I was staring.

Staring at the wall.

What was on the wall?

Nothing.

What was on my head?

Nothing.

Just staring. I had become quite the connoisseur of wall contemplation lately.

Why?

No reason. I was sure every sane person did this once in a while. Practically a hobby.

Or maybe, I was just trying not to launch into a full-scale meltdown over the fact that I've suddenly found myself inhabiting the body of a bloodthirsty villainess.

Trying hard.

Very hard.

Yeah, just your run-of-the-mill Monday night crisis. No big deal.

So, here I was, casually having dinner in her posh room. A modest spread of soup and bread, because apparently, even villains needed to watch their carbs.

Door opened. In walked Marie, the maid from earlier. One with a vibe straight out of a historical drama.

She curtsied or whatever the cool maids did, and I almost choked on my bread.

Maybe it was just a cosplay party, who knew?

I've got memories, and not just the usual ones. Names and faces are still doing the cha-cha in my head. But ehm, no biggie; I was just navigating this dual identity chaos.

Count Shadowstep, my "dad" in this twisted Dream(?) Drama(?) Dreama(??), waltzed into my thoughts, expecting a tearful reunion.

Sorry, pops, I was too busy contemplating the absurdity of being a bedtime villainess. Did villains even have bedtimes? Apparently, they did now.

Trying to piece together my new and "upgraded" existence felt like solving a mystery.

A mystery novel written by a caffeinated cat.

The plot twists were coming faster than espresso shots in a hipster coffee shop – just trying not to spill any.

So, dinner, disorientation, and a dash of dual identity crisis later, here I was, pondering life's mysteries.

And by pondering, I meant staring.

Lots of staring.

Marie, the maid, swung by to collect the remnants of my not-so-gourmet dinner.

But a villainess had to eat! Hunger didn't discriminate between the opulence of the surroundings and the simplicity of my meal.

As she leaned down to scoop up the dishes from my lap, my gaze fixated.

The exposed nape of her neck. Pulsating veins beneath.

The delicate and vulnerable skin.

An unintended dare.

A strange allure. Almost hypnotic.

A mere thought. It would be over.

One sharp slice. It would be the end.

This twisted fantasy, it danced briefly in my mind.

A macabre daydream.

Interrupted only when I recoiled in sheer fucking surprise.

Marie yelped too, and for a moment, we just stared at each other's faces.

"Are you okay, milady?" she inquired, a genuine concern etched on her face.

“Umm, yeah, no, I mean, yes, it was nothing. I was just taken aback, that’s all,” I mumbled, still grappling with the unsettling impulse that had seized me.

Marie, perhaps sensing the weird energy, closed the door after retrieving the dishes.

Attempting to shake off the unsettling feeling, I tried to convince my heart that it could take a chill pill.

Yet the echoes of that peculiar moment lingered.

Akin to an uninvited ghost in the room.

What the fuck just happened? I pondered, my thoughts racing faster than my heartbeat could keep up.

The villainess whose stilettos I now awkwardly fill, Elidranthia, seemed to have more issues than a magazine subscription.

Therapy? It was starting to sound like a brilliant idea, but I doubted there were therapists for fictional characters trapped in alternate realities.

Alright, let's break it down. Nighttime, a perfect moment to collect my thoughts in this madcap adventure.

So, according to the web novel "The Assassinated Princess," our female protagonist (referred to as FP, the chosen one, you know the drill) got assassinated by Elidranthia, which triggered a time reset.

Our resurrected princess, along with a harem of male protagonists (because why not?), set out to take down an assassin organization through a series of time resetting checkpoints.

Drama, action, all that jazz.

But here's the kicker – after five volumes, Elidranthia's fate was sealed.

She bit the dust. Simple.

Courtesy of Prince Heracles, attempting to off another character named Claire.

That was one heck of a way to clear a checkpoint.

Volume one painted a picture of the FP's serene school life, you know, before Eli came crashing in with her murder plots.

When time-loop shenanigans reset the story, the FP learned from her Groundhog Day experience, leading to Eli's early demise. (Note to self: time loops and murder plots don't mix well.)

But the plot kept thickening with other villains taking a stab at offing our FP or her male entourage.

It was like a game of whack-a-mole. More drama and fewer foam hammers.

At one point, there was even a volume where the FP sacrificed herself for her friends. A regular rollercoaster, this story.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

I guess being a chosen one came with its fair share of ups, downs, and loop-de-loops.

Now, Eli, the show's headliner, was the poster child for unhinged behavior, with a penchant for repeatedly introducing the FP to her stabby side in the first volume.

Now, the story itself? A smorgasbord of drama, action, bittersweet romance, and some exceptionally written characters.

But, well, the world-building? Ehh… Not so much.

The princess was too busy being clumsy and cute, collecting male characters like they were Pokémon. Gotta catch 'em all!

As for me, stepping into this narrative unversed in the world's intricacies was a bit like trying to swim.

Yeah, swim.

Without knowing if there were sharks in the water.

Literary equivalent of cannonballing into the unknown.

But hey, no worries, right? Surviving in this healthy, if slightly murderous, body just meant steering clear of the protagonist.

…And avoiding becoming a deranged knife enthusiast.

Simple enough.

The prospect made me giggle, just like when the mysterious voice asked if I fancied being the villainess. My reply? A resounding yes! (Accompanied by an imaginary evil-genius laugh. I still wasn’t sure about this.)

So, with the newfound freedom flowing through my veins, I gracefully leaped off the bed and started prancing around like a monkey.

My body felt as weightless as a feather – no pain, all gain.

I revelled in the feeling, laughing like a maniacal villainess. Not that different from the body's original tenant, though our joy sources had a tad different flavour.

