The Villainess Does Not Want to Die

Chapter 35: The Girl She Saw

I always think the world is such a beautiful place.

The people working in the estate are all loyal and kind, doing their best no matter the task.

The knights in the back training grounds are all so gallant and handsome, with rumors even saying they’re renowned fighters elsewhere. Well, that’s according to the knight captain, so I can’t say how credible it is.

Our family, too, is harmonious, gathering daily to share meals and spend time together.

But one day, a girl named Marisela came into our home.

She was small, her body and face much younger than mine, yet her words and actions seemed more mature than even my mother’s.

After Marisela arrived, the once-harmonious atmosphere of our family began to crumble.

My kind and beautiful mother started looking distressed whenever she saw her. The air around her grew heavier and darker.

Once, I completed an embroidery piece and went to show it to my mother proudly, only to find her collapsed on the bed, crying her heart out.

You might think this is an excuse, but imagine how I must have felt about Marisela at the time.

How could I not despise her when my mother—a woman so gentle and kind—hated her from the very first moment they met?

Even to the point of quarreling with Father about her.

Mother once told me, Marisela is the daughter of a prostitute. She might carry the filthy, vile blood of a devil.

She’s undoubtedly as wicked as her mother was.

When a mother—especially a perfect, gentle mother—says something to a child, the child believes it without question.

At that age, I might have believed her even if she’d told me that Isten, our Almighty, was actually Satan deceiving the world.

The things Mother said about Marisela only strengthened my beliefs.

The first time I attended Mother’s lessons with Marisela, Mother kept her behind afterward.

When we reunited at dinner, Mother’s face was hollow and broken—completely unlike herself.

Then one day, there was talk of a family picnic, but Marisela wasn’t included.

More accurately, Mother didn’t ask Marisela if she wanted to come, leaving her behind at the estate.

I thought about how I’d feel if I were left alone in the mansion while my family went on a picnic, and a heavy ache filled my chest. So, I asked Libian to invite her along.

Mother would be upset, of course, but I didn’t think about the consequences. Mother always indulged me, no matter how difficult it was for her.

I did consider the possibility of being scolded later, though.

After our lessons, Marisela simply returned to her room. I thought Libian had forgotten to pass on my message, but when I learned that she’d heard the invitation and still chosen not to come, I was furious.

Marisela, however, dismissed my anger with a mocking tone, as if I were some ridiculous child.

She ignored me when I tried to stop her, mocked me when I spoke, and laughed at me with scorn.

Consumed by humiliation and a sense of superiority—the feeling that I had done her a favor only to be trampled on—I shoved her as she walked away.

Perhaps I thought myself better, more important than her.

I spoke as if granting a servant some grand privilege, offering her the right to join us for the picnic.

Marisela must have hated that.

I remembered how she once called our family outings pointless dog play.

Even so, I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me.

We had been at odds since the day we met, but that incident solidified the bitterness between us, making reconciliation impossible.

That girl was so strange to me.

When she fell, her nose broken and her face covered in blood, she didn’t cry or show pain.

Instead, when I approached, she spoke softly: You didn’t do it on purpose, right?

When I sarcastically asked what she’d do if I had, she didn’t get angry.

Instead, she punished the servants who didn’t come to her aid, knocking them down and striking them. Thinking back, she was meting out justice.

Then she came to me, tears streaming down her face, but with a twisted smile—a smile that was crying.

I can’t do anything, she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

At that moment, I was terrified of her.

Looking back now, I realize she had already given up on everything.

She was just an eleven-year-old child, but everyone pointed fingers at her, avoided her, and left her isolated.

She endured all of it, to the point where pain no longer mattered.

Marisela grew far more brilliant as we both got older.

Whenever I stood beside her, I felt like my light was dimmed.

In just a month of lessons, she danced better than I did after years of practice. Her frail, awkward appearance blossomed into beauty as time passed.

For reasons I couldn’t understand, she mastered instruments better than most court musicians and could recite books she’d read by heart.

She was a genius.

