, the admirable main lead watched the trial in stiff silence, her gracious being seemingly wrapped in what seemed like a hollow. A glow-like aura one can’t help but feel curious about.

My goodness... Is that… Perhaps, is that hollow the famous ‘Main Character Energy...?’

Word for word, this setting was the living incarnation of the description mentioned in the book. From the color of the sky to the shade of the public seating, even the characters' outfits were the same as cited in the book.

“This is wild.” I couldn’t help but grin in stupefaction, eyeing the sheer splendor of this setting my brain had managed to cook up.

Page 201. No, 204.

Chapter 39: The Trial

Is this because I'm in a coma? Are these precise illustrations a result of my imagination? And if so, just how much more impressive can this dream get?!

I HAVE to find out.

With a clear goal set in mind, determined to explore the outside and the rest of this dream before I woke up again, I grabbed the dirty, worn-out fabric of my dress and set foot out of the culprit’s stand, stifling my urge to giggle in sheer excitement.

A sharp, collective gasp resounded around the entire courtroom, making me stop dead in my tracks and look up in surprise. A deathly silence then fell upon the room, and chills ran down my spine at the number of eyes that were suddenly directed at me and my foot that was set midair, about to land outside the box.

Like a breeze, he had appeared before me. Facing me with solemnity and something of a grudge firing at me through his crimson gaze, was the redheaded knight. He was in my way, quietly holding my gaze with a hand on his sheath.

“Did we perhaps BORE you, Lady Ashdown?” A voice I had yet to hear spoke out, making the already quiet public seating fall into despair, all looking up at the figure sitting directly behind me.

... I think might have fucked up.