In this extravagant room, I, the fated villainess, decided to showcase the absurdity of my newfound agility with a spontaneous somersault performance. (Was there anything more villainous than surprise acrobatics?)

No judgments here; having a healthy body felt like a literal superpower, and I was determined to milk it for all it's worth.

Giggles had a grand old-time ricocheting around the room as I showcased my newfound agility.

But, alas, the impromptu circus had to close its curtains, leaving me strolling around like a character awaiting the next plot twist.

The room's mirror. The latest scene-stealer.

A striking, slightly intimidating girl – yours truly – with menacing crimson eyes.

The kind that could probably negotiate a truce between nations.

Attempting to turn this potentially fierce visage into a charming smile or a funny face only resulted in a more ominous aura.

"I wonder if I can make friends like this," I mused.

The very notion of forging connections with my current aesthetic becoming a challenge.

As the night wore on, and I finally surrendered to the beckoning bed.

The pure adrenaline pumping through my veins. The bursts of serotonin. Both decided to host a post-party in my brain. Keeping poor sleep at bay.

In the novel, Eli was the undisputed queen of the psycho scene, boasting memorable acts like brutal stabbings, blood-licking, and protagonist-slaying.

Just to be clear – I had never even slapped a mosquito in my previous life (there were none in the hospital).

The idea of reenacting such horrors was as absurd as a plot twist in a telenovela.

Confident in my ability to dodge the expected storyline, I envisioned a future filled with love, laughter, cozy blankets, unicorn rides(??), ehh, my bucket list was quite big. And absurd.

As the adrenaline reluctantly made its exit, I finally surrendered to the realm of dreams.

****

"Well, this is a head-scratcher," I muttered, plopping down amidst the atmospheric weight of the family's study.

The mana lamp was doing its dramatic dance (Someone really needed to change its faulty core), casting shadows on the oak walls. On those engravings that were more for show than substance. Perhaps the family's attempt at avant-garde decor.

In the center ring, we had the heavyweight champion – a grand, imposing wooden desk.

It was piled high with parchment scrolls and leather-bound tomes. Ahh, the nostalgic perfume of old paper and leather.

Clearly, this desk had seen more thinkin' than a philosophy convention.

Over in the corner, we had the family's version of a coat of arms – a sword chilling behind a curtain. Very Game of Thrones. Minus the dragons and betrayal, since this was a brand-new county.

The fireplace was doing its best to be the room's MVP(?) MVO(?). Flames roaring with all the intensity of a motivational speaker.

A mood-setter?

A space heater?

BOTH!

Meanwhile, dust motes were doing their own little dance in the golden beams of light.

This knowledge-packed oasis had bookshelves reaching for the stars, sagging under the weight of wisdom …that probably should've hit the gym.

In the real world, this room was like a museum exhibit – everyone passed by, but no one really touched anything.

The creaking leather chairs. The occasional page rustle.

The soundtrack. To an intellectual soap opera – drama, but no one's actually watching.

Ah, the untapped potential of a room that screams 'smart,' but everyone's too busy being dumb elsewhere.

Well, a few days had slipped by, affording me the time to sift through the jumbled fragments of my memory. Bequeathed by the villainess.

From these recently acquired recollections, I managed to cobble together my identity – Elidranthia Shadowstep. A nine-year-old scion of a freshly minted count.

Now, for a bit of backstory.

In a tale that, ironically, seemed more gruesome on the pages of the novel than in my actual life, my journey took a dark turn.

Returning from the capital with my grandfather and mother, our carriage fell prey to a monstrous attack.

Carnage ensued, and against all odds, I emerged as the sole survivor.

The monsters mercilessly massacred my birth mother and grandfather.

I, the youngest daughter, held the dubious honor of being the lone survivor.

The sole survivor of a monster mosh pit?

A shadow over my existence. The animosity of the masses.

How were villains made again?

The count, in his peculiar wisdom or folly, had not one but two wives, and their collective blessings resulted in a brood of six children. So, it was not all gloom and doom.

The intriguing twist, however, lay in the deviation between reality and the sinister portrayal in the book.

According to the novel, I was destined to be a pint-sized monster slayer, potentially dabbling in the culinary arts by feasting on the remains of both my parents and the creatures.

A story told through the perspective of a single person.

No wonder there would be some creative liberties. Ugh.

The truth, as per my memories, was far less dramatic – I had ingeniously hidden within a compartment in the carriage.

The snag? No one else knew this delightful detail.

Oh, how they questioned.

Was I the miraculous child who defied monsters?

Or

Was I the monstrous child that even monsters feared?

A culinary artist. With a penchant for monster-slaying?

Or

A hide-and-seek champion. With a compartment fetish?

Quite the identity crisis.

But anyways, fast forward to the present, and there I was, in the solitude of the study.

As I delved into the details of the unfamiliar world around me, an unexpected pang of yearning for my parents' affection tugged at my heartstrings.

Back in my previous life, I had at least found solace in the love of my good ol' parents.

Yeah, I had upgraded to calling it my “Previous Life.”

Sounded only fitting.

I didn’t know what happened to my body there. Maybe, I just never woke up.

Would my parents have been sad? Heartbroken? What would be their thoughts? Would they go back to their lives?

Answers eluded me. Once again.

Melancholy, my old buddy, decided to crash the party. Uninvited.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Dripping? What on earth was dripping?

Place one finger. Lick it.

Hmm. Salty.

A quick hand swipe confirmed it – my own waterworks were in full swing.

Tears?

Again?

Why?

Automated tear ducts? In action again?

They were mourning.

What were they mourning?

I thought I was past this point.

So, why such dissonance? Between my mind and my psyche.

Ehh, it wasn't the first time something like this had happened. And I just happened to have a perfect solution for these rebellious tear ducts.