Despite my rather good memory, I couldn't remember much of why I woke up with an oddly sharpened rock digging into my side; nevertheless, it just so happened that I did. Groaning and wincing in what was easily synonymous with agony, I groggily clutched my left side and rolled onto my back, only to further frown in protest as I realised that a relatively hot sun was beating down onto my face.

Uh-oh. My morning couldn't have gone any worse, could've it?

Personally, I felt the need to challenge that. Considering that I did not particularly know where I was, nor how I'd woken up with a rock digging into my side, I did, indeed, need to challenge that. My whole body was hurting, pulsing; my head was thumping, beating like rhythmic drums; everything ached for an unknown, absurd, awful reason. If I was smart, I should've packed some ibuprofen in my travel bag, if not something harder than that — typically, a cocktail of ibuprofen and paracetamol did the trick for blasphemous migraines, but this wasn't pain focused on the head. This pain was beating down on every single part of my body that wasn't numb with a prior injury; it was like an infection, powerful and dastardly to its poor host.

Above all, I was far too confused.

How had I actually managed to go from the comfortable warmth of a first class Eurostar carriage to ... well, where the actual fuck was I?! I was much too confused for my own good. Gathering from the rock digging formerly into my side and the small stones paved on the ground that were digging into the majority of my back, alongside the uncomfortable rays of sunlight beating onto my face, I was — no doubt — outside.

But how I'd managed to get outside in the first place was beyond me. There was a specific point between taking a casual bathroom break whilst in the midst of my travels and waking up that I didn't recall — and that unnerved me. Amnesia was a little bitch, and it was wonderfully jarring; after all, not having the mental capability to remember something as factually important meant that I'd be focusing on trying to remember it. My brain could handle a lot, but I doubted it could manage that much without — at least — partially fizzing out.

Rolling into a cross-legged — and a generally more comfortable — position, I stretched, grabbing my dust-covered bag in the process. Blocking out the absurdity of the situation and the irrational spell of pain in my side, this felt like a normal morning (with the added feature of a hangover-like feeling writhing across my entire body), and that was what I'd preferably like to focus on. All I needed was a heavy cocktail of painkillers, a pint — or more — of intense black coffee, and we were good to go.

Knowing that I'd likely be unable to reach my dark, intense brew of coffee, I settled with a pitcher of water and some ibuprofen instead, knowing that such a fundamental painkiller would at least hopefully subside some of the graphic pain in my side — for now, at least. If I could find somewhere decent, I'd make use of my medical kit and bandage my wound up. Considering, however, my current situation of being abandoned in the middle of nowhere recognisable, I doubted I'd be able to do as much as I wished I could do. My options were heavily limited, something I was thwarted by.

I mean, the first idea was contacting somebody. Anybody. Isabella, Chandler — hell, even Astrid, my fire-breathing aunt, could suffice in this time. At least I could remember the fundamental details of my family; it was just the rest of the amnesia that was pestering me. Why? Why couldn't I remember what'd happened to throw me from the comfort of the Eurostar? I grabbed my phone from the inner pocket of my jacket, rather pleasantly surprised that it hadn't been smashed horrifically from an obvious crash landing I'd suffered; it looked practically brand-new aside from the few minute scratches surfacing the screen. Pressing the home button, I squinted at the top bar, showing battery percentage. 71%. We were just fine on that part, and luckily so; I'd likely come to regret it otherwise if I had to enable my battery packs in a completely unknown atmosphere.

Soon enough, however, I noticed that there was absolutely no service on my phone. Unless I was out in the middle of the country - which I highly doubted that I wasn't - or, indeed, underground, it was completely ridiculous for my phone to lack any service altogether. I despised the thought of not being able to contact anybody; my 4G relied on the fact that I should have had service. Ultimately, it therefore meant that I wasn't able to contact a single soul, pestering me completely. I - I had to call somebody. Anybody, at this point; whether it was my worst enemy, I didn't care. Somebody had to know that I was lost and suffering from mild memory loss. I did not care. If I could reach anybody, whether that were one of my best friends or one of my sworn enemies, I would be eternally grateful.

But, alas, considering the undying fact that my phone had no service whatsoever, my hopes were dimming down into a small spark that was worth almost nothing in the macro sense.

I didn't recognise where I was, nor did I recall how I'd gotten there, nor could I contact anybody who would now where I was and, ultimately, how I'd get myself back home. To put it mildly, I was absolutely terrified of the prospect of losing contact with the people who I considered the few who mattered in my world. Whether that was Isabella or Chandler or my intimidatingly fierce Aunt, I didn't care. I couldn't lose them.

