The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 15: Obsession

Although my nose had been set properly, it still hurt occasionally. Following the healer’s instructions to use it sparingly, I filled the pipe with the magical powder he had left behind and lit it.

The slightly moist, sticky smoke coated my lungs, bringing a fleeting sense of satisfaction.

Of course, I was smoking it because my nose throbbed, not because it sent my frustrations floating far away.

Probably.

“My lady, the healer said to use it only when you’re in pain,” Alina chided, looking at me with half-lidded, weary eyes.

“Let’s just say my heart hurts, okay? I’m sad because everyone left me behind to go on their little picnic.”

Alina didn’t respond to my baiting and deftly changed the subject.

“By the way, I’ve finished cleaning the bookshelves. Should I bring in some new books?”

“Hmm, I’ll pick them out myself later.”

Her wrists and, faintly visible, her legs were bruised, as if someone had beaten her.

Alina seemed conscious of the marks, pulling down her sleeves and drawing her legs in whenever they became visible.

As if that would hide them.

Normally, she’d hug me, let me play with her hair, or sometimes even exchange massages.

But now, she was doing her best to maintain an unnatural distance.

Perhaps she thought she was acting naturally, but her unease was clear.

“Alina.”

“Yes, my lady?”

Her hollow eyes met mine.

She must not have slept well. The redness at the corners of her eyes hinted that she’d been crying.

I wanted to ask, Are you being bullied because of me? Is someone making your life miserable?

But I stopped myself.

There was nothing I could do to help her.

I shouldn’t have made her my personal maid.

At first, she was happy about the promotion, with its better pay and treatment, but now her face had darkened so much.

Because of me.

Because I clung to her, tried to befriend her, made her my personal maid.

Someone like me.

“…It’s nothing.”

I placed the pipe on the desk and stood up.

Sitting in this cramped, stifling room smoking this stuff felt suffocating.

I needed an outlet for my emotions.

Something constructive, like playing an instrument.

“I want to get out of here,” I murmured quietly, so no one could hear.

“My lady, where are you going?” Alina asked.

“Just to play the piano. Don’t follow me. Once you’re done cleaning, just rest in the room.”

I left the room and walked down the corridor.

The only people left in the mansion were servants, so there was no one to scold me for playing “that dreadful music.”

I made my way to the piano room.

The Duke had promised to get me a piano, but since it was being custom-made, it would take some time. For now, this was the only place where I could play.

“Excuse me, my lady, you’re not allowed to enter that room.”

A servant, who had been cleaning the corridor, grabbed my wrist as I reached for the door.

“…Were you not taught that it’s improper to lay hands on a lady’s body?” I said, pulling my arm free.

“But the Duchess ordered that no one may enter this room except during lessons,” the man said with a faintly mocking smile, continuing in a slightly overbearing tone, his large frame blocking my path.

Perhaps he thought I’d get scared and back off.

“Even before talking about rules, isn’t it basic manners not to touch a lady—any woman, for that matter—without permission?”

He didn’t respond, just stood firmly in place, barring the door.

Laughter echoed from somewhere, and I turned to see other servants mocking me.

“Only during lessons, the Duchess said. It seems your noble blood hasn’t blessed you with much common sense… oops!”

The man feigned regret, slapping his mouth theatrically as if he’d misspoken.

The laughter around me grew louder, unchecked by anyone.

None of the other servants—neither the maids carrying laundry nor the butlers making their rounds—intervened.

No surprise there.

I must’ve seemed an easy target, given the rumors.

Rumors that I was an orphaned prostitute’s daughter taken from the slums, raised by the brothel’s manager until his death, and falsely claimed as the Duke’s child.

That I was nothing but trash, born in filth, pretending to be a noble in fancy clothes when I belonged buried in the slums.

I probably seemed lower than the servants in the mansion.

But who was I?

What kind of person was I meant to be in this world?

The villain.

The foolish antagonist who wreaked havoc in the mansion, lashed out with sharp words and curses, and persecuted and cursed the protagonist.

That’s right.

I was the villain.

And then I died.

How did it happen again?

I can’t quite remember.

But one thing’s for sure: I wasn’t ignored.

Despised, scorned as evil and wretched, sure—but ignored? No.

“Move aside.”

The man blocking the door scoffed, dismissing my words without a care.

