This Villainess Will Not Die!

For the first time in a while, I fell asleep.

Blinking shallowly, a child perceived a large mirror across the room, reflecting an empty, dirty sofa. No matter how long she stared, there was no reflection of herself.

To her left stood their old bookshelf, the one Bernard would break in a month or two during one of his tantrums.

She looked down at her small hands, decorated with blue bruises. Her height barely reached the table’s edge; she was the size of a child.

Her steps were guided by a force she couldn’t resist—her actions once upon a time.

The child walked out of the living room, finding herself between the peeling walls of a dim, familiar corridor.

“Bernard, I swear to God, if you lay your disgusting hands on her again...!” Her mother’s screeching voice echoed from the bedroom.

At the corridor’s end, two doors faced each other—her mother’s room on one side, her own on the other.

“You deaf? I said I didn’t touch the kid! You want me to say it louder?” A man’s hoarse scream rattled the walls. “I DID NOT TOUCH YOUR FUCKING KID!”

“Yeah? And I’m supposed to believe you? What, I’m blind now?!”

The child’s eyes locked onto a drawing at the end of the hall, high on the wall. Three figures clumsily drawn on white paper: a tall man with a face scar, a woman with a black eye, and a little girl holding a tiny violin. It was the happiest drawing the little girl could make, and her mother was so proud she hung it on the wall.

“Listen, I’m telling the truth. Now fuck off before I get mad. Hear me?”

The child’s small fingers trembled as she walked closer, eyes on the drawing as its characters began to melt, dripping off of the frame.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING? WE’RE NOT DONE TALKING!” Her mother’s voice was sharp, almost breaking.

“I'm sick of these screaming matches! Let go of— Let GO...! Crazy-ass bitch!”

The closer she got, the more the drawing warped. The kid with the violin cried as the figures’ smiles twisted into angry, dripping messes. The child felt a pang of sorrow for her drawing.

“What did you just call me? BERNARD!”

“I CALLED YOU WHAT YOU ARE, NOW FUCK OFF, CAMILLA!”

The child reached the crack in the door to her mother’s room. Inside, two figures stood inches apart: a man with narrow shoulders and a long head towering over a woman with long, disheveled hair and a gaunt frame.

Camilla—Penelope’s mother—had always been too hot-headed for her own good, and now her deep-set green eyes bore into her lover with deadly intent.

“Get out. Now!” Her breath heaved, sending her curls flying as she shoved Bernard in the chest.

“You fucking…!" Bernard regained his balance, teeth gritted as he closed in on her again.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Camilla refused to budge.

The little girl turned away, unfazed by the slap sound, her mother’s cry, or the cruel insults that spilled out of Bernard's mouth.

She stepped into her own room and headed for her beat-up bed. Her bruised arms reached to hold her pillow, revealing a shiny black book underneath it. Ignoring it, she refocused on the pillow. She sat on the bed, her small feet dangling as she closed her eyes, pulling the pillow closer and closer to her face.

An older, ghostly version of the bruised girl sat on the ground, leaning against the bed beside her younger self's little feet. The older girl blinked quietly, watching her own bruised wrist. The pained screams and sobs from her mother's room, the suffocating little girl on the bed, and the chilling realization that Penelope was having a nightmare… all of it slowly dissolved into a cold, familiar clarity.

As her teeth sank into her wrist, Penelope knew—she needed to wake up before this nightmare swallowed her whole.

A warm hand touched my shoulder, sending signals to my stomach to wake me with an untamable nausea.

My eyes snapped open—though they felt heavy, and my body jolted away from the arm.

A warm hand touched my shoulder, sending a jolt of nausea twisting through my stomach.

My eyes snapped open, though they felt heavy, and my body instinctively jerked away from the touch.

Color flooded my vision, painting rusty metal bars behind a thick layer of dirty glass set into a wooden wall. My lap was a tangle of ragged fabric and shackled hands, a bitter reminder that this wasn't a nightmare, too.

"Don't touch me," I ordered, still half-awake, glaring at Alice, who stood by my side with the carriage door open behind her.

