In the dazzling world of sterile white, my hospital room had become the exclusive lounge of my existence.

The relentless beeping soundtrack. The unmistakable fragrance of antiseptic chic.

It was the hottest spot in town, and by town, I mean my immune system.

While I basked in the glory of medical battles that would make an action movie director jealous, the outside world carried on with its shenanigans. Children played, nature flaunted its vibrant hues, and adolescence had its wild parties—all conveniently observed through my window.

Like a spectator.

Gone were the days of friendships and teenage rebellion; my entourage now consisted of doctors and nurses who probably knew my medical history better than I did. Their sympathetic gazes were the closest thing I had to a standing ovation for my survival performance.

Then, on the grand stage of my sixteenth birthday, the stoic doctor made his entrance, delivering the heavy news.

I smelled this coming from miles away.

Guess what? My fragile existence was now on a countdown, courtesy of the unruly cancer that had decided to crash my party.

Forget sweet sixteen; I was now starring in "Terminal Teen".

The outside world, that elusive dream, decided to mock me with its palpable reality just out of arm's reach. Each passing moment became a drop in the hourglass, urging me to grab life by the metaphorical horns I never got to experience.

As my final chapter unfolded, the once-bland hospital room turned into a cocoon of reflection. Accompanied by the poignant background music of my life's greatest hits – or lack thereof.

The specter of sickness had been my lifelong frenemy, a silent rebel I wrestled with in a never-ending game of medical chess.

From my earliest memories, it was like, "Hey, here's a life sentence of health challenges – enjoy!"

In the hushed corridors of solitude, my inner voice, a stand-up comedian (I wish) trapped in a hospital gown, would occasionally stir the silence with questions as ridiculous as my prognosis.

Schizophrenia? Pfft, who cares?

"So, any grand plans if you miraculously wake up with abs of steel and the energy of a caffeinated squirrel?" my inner jester snarked.

I rolled my eyes, deciding to humor the game my mind liked to play.

I swore I was sane.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Frolic barefoot like a fairy in the woods, because who needs shoes when you've got a clean bill of health?"

A snicker echoed in my thoughts. "Living dangerously, I see. What else, your majesty of good health?"

‘Majesty of good health?’ That was new.

"I'd assemble a squad of friends, the Avengers of my social life. Pranks, laughter, the whole shebang. I might even attempt climbing a tree – with proper supervision, of course. Can't risk those newfound abs."

My inner voice didn't miss a beat. "And mountains? Treks? Expeditions? Who are you, a fitness guru slash explorer now?"

I was normal. Mostly.

"Why not? With a healthy body, I'd be an action hero. Move over, Avengers, there's a new kid in town, and they've got a clean bill of health!"

As the doctor dropped the bombshell of cancer setting up shop within me and the grim forecast of just a few months left in this mortal tango, an unexpected emotion flickered within – relief.

Maybe the medication had taken me on a psychedelic rollercoaster to the edge of madness, but when faced with an impending expiration date, did I really care about the whims of a mind doing somersaults?

Was this the absurd coping mechanism my psyche had brewed up?

The irony wasn't lost on me – the prospect of imminent death birthing an odd sense of liberation.

Sure, the self-conversations might be a symptom of a mind on vacation (definitely schizophrenia), but with a death sentence hanging over my head, did the fine line between sanity and insanity even matter anymore?

The idea of an afterlife, a potential escape hatch from the current dumpster fire of my existence, twinkled like a distant beacon.

If the rumors about heavenly realms had even a smidgen of truth, perhaps the impending journey beyond the mortal coil would be a getaway from the relentless agony of illness.

Hence, I clung to the dream that wherever my consciousness soared, it would be a place with Wi-Fi and an all-you-can-eat buffet, you know, to make the transition a bit more pleasant.

The creaking door yanked me back to the present, and there they were—my parents, looking like they'd just survived a zombie apocalypse.

If aging were an art, they'd be the Picasso of looking ten years older overnight. For a second, I questioned if the doctor had finally spilled the gloomy beans to them; their teary eyes were like a flashing neon sign, silently saying, "brace yourselves."

"Please, Sana, stay strong no matter what," my mother pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears. "We will always be here for you."

Their words hit me like a ton of bricks.

Ah, Mom, Dad, the unsung heroes of my twisted story. They never abandoned ship, weathering the storms of my health with a commitment that would put those superhero sidekicks to shame. Their sacrifices—the missed workdays, the sleepless nights—all showcased beneath the dark bags under their eyes.

In that moment, the reality of my selfishness hit me like a rotten, smelly pie in the face.

I'd been this bitter, resentful person, oblivious to their unwavering support. I didn't want to leave them with a legacy of bitterness.

Without missing a beat, I swooped my mother into a hug. Surprise sparked in her eyes, echoed by my dad. Yet, neither put up a resistance. My mother, who was on the verge of a tear tsunami, now opened the floodgates.