How on Earth would I find a remotely safe area to sleep overnight - or consolidate any rough potential plan to get home - when I didn't even know my whereabouts in the slightest measure? I was petrified. Absolutely petrified - and that was saying something, especially when one considered that I was one who didn't particularly like to get a strong hold upon my emotional field.

Perhaps the smartest idea was to explore my surroundings. As mediocre as it was, it was a plan, and I was perfectly okay with that, especially when one considered that I was lost for ideas, completely.

Facing me was a forest. It was a vast spread of greenery that could've lasted for miles; if worst came to worst, I'd have to walk the length of that forest until I emerged onto a road that could push me in the direction of somewhere that could be populated enough for me to find the basic details that my mind craved. Standing onto my feet, I turned to my left, my eyes widening in a cruel combination of curiosity and complete fear as they latched onto exactly what they were seeing.

A broad, enormous mansion peered over my figure; the Sun helpfully hit the back of the mansion, creating a rather intimidating shadow that was almost reaching out for me. The sheer look of its vast infrastructure was enough to make me weak at the knees. Needless to say, I was rather beside myself. Not in the slightest had I ever seen something as large. It was both beautifully exquisite and intimidating at the same time; its scale was as mystically grand as Buckingham Palace, yet it was emitting some kind of strange aura that almost reminded me of something that didn't belong in what could easily be defined as the normal world.

Its aura was almost the darkest of blacks, perplexing me; how could a building alone perceive such wonderful darkness? It was not a welcoming place - my primal instincts told me as much. It was powerful, emitting a spell of power that reminded me of dangerous underworld aristocrats. It was a metaphorical oxymoron, in its simplest form. It was so wonderfully exquisite and beautiful, reminding me very much of a mansion that was created in the Victorian era; even its upkeep and surrounding details seemed as strict as the Victorian era that I recalled from historical novellas. It was one of those buildings that truly didn't belong in what could easily be defined as the 'normal world'.

As much as I was kindly enticed by the building's jaw-dropping infrastructure, my primal instincts told me that it was not a welcoming place. It could be the secret hideout of powerful assassins. There was no way in Hell that I would be taking such a chance, not in the slightest. One could argue that risk-taking was a pure form of fun for the day-to-day, average human; not me. I'd argue that risk-taking was stupid, and I knew that I wasn't as stupid as my heart was making me out to be.

Turning in the opposing direction to what was most obviously the front entrance to the oddly hidden-away mansion, I noticed a road. It was long and straight, nothing short of standard for a road that approached such a cosy, tucked-away spot. Despite the warm rays of sunshine beating down onto my head, a mystical spray of fog stopped my naked eye from seeing as far as it usually could. Most likely, it was guarded by gates.

Gates that I just hoped and prayed would be open.

Knowing that there was an almost definite possibility of something going wrong, I strapped both bags of my backpack onto my shoulders. Inhaling sharply, I quickly judged my two possibilities - which were equally as risky as the other - and did what I knew to do best.

I ran.

Quite miraculously, incidental luck had swayed me for once. Despite taking a rather massive risk that I thought wouldn't have worked in my favour, it did. Having chosen the more obvious, communal route of the road, I'd found myself a relatively clear path. My luck had gone as far as having the gates to the presumably high-security estate being left carelessly open, hilariously so. The ease of my escape route was almost too easy, and, at one point, I'd assumed that there would be someone at the end of said escape route, waiting to catch me running from what could've easily been imminent danger.

Running down a straight road was the better of two - well, no, three - options. Running through a forest that could've spanned tens of miles and could've been full of deep, troublesome bogs wasn't a smart idea. Neither was staying put. Considering the bizarrely demonic energies that were splaying powerfully from the mansion's exterior, I didn't want to stay put, not in the slightest. Choosing the simplistic route almost seemed out-of-character for someone as amazingly complex as I was; still, it was easily the better route to take. I'd prefer to be panting after sprinting down a road like I was a cross-country runner as opposed to what I could've very easily faced in such a bizarre, endless forest.

I was glad. At the end of that road, there was another, which meant that I wasn't in the most isolated area in the entire country - or world, for that matter, especially when I considered that I didn't know where I was in the slightest way, shape or form. And whilst there were no signs depicting any nearby towns, there was only one route that I could take.

