dummy

one key thing to know about you: you were weird.

this was not said without concrete proof. everyone, even the most uneducated commoners, knew how eccentric the sole heir to the von sommerstern bloodline was.

in contrast to the major belief that you were a rebellious child who couldn't be disciplined, your academic performance was surprisingly great, far surpassing your fellow eight-year-old peers.

that was where the oddity of your existence began, or rather, was displayed more clearly, the same intelligence that garnered you praises from fastidious tutors.

your hands seemed to never stay still, managing to grapple with things that were meant to be far out of your reach.

there was one time, when you somehow slipped into the kitchen, seemingly marvelling at the cooking of the maids. when they were done with preparing elevenses, they were shocked to find out that a baking soda pack and a whole bottle of vinegar had vanished from the shelves.

safe to say, everyone knew promptly where to look, and when they arrived in your room, the sight was nothing short of bewilderment to them.

there you were, sitting on the floor with those same eyes that bore a certain detachment to the world, watching in extreme boredom as your doll vomited white liquid from its lips.

when you were questioned, you answered, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"i'm turning my doll into a volcano."

your father, after hearing this from the servants, had let out a boisterous laugh in amusement.

speaking of him, the man who had partially contributed to your existence, as you put it, the earliest memories you had of him were how he allowed your nonscenecial whims to run wild. from disrespecting an antique portrait of your great-ancestors, to acting like a lifeless doll on a balcony (which terrified the guests), there was nothing that could anger him.

well, except for outright insulting your late mother, but had half of a mind not to do so.

mind, not empathy.

additionally, in that soft voice which always carried a tone of apathy, you spoke of the strangest things no child at that age could fathom.

it wasn't delusional like wishing to be in a fairytale; it was worse than that, or at the very least, according to the prim and proper maids who knew nothing but obedience and salary.

your first reaction, upon witnessing a flying carriage land in the front yard of your mansion, wasn't of awe or surprise. instead, it was uttered in a jaded timbre.

"airplanes could do that, no need for applause."

"young master, what is an airplane?"

"do i look like i know?"

the maid didn't respond, fearing the way your eyebrows rose, as though questioning her curiosity.

in that household, the only one permitted to be curious, to be both smart and yet terrifyingly lacking in emotional affairs, was you and you alone.

"father, have you heard of [country's name]?"

"is that another one of your novel's locations?" the porcelain teacup was promptly thrown at him, and unsurprisingly, he caught it effortlessly. you didn't seem guilty about it, instantly returning to the book you were holding, with a gentleness reserved for non-sentient objects, not the people around you.

you were violent, quick to resort to physical acts when things weren't going your way. hidden by that small frame was an unexpected sheer strength, enough to be able to knock down servants in your tantrums.

it wasn't like you were dumb enough not to be aware of your notorious reputation; you were different from others, and you thrived off it.

you knew your father wouldn't forbid you, the servants too meek to stop you, toys unable to cry out in pain during the torturous sessions you put them through. all in the name of entertainment, of trying to find what could elicit an honest feeling from you.

you were a weird child, and that would continue, even after regaining the memories of your past life.

it was an embarrassing memory to dwell on, but an essential milestone nonetheless.

dull eyes watched as orange and gold spilled onto the blue canvas of the sky, marking the end of another repetitive day. that shadow stretched across the grass didn't move, even when utterances of its name rang from afar. inside its palms was a broken shard of a door's mirror, something the clumsy new recruit had failed to fetch. its eyes gazed at the reflection, seeing someone that wasn't a shadow.

'i shouldn't head home.' it, or rather, you hummed in your throat when you sat up. you squeezed your hand tight and watched as red tainted the neatly trimmed green cushioning your legs. there was supposed to be pain, a grimace should have appeared on your face, akin to that maid when a shard accidentally cut through her fingers. and yet, you felt nothing, other than your muscles prevented you from going farther.

this mind, wanted to die, something the body vehemently opposed.

or maybe you were a coward, unable to let go of the biological instincts that chained you to this world.

maybe this body never belonged to you; fate had its weird way of tormenting even the most indifferent souls. you wouldn't grant it satisfaction, letting out a cheerful chuckle as you released the blood-stained shard. your tongue flickered out to lick the wound, disgusted at the iron taste flooding your taste buds. you recalled tomes, collecting dust in the library, that detailed how honey faes' blood tasted, or how beastpeople tasted spicier than normal. you envied them, truly, for their magical capabilities and how they could enjoy the taste of their blood were they to bleed.

