What villainess am I?

Chapter 4 - Tea time

There is a school of thought that supposes man has two deaths: first is when you die physically; second happens when your actions become forgotten from the line of history. I diverge from this notion of existential existence: I believe one dies many times. Every day, every hour, every time you act and bring an idea to a person. You kill yourself, a false face someone thought you were. You die when every cell that makes you up changes, and you die when what people remember of you clashes with who you are. Is it any wonder we, humanity, fear death? It hangs over us: even if we wake another day and sleep at its end, we are never truly alive. Who we were, are, and will be is someone else, someone who knows us and knows we existed; we can't recognize them and can't experience what changed. One conversation can change our view of the world: what isn't there to fear?

However, isn't that what makes life worth living? The fact we can't live without death is a morbidly beautiful thought. I suppose I may just be sentimental, as death has touched me many times before, but I can not help but wonder. I can not help but ponder. Who is most likely to be remembered? One who rules and changes the world, or the one who changes the mind; Will I ever be such a person? Will I ever make my mark? Will I ever live? Is it hubristic to want to live forever?

I lift my legs, holding them there as I count. It hasn't been long since I woke, but Mother has yet to return. So, in the meantime, I ponder life as I exercise my body. I become engrained, engrossed in my thoughts, letting it all spill into a malaise of thought. It spins around itself, all across that which causes every mortal fear, but in the end, thinking about it won't change the facts of life. Thump; my legs drop onto the crib's floor as the strain becomes too much. I sigh, though I might prefer doing proper leg lifts; getting them to hold for long enough is the first challenge to overcome. Walking with assistance, I smirk, will be easy and trivial within another month of training: If I remember all I know of babies, that is.

I have read that a baby could walk with parental assistance at eight months of age. I hope to shatter this. Why? Because I find myself loathing to sit in this body any longer than I must. Three more months till I can crawl? Baffling that someone won't go mad. I barely keep my sanity as it is: my exercise has given me strength, no pun intended, to keep going.

You may wonder what I do all day, a fair thing to consider. Aristocratic children, of which I consider myself a member, need not worry about their health, even at their youngest. At least, I think so. It has been easy so far to keep myself healthy, aside from some points like the binding of my arms and legs at night. However, even with such, I find my physicality limiting. Who couldn't? My mental health demands I work myself from this case. I can even practice my vision, that is to say, increasing my understanding of why I can see my soul and why other people have their souls close to their bodies. I wonder if I could even begin a form of parallel thinking, as so many ideas of magical worlds provide. Subconscious thought versus active analysis and what that means for my ability to act will unquestionably be on my agenda of personal study. However, I must first be physically fit enough to use such ideas before trying to test and observe the effects; after all, what use is there for tests if there are no results?

As I ponder my trapped state, I hear a knock upon my door. I shoot up at the sound; it must be Mother. My heart pounds once more, excitement as ideas of learning about this world and its customs flood my mind. Giddy to be gifted such a moment, I can barely hold my face in a soft, waking expression. I hear the shaking of Janet in her chair; it seems she fell asleep while on duty. After a moment of silence, I am picked up by Maid Alice as Janet opens the silent door. Maid Alice gives a few coos before she turns to Mother, who stands gallantly in the door frame.

Dressed in a suit that seems to fit her better, she looks at the two maids, who drop to their knees. Maid Alice, while holding onto me as she does, smothers me in her chest in the process. While I am not one to look a gift horse in its mouth, suffocating at three months is not one of my goals. As I push against the flesh, I am relieved of the pressure, and her flush proves she understands why. Shaking my head a moment, I look at her, my eyes on her face. Though I find it easier not to, I think it is poignant to do so when making a statement, even as I cannot convey the words.