"No, none of that," I whispered, my voice dripping with determination. "I've been rocking these shades of oblivious, but I want you to know—I'm really very, very grateful to have parents as awesome as you. I love you both to the moon and back; it's the only reason I'm still keeping the lights on in this crazy circus."

I thought I heard my mom say, “What are you even saying, Sana?”

Yeah, I wondered about that too.

Dad joined the hug, and the waterworks were in full swing. Despite my attempt at comfort, a lump in my throat threatened to reveal the emotional rollercoaster beneath. Instead of tears, I summoned a smile—a mask to conceal the emotional tempest.

Why did adults have to be so complex? I pondered, all while trying to fend off the rebellious tears.

Today was not the day for vulnerability; it was a day to showcase the awe-inspiring strength instilled by these two life-coaches.

So, with a practiced grin that could rival a game show host's, I stood tall (metaphorically, of course), determined to be the pillar of resilience they desperately needed in that moment.

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In my quest to convince them I was the poster child for emotional and mental prosperity (Spoiler alert: Oscar-worthy performance), the emotional rollercoaster decided to take a breather.

Maybe my attempts at humor were finally paying off, or they were just too tired to continue the tear-jerker marathon. The conversation, feeling like a script now, pirouetted away from the doom and gloom, seeking refuge in the land of my sketches.

I reached for my drawing book, a treasure trove of landscapes, fantastical creatures, and characters not birthed from my own imagination, but from the vivid minds of authors whose novels I devoured.

Reading and painting. The dual hues of my limited palette. Trusty sidekicks in this confined world.

Flipping through the pages, I landed on the latest sketch. A rebellious teen girl with electric blue hair, eyes ablaze in piercing red, clutching a dagger stained in blood. A character from the novel I recently dove into, "The Assassinated Princess." A tale where the main character defies death, time-traveling after meeting her demise at the hands of this very girl.

My parents, the seasoned critics of my horror-themed gallery, were as unflappable as ever. Their art appreciation skills could endure even the most morbid scenes.

Dad, my secret painting guru, leaned in for a closer look, offering his two cents on shading.

Together, we unleashed a storm of creativity, he was way too good at this stuff.

Dad, the guy with a tough exterior that even doctors found intimidating, managed to keep a stiff upper lip while critiquing with an intensity that threatened to unleash the waterworks. The contrast was almost comedic.

But it wasn't fear he instilled in others—it was a raw, unfiltered passion for life.

Laughter echoed. A collaborative creation. A bittersweet symphony, of art and of emotion.

In the cozy cocoon of slumber, I lost track of the battle between consciousness and dreams. As my eyes reluctantly surrendered to the waking world, the room was drenched in the glow of a full moon.

A nocturnal beauty, through the lone open window.

Dad, the undercover sleepover agent, had stealthily staked his claim on a corner of the bed, blissfully lost in a dreamland adventure.

A gentle breeze, the room's uninvited dance partner, waltzed in, giving the curtains a twirl.

Eh, maybe I was still dreaming.

My gaze, like a moth hypnotized by flame, fixated on the completed painting resting beside me.

There she was—the villainess, with eyes as crimson as a stop sign, piercing through the very essence of the dagger she cradled. It was as if those eyes could peel away the layers of cold steel.

Once again, the haunting query tiptoed through the corridors of my mind. "What would you do if you were in her place?"

Damn schizophrenia, even crashing my dream parties.

A chuckle escaped my lips—a response to the uninvited musings throwing a masquerade ball in my mind.

"Note to self: steer clear of the main character," I quipped.

In the novel's convoluted time-travel jig, the heroine and villainess were destined to cross paths. A showdown more inevitable than a plot twist in a soap opera.

The voice, now a cheeky accomplice to my thoughts, chuckled playfully.

A subtle remix of the moon's glow—a crimson touch injected into its silver serenade.

Bah, in the grand scheme of my time-limited gig, the moon's changing hues were just a temporary backdrop.

Yet, the whispering voice just wouldn't quit.

"What if you were her?" it teased.

Hmm.

What if indeed! What would I do if I found myself in the villainess's stilettos, a character with motivations as puzzling as why people put pineapple on pizza?

The moon, clearly unimpressed with this late-night mind comedy, threw its crimson(??) glow upon the acrobatic musings. (Definitely a dream. I bet that silly moon was up to no good.)

"You already know the answer, you stupid voice. I'd ditch the stilettos, dance barefoot in the woods like a fae, and make friends galore. Pranks, laughter, and playing would be my jam. I'd become the mountain-scaling, narrative-rewriting healthy gal, erasing that villain from the script forever."

As the room plunged into a surreal shade of crimson, the voice, now a character with a life of its own, whispered once again.