“I’ve gone into this room every day to play the piano. Why can’t I today?”

“Because the Duchess allowed it only after lessons, and today she’s away. Please, no more of that dreadful music—”

I needed to shake off this suffocating frustration.

The best way was to press the keys, to let the sound pour out through my fingers.

“Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Chopin, Shostakovich, Tchaikovsky, Haydn, Brahms, Schumann, Saint-Saëns, Schubert, Handel, Liszt, Paganini, Mendelssohn, Dvořák, Strauss, Prokofiev, Ravel, Rimsky-Korsakov, Debussy, Mozart—I don’t care. As long as it’s something intense. If classical’s too dull, I’ll settle for the fiery swing of black jazz or the icy precision of white jazz. Anything but that wretched pop music—it’s all noise, not my style. And if that doesn’t work, give me the lively music of gypsies, or even traditional melodies. Anything. I have to play. I need to!”

When I play, I don’t forget myself.

Not the villainous, beautiful Marisela. The real me.

I hate this pale-haired, red-eyed person.

I hate this life of mine, running like clockwork along its predestined path.

I hate everything.

Even this fabricated beauty.

It’s unnatural—too cute, too pretty. I can’t accept it as mine.

Even though years have passed in this body.

I want to play the piano.

To forget everything and hole up in a room.

An audience isn’t necessary—I’ve never cared about that.

When I sat at the piano, my slanted eyes and plain face in a pressed suit, suddenly, I was treated differently.

Even when my hands gave out, and I became trash holed up in a room, devouring novels and movies, wasting away.

But now… now I thought maybe I could be more than the Ace Prostitute’s daughter. 

More than the brothel manager’s clever ward. More than a futureless orphan.

Even if no one loved me, even if I was useless and lowly, at least I could play the piano freely.

Was that too much to ask?

Why did I bother learning letters? Why did I try to escape the slums?

I couldn’t even touch the tavern’s instruments. I dreamed of leaving that filthy place, earning money, buying my own instrument, playing it, and dying content someday—old or sick, it didn’t matter.

Those were my thoughts as I begged the man to move.

Pride be damned.

“…What nonsense are you spouting?”

He looked taken aback, almost frightened, as he listened to my rambling pleas.

And that was my place in this world—a place where nothing I said would ever be taken seriously.

If I wanted them to listen, there was only one way.

Whether it was the old me or the current me, there was always only one option.

Scream. Yell. Throw a tantrum.

Because otherwise, no one would hear me.

I’m just a half-wit, after all.

Although, by some measure, that makes me at least half better than this bastard blocking my way.

A wave of anger swept through me, making my legs tremble and my arms shake.

I turned and walked back to my room.

Laughter echoed behind me, loud and deliberate, calling my name and piling on insults: foolish, filthy, prostitute’s spawn, half-wit, and worse.

If I turned back now and confronted them, demanding to know why they said such things, they’d deny it outright.

It has happened again and again over the past few months.

Constantly.

Surely, this was enough.

And now, with everyone who could have stopped me away on their picnic…

A dog kept chained its whole life doesn’t necessarily run when the leash is removed.

But I’m no loyal dog.

I wanted to cause trouble.

No, that’s not it.

I’m just following what I’ve learned.

They always told me—if someone defies you, crush them. If they’re insolent, discipline them.

So what do you do when they threaten you, mock you with those filthy mouths?

The books say to rip out their tongues.

That should suffice.

I’ve never done it myself, but I once saw a man who beat a prostitute to death at the brothel lose his tongue in front of the manager.

Back in my room, Alina startled at the sight of me and rushed over.

“My lady, why are you crying?”

I touched my face.

From my red eyes, which seemed capable of shedding nothing but blood, clear tears were streaming down.

Was it anger? Bitterness? A childish wound?

I didn’t know.

I couldn’t control my emotions anymore.

“Alina, just sit down.”

“But first, what happ—”

“Just sit. I’ll be back. Don’t follow me.”

Ignoring her protests, I searched the room for the hardest object I could find.

Books, a chair, a teapot, teacups, plates—nothing seemed ideal.

In the end, I grabbed the teapot.

Alina tried to stop me, staring into my eyes for a long moment before slowly letting go, trembling slightly.

Her wide eyes seemed to beg me not to do whatever I was planning.

I gently pushed her aside and closed the door behind me, blocking out her distraught expression.

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