So, yes. Wherever I'd woken up was unfortunately rather isolated from the rest of that world, but it wasn't as if I'd woken up in a dungeon or prison cell or something of the like. I'd woken up outside - and that was more than good enough for me. Yes, technically, I was bleeding, and that wasn't so pleasant, especially considering the almost immediate possibility of having a developing infection because of said injury along my left side. A cocktail of the painkillers I'd formerly obtained and the sheer measures of adrenaline pumping through my veins managed to periodically dim down such pain from time-to-time. It wasn't a permanent fixture, and I'd have to accept that, but it was certainly good enough as a temporary measure.

It would be a long day.

All I needed to push myself further was two things; one was, as I'd previously mentioned, a dark brew of coffee - of course, considering my current situation, that was off the table. Luckily for me, the other option was easily obtained, for the solution was in my pocket.

Music was fuel to my ears, and it was quite common for me to push myself in ways I wouldn't have formerly expected of myself when I had a choice playlist playing. Music was a solution that was fit for any occasion. If I couldn't have coffee, music was the underlying option. Even if I could have coffee, I'd have music as an accompanying side, too. It was something that relaxed me yet powered me in any situation. It was an alternative brain fuel, and I enjoyed it far too much to allow myself to do this gruesome hike without it.

Ultimately, without another second's thought, I plugged my earphones quite forcefully into my ears, opened Spotify, scrolled to my favourite playlist - one that was coincidentally called 'The Ultimate Playlist, 2017' - and hit shuffle.

My day had not gone well so far. My mind was at least partially hopeful that something - anything - could prove from my seemingly endless expedition towards safety, such as ending up in a place that I knew. Faintly or not, knowing a reasonably recognisable location was good enough for me, and, if that were the end result to my expedition, I'd be relieved.

Alas, ending up in a town was indeed what I'd wanted. Ending up in somewhere that I could judge as safe and recognisable was better than ending up in a straightforward town - anyone could come to that resolution on their own.

Of course, it came a time wherein luck could easily run dry, and, for me, it'd clearly managed to run dry when I'd reached the end of that dastardly road that lead me away from the irresistible dangers of that mansion. Knowing where I was would've been absolute bliss.

But as I drew to an exhaustive stop, only for a few seconds, I realised that I knew absolutely nothing regarding my whereabouts. Not a single thing.

Now, if you could, imagine the combination of having a mild amnesiac episode and the daunting possibility of locating an area that was mildly populated, yet not knowing exactly where you were. As if my situation weren't already terrifying; with the combination of full-body pain, my situation was something that I would not wish upon even my worst enemy. It was daunting and terrifying and far too much for me to handle. My stomach was growling and my body was demanding watering; the combination of such mundane demands was one that I completely and utterly hated.

I'd imagined that life could not get as worse as it already was; nevertheless, the endlessly absurd situations of the day managed to absolutely prove me wrong.

My luck and my sanity was running thin, and painfully so; as I started to walk, attempting to - and quite notably failing - blend in amongst the crowds of people, I noticed a small child on the corner of one of the stands, yelling in his proudest voice, attempting to draw people's attention towards him. The boy, who couldn't have been much older than eight or nine, was handing out newspapers. His attire was very interesting to me - a dirty, flat hat covered his mop of blonde hair; he adorned brown slacks that were indeed quite loose on his small legs, and the dull, grey shirt placed upon his chest was poorly buttoned-up. He looked as if he hadn't showered in a week, if not longer; I felt pity for him, and, if I could, I'd take him to a safe lodgings and tend to him as properly as I could.

Considering that I couldn't even care to myself, I recognised that the possibilities of tending to the young child were theoretically impossible. Continuing my walk, as I walked past the boy, I took a newspaper from his tiny palms; as I did so, he flashed a toothy, proud smile. It was obvious that the poor boy didn't get much attention, being one of many 'vendors' on a crowded street; even though what he was giving away was completely free, he was neglected and ignored.

Unfolding the newspaper, I acknowledged the date at the top, my eyes frantically scanning for some kind of clue that would turn me towards something as slight as my location. Whilst I doubted that a newspaper could allow me to acknowledge my location, any newspaper worth its salt could, at least, inform me of the date. My eyes settled upon the date, printed just below the newspaper's name - which inherently pushed my eyes to widen in confusion and, in all honesty, complete fear.

Printed on the page was 'Tuesday May 22, 1888'.