"What if I offer you to be her? Right here, right now?"

It was a bit more commanding. Mature.

Oddly enough, it sounded like my mum.

I, too, responded with laughter. "I'd sign up faster than a kid at a candy store."

The voice, now having fully upgraded to a distinct character, mirrored my laughter.

Laughter that ricocheted through the crimson-drenched room.

Eerie comedy duo. One in the walls, one on the bed.

Ha-Ha

He-He

Ho-Ho

Uh-oh?

A sense of disquiet took a while to tiptoe in.

Leaving me with a feeling that this dream had pulled a prank on me.

The voice, having upgraded from sweet nothings to whispering in a language I didn't even know I knew, declared, "Since you asked politely, little one."

Umm, mum?

In a heartbeat, my gaze shot upward.

The roof, vanished.

An empty cosmic canvas.

A single crimson star.

A celestial anomaly.

Before my senses could wrap their heads around this spectacle, the star decided it was time, swelling in size and hurtling towards me with the ferocity of a comet.

Yeah…

A rational mind might have pondered the extraordinary, but sanity packed its bags and fled in the face of such chaos.

Panic seized me, and in the throes of primal fear, I did what any self-respecting dreamer would do in my surreal circumstances.

I closed my eyes and screamed. Loud. The sound, a visceral release of terror.

A cacophony. Of panic harmonizing with my scream. And abruptly, I found myself yanked back to reality.

The familiar crimson-drenched room had disappeared, leaving me in an unfamiliar setting that could only be described as "not the hospital."

Was I still dreaming?

As I attempted to decipher the new locale, the disorientation settled in.

The room around me felt like something out of a time-travel mix-up.

The air carried a whiff of anachronism.

My questioning gaze darted around the chamber, playing a game of hide-and-seek with answers.

Ahh, the answers that proved to be elusive masters of camouflage.

And then, out of the dreamy woodwork, the silence was rudely interrupted.

A creak. The door swung open.

Behold, a girl adorned in a French maid uniform made her grand entrance.

A surreal dream? A whimsical fantasy?

Following her lead, a peculiar ensemble of other figures joined the scene—a mix of men and women.

None I recognized.

The girl in the maid uniform flashed a grin, unaware of my dizziness.

"Ah! She is finally awake," she announced.

Among the ensemble, a man stood, his features playing hide-and-seek with familiarity.

Akin to my brain entering a game show called "Guess Who: Dream Edition."

Not in my family list, doctors list, contacts list, social media, or any other dimension I could think of.

Was he the imaginary friend I never knew I had? Eeeep!

My head had started to ache. Something that should have never happened in a dream.

A whirlwind of questions. A tornado of uncertainty. A havoc on my consciousness.

Disorientation surged. As I grappled with the leap from the crimson-drenched dream to this anachronistic reality.

Had I scored a one-way ticket on the comet express? Was this just another episode of "Reality or Dream"? Had the train of my mind finally derailed from its tracks, going full bonkers?

The room, the people, the palpable aura of mystique – it was like my subconscious had binge-watched every mystery series and decided to create its own.

The room's opulence. An era far removed from the familiar landscape of the 21st century. A grandiose chandelier hung from the ceiling. Its warm golden glow basking my surroundings.

The girl was in the French maid uniform, clearly overdressed for this dream.

The man in black (yeah, the one with the elusive familiarity), wore a fusion of styles. Seemed like he couldn't decide whether he was attending a Victorian ball or a modern rave.

"So, how is she?" he inquired. Concerned.

"She's fine, just a little scratched up," responded the man in what looked like clergy attire. Why was a priest here?

"Thank the Moonweaver. Our Elidranthia is safe," the first man declared, a sigh of relief audible in his voice. Before I could process it, he rushed in, enveloping my petite frame in a warm embrace.

With no time to ponder the priest's presence or their fashion choices, the term 'Elidranthia' echoed in my mind.

A name that sounded like it was ripped from a fantasy novel deemed too fantastical for publication.

Unique and strangely familiar.

Caught in the whirlwind of revelation, my thoughts raced, connecting the dots like a frenzied game of Sudoku.

Elidranthia – wasn't that the name of the bloodthirsty assassin from the novel, the very character I had sketched before the crimson-hued dream?

Had my artistic creation pulled a Houdini? Leaping off the paper into the realm of reality?

Was I still dreaming?

Was I D E A D?

And for the love of sanity, why did my head feel like it had hosted a rock concert WITHOUT MY FUCKING CONSENT?

Questions bombarded me.

Yet, the cold grasp of reality was about to yank me back.

Once, I, who had yearned for a healthy body and the simple pleasures of a carefree childhood.

Now, I found myself not just inside a story but transmigrated as the very antagonist – the bloodthirsty villainess from the pages of "The Assassinated Princess."