"I spoke, but you weren't listening, my lady," she replied, her expression monotone.

"Scream at me nexth time o'something. I'd hate it less." I grumbled, standing up and following her out of the carriage, the dull ache in my limbs reminding me of how long I'd been in this hellhole.

Alice, ignoring my request as always, reached out to help me out. I rolled my eyes and jumped down on my own, trudging across the ground that felt like it was trying to swallow my feet.

As I surveyed the camp, I spotted him—Truman—standing a head taller than the rest of the crowd.

"Truman, go help with the horses," barked some guy holding a list, waving Truman off toward the horses' area.

Oh, I have an idea!

My eyes narrowed as a plan formed in my head, and the corners of my mouth lifted into a mean grin.

I must’ve perked up at the thought because Alice turned to me with a suspicious frown.

I must have perked up with my newfound idea because Alice turned to me with a suspicious frown. I quickly turned away from Truman, not wanting her to figure out what I was up to.

"You," a voice slithered through the air, making every hair on my body stand up. "Follow me."

Blert, with his permanent scowl and large nose that seemed to have been broken one too many times, stood to my left, his usual aura of menace wrapped tightly around him.

My neck itched at the sight of him. What a piece of shit.

He was dressed in a stark white blazer with silver armor strapped on his chest and hunched shoulders, emblazoned with a Black Slithering Snake emblem. The number 4 was stamped on his left breastplate, a reminder of the authority he wielded. His twin daggers, black as the night and just as deadly, hung at his side. One of them was responsible for nearly slicing my throat open just yesterday.

"Talk hewe," I snapped, my tone as stern as it was angry. "The last time I fowowed you to 'talk,'" I shared his gaze with a piercing one. "I nearly got killed."

Blert’s eyes, beady and devoid of warmth, narrowed to slits. His lips curled in a sneer as he scanned the area, ensuring no one overheard our exchange. I could almost hear his teeth grinding as he restrained himself, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of one of his daggers.

“We’ll speak in the carriage, then. But make no mistake, woman, you’re wearing my patience thin,” he relented, waving a hand at Alice, signaling her to leave.

Alice gave the two of us a shallow nod and stepped away, turning back to glance at us every two steps.

"In your dweams. That's still out of sight."

"You're getting on my nerves," he hissed, his nostrils flaring. "I'm already discontented with what I'm going to talk about. Don't make me break another bone of yours."

I gave him a long, hard look, weighing my options, then nodded at Alice to go. There were servants everywhere, busy setting up the camp, retrieving materials from the caravan behind my carriage. The coachman still sat on his perch, waiting for his horses' turn at the watering trough. It wasn't private by any means, but it was safer than whatever Blert would suggest otherwise.

"Pick a repayment," he ordered as soon as we sat down, the door creaking shut behind us.

My eyebrows shot up, sleep evaporating from my system in an instant.

"A Wepayment?" I echoed, certain I was hallucinating. "From who? Don't tell me—" I covered my mouth with a hand, my eyes wide. "The young duke?"

"No, you insipid fool. From me."

My grin disappeared as quickly as it had come.

Blert repaying me? This had to be some kind of twisted joke.

"... Why?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. This was no act of generosity. This was Blert, begrudgingly settling a debt he couldn’t stomach owing.

Calling him a piece of shit is an injustice to the words. But to think he has principles, how surprising.

"Don't ask foolish questions." He crossed his arms, the fabric of his blazer crinkling. "Unless you want to forgo the offer?"

"No," I said quickly, my brain kicking into gear. "Alright. Easy. Set me fwee."

"Ha! Absolutely not." His snort was devoid of humor.

Sure, I had a list of demands, but that was the obvious first choice. He was a fool to think I wouldn’t ask.

"Fwee me of my shackles, then."

"No way in hell. You’ll remain bound until I see fit."

I leaned back, folding my arms over my chest, giving him a look that said I was done playing games. "Then what’s the point of this shit? You say I’m to choose a wepayment, then you refuse everything I sugzest. Do you find this amusing?"

Blert’s face contorted with anger, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.