Her presence filled me with jealousy and inferiority.

Even after she was punished for harming servants and locked in the tower, I was scared of her—and envious.

I tormented her out of those feelings.

I poured filth on her, threw rotten eggs with Libian, and struck her from behind before running away.

I hurled insults at her, things too vile to repeat.

But Marisela, with her expressionless face, simply stared at us for a while before walking away, as if it didn’t matter.

And we didn’t stop tormenting her, even after she returned from that lake, her temperament even sharper.

The servants whispered that she’d killed a knight during that trip, but I dismissed it. How could a frail girl like Marisela defeat a strong knight?

I never imagined it was true.

Years passed before Libian and I began questioning ourselves. It was two years before this journey to the capital.

Libian told me he’d knocked Marisela down during an argument, looking troubled.

For the first time, we talked—awkwardly—about whether it was time to stop tormenting her and apologize.

Having grown into ourselves, we thought it was time to be satisfied with who we were.

But this is a confession I’d never share—not with Mother, Father, or even in confession at church.

It’s just my ramblings, scribbled in a diary only I will read.

Ramblings that, if left unspoken, feel like they’d rot away inside me.

Even then, I still thought I was somehow above Marisela—someone who surpassed me in every way.

The Girl Eileen Saw

Because it’s true, isn’t it?

Marisela was half-commoner, ignored by the servants who never heeded her anger or complaints, and so docile when bullied that she never uttered a word of protest.

It didn’t matter how talented or beautiful she was.

So I approached her as if bestowing a favor—much like when I shoved her at age 11. This time, I used the same condescending tone to apologize for years of torment, as if she owed me forgiveness.

Of course, I didn’t go alone. I was too afraid to do that, so I brought Libian with me.

Marisela’s response was short and scathing.

“If you’re sorry, hang yourself and die right now. If that’s too much, stab yourself in the stomach and die instead.”

Looking back, her pupils were slightly dilated, and she seemed anxious and unsteady.

But I didn’t consider that at the time. Instead, I lashed out.

“How dare you…” I began, before hurling every vile insult I could muster.

“Your mother was a whore, and you’re no different.

I’ll live happily ever after, but you’ll rot away in this room, shriveling into nothing.

If you’ve got the strength to spit such nonsense, why don’t you go hang yourself right now?

No matter how talented or beautiful you are, everyone loves me, and no one will ever love you.”

Reading this now, it’s horrifying.

Marisela trembled violently as she listened, then stood, grabbed the teapot, and smashed it.

I panicked, remembering the stories of her slashing the servants with glass shards.

But no, it was worse.

She turned the broken glass on me, slashing my arm repeatedly. When that didn’t satisfy her, she began stabbing my neck, crying the whole time.

Fortunately, it was just jagged ceramic, so the damage was shallow, leaving only raw, scraped skin.

And that’s when I realized it wasn’t Marisela who was the devil we accused her of being.

It was us. Me.

The excuses—the devil’s influence, her wickedness, her filthy bloodline—were all lies we told ourselves to justify what we did to her.

Libian tackled Marisela, wresting the glass shard from her hand. I ran to fetch the physician.

The next day, Marisela acted as though nothing had happened.

Mother, after hearing what transpired, broke down. Her face crumbled as she sobbed, then she threw us out of the room.

We heard her crying behind the door but, of course, pretended not to notice.

In the end, it wasn’t Marisela who was vile, base, or wicked. It was me.

Even calling it youthful folly doesn’t absolve me.

And the worst part is, I’ve never once truly apologized—not properly.

This is my confession.

Not to anyone else, but to myself.

Because no matter how much I beg, I’ll never be forgiven.

Do I regret it? Of course I do.

But what good is regret if I’m the only one who feels it?

Eileen closed her diary, stood up, and glanced over at Marisela, who was absorbed in a book.

She opened her mouth as if to speak but faltered, dragging her hand down her face before sinking back into her chair.

At the bottom of the diary’s last page, the words “Apologize today” had been scratched out with two heavy lines.

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