No. No. What I was reading just couldn't be true. Absolutely not - I couldn't accepting this as fact! My mind was a creative one, and it did push me to hallucinate some odd and bizarre things; but this? This was a stretch. It wasn't something that I could accept as a possibility, not something I could dare to accept as true.

And still, as I looked around, my eyes meeting the confused gaze of many individuals strolling down the streets, it somehow made plausible sense to me. It was exactly why nobody saw that little boy's attire as strange; it was exactly why I was getting regularly stared down for my attire.

It was as simple as basic mathematics; somehow, for some obscene and absurd reason, I'd woken up in 1888.

This - this was not what I'd expected out of my day. I'd expected to find somewhere that I knew and contact my relatives. I'd expected to wake up from some kind of wicked dream that managed to invoke true feelings of pain. I'd expected to reunite with my relatives in a matter of hours ... or just be told that I was seeing things that I shouldn't have been seeing again.

Not this. I had not expected this.

This - I wasn't meant to be here, not at all. Somewhere else. Whether that was in the comforts of my aunt's family home in Paris, or in a hospital, I didn't care. Anywhere else but here. This was far too much for me to handle. It was just too much.

I doubted that anybody could ever actually expect to wake up from a nightmarish experience in a period of time that wasn't even remotely linked to theirs. Whilst I had indeed watched and highly endorsed the Back to the Future franchise as a pre-teen, I hadn't ever expected it to happen; it was completely unrealistic, after all. Basic science proved that something as stupidly fictitious as aforementioned franchise was not scientifically possible, nor would it ever be.

I had to be making this up. Some dark and twisted fraction of my mind was cruel enough to make this up; I did not underestimate the monstrosity of some parts of my mind.

Still, the facts were laid out right in front of me ...they were showing up in printed ink, after all. This weren't just a trick of the mind. As much as I wanted to hold onto that concept, this couldn't just be a stupid trick of the mind. This was true fact. It wasn't a misprint on the newspaper.

Somehow, I'd managed to get myself stuck in 1888, and I had no plausible way of getting back out. I'd previously thought that things just couldn't get worse for me, but, alas, fate had the pure pleasure of coming back and solidly biting me in the arse. Fate was a straight-up controlling bitch, and I was its victim that it enjoyed to tease and manipulate.

This - as far as I could tell, this could only happen to someone as unlucky as me. I was one of the people akin to a magnet; a bad-luck magnet. My streak of luck had ended when those gates had been open; that was just coincidence, surely. Luck was something that could not be associated with me; I was a bad-luck magnet, no word of a lie, and I hated it. I absolutely despised it, because it only seemed to ever happen to me.

After all, I was just one of those types. My life was melodramatic in ways that I detested, quite regularly, might I add. Whether the subject of fate kicking me in the arse was losing multiple family members over a shock period of time or mystically allowing me to be pushed into a world that was incredibly far away from mine, it happened. It just had to happen with me, no doubt, and I absolutely detested how common it turned out to be.

People around me - they were living their normal lives.

And then there was me, clutching this impossible newspaper against my chest and trying to convince myself that everything was going to be okay. That I didn't need to hyperventilate to prove a point; that I was going to wake up from this eventually, and it'd just be a twisted, completely bizarre, fucked-up dream.

Surely, just surely, everything was going to be okay. Everything had to be okay. I had to keep telling myself that, or I'd just lose it and go completely insane. Holding onto the false prospect of everything turning out alright was the only thing that was certainly keeping me sane and alive and breathing without turning into a tearful, red-faced, horrid mess. I could not deal with the concept that I had somehow managed to transport myself from one completely different era of time into one that was extremely distant from the one that I had called my home for eighteen years of my life. I could not dare to believe that, not in the slightest. I could not remember how I did it - and it just so happened that it was all that I wanted to know.

How?

How could I let myself get into such an insane mess? I wanted to desperately know the answers, and, as much as my mind was reaching for any reasonable possibilities, I just couldn't find it. I couldn't find the answer to what was my definitive, impossible world, and I absolutely could not deal with it alone. This was the worst possible situation that a mentally unstable person could ever actually be in. If I couldn't get out of this situation, it'd mean that I'd surely be stuck in a world that I'd learnt about from a combination of education and my own curious trips to Central London to explore the finest history that I could imagine.

Even though the Victorian era was the finest history that I could imagine - considering how it was full of interesting spells of creatures such as Jack the Ripper, a serial killer whose identity still to the modern day remained unknown - it was certainly not one that I'd ever want to be abandoned in. With no sense of time or acknowledgement of how I