embarrassingly, as though loathing you for being unaffected by the surroundings, fate decided to twirl one of its strings on the vast fabric of life.

and made you fucking trip.

over nothing.

at the moment, memories of your past life flooded in like a broken dam, and they were as stupid as the way you regained them.

you weren't always the apathetic person you presented yourself as in your current life. that would be a wrong notion to take in, without adding that you masked your eccentricity better.

a hypocrite, that word alone summarized your fleeting existence. you were too indifferent to care about others, and yet, too prideful to be looked down on. you loved yourself for not entertaining yourself with trivial matters, like video games, and yet, the competitiveness baked in your blood forced you to always be on the top leaderboard.

you never skipped classes, perfect attendance, decent social circle, but you would rather eat a lightbulb than proclaim your supposed liking towards other human beings,

who could blame you for being such a fake bitch, really?

moreover, there was a more important realization you acquired.

this was no unfamiliar, outlandish universe you were reborn in.

no, this was the world of 'lost in my favorite novel: let's change the genre!'

it was a dating simulator where the main character, yuu, fell asleep after finishing the tragic novel they were reading.

true to its position as the stone to kick off the plot, that original novel was nothing short of... dog blood!

unnecessary angst, prolonged miscommunications, out-of-nowhere plot twists, this novel truly encompassed the worst of mankind in the tragedy genre.

what angered yuu the most was the terribly sad ending their favorite character, malleus had to endure: being slain by the one he considered his brother because of the political manipulation from the humans' side. even worse, the faes were also pushed to extinction after the death of their leader, framing the humans as some sort of saviors reclaiming their lands.

so when yuu found themself becoming a side-character in the novel, with a weird creature named grim, who was revealed to be a fragment of the book's own mind that desperately wished for a rewrite, the duo went around to.....change genre.

pray tell, why was all of that interesting premise thrown aside in favour of the poorly underdeveloped and rushed romance?????

the game's strong point was literally about wooing these tragic figures. how did they fumble that badly in the writing room? did the writers collectively snort cocaine? did they agree to remove their brains for this story?

it was more disappointing because you were slightly interested after seeing a writer, whose creations had been critically acclaimed, in the credits.

damn capitalism and its favor of quantity over quality!

that was also why you decided to speedrun the game, collecting all the merry bad endings before it was EOS.

well, not sleeping for a week straight resulted in your death, pathetically. that was how you came to know those modern terms, your country's name, airplanes: it was a huge sense of deja vu, reminding you of what you truly were.

anyways, what was your role in this god-forsaken game?

the big bad villain.

hailing from a prestigious bloodline, the original you had been spoiled rotten, leading to a total moral decay. they treated everyone badly, in classic villain's style, manipulating the love interests into turning against each other for their own joy.

it was they who were responsible for the death of malleus, and in the end, they died at his hands: head smashed against the cobblestone that led to the entrance of the thorn-ridden castle.

come to think of it, weren't you practically the same as them during childhood? the only difference was that you hadn't touched any major figures.

yet.

when you arrived back at the mansion, equipped with knowledge of the impending doom, you weren't surprised when you heard of your father's summons to his office.

when he held that letter, with a rose encrusted on it, you already knew the words that would spill out from his lips.

the dire engagement with the son of the duke, riddle rosehearts. this was how riddle grew up to be a tyrant; he was always bullied by the original you, which fed into his desire for control, for discipline, something always present during his life, but didn't belong to him.

"it pains me to see their shamelessness, little brat." your father chuckled, tossing the letter into his fireplace after reading it. you didn't respond, clasping your hands as your dull eyes scanned his office room. 'little brat', a nickname he gave you upon the many troubles you had caused. despite his words, you had already know his answer.

yes.

according to the novel, or the game itself, the reason why grand duke von sommerstern accepted the proposal,

for the blissfully unaware rosehearts family, they had secured a connection to one of the most powerful households of twisted wonderland, and a collasal fortune.

for your family though, it meant you got another toy to play with.

"try not to break him, or else you will cost me this house." he laughed coldly.

his warmth was only reserved for your mother, after all.

perhaps that was why the original you was such a heartless person; how could one be capable of love, when the sole form they experienced it, was an eternal frigidity.

"yes, father!" you chirped delightfully. tomorrow, he would come to visit, a perfect chance for you to try changing the ridiculous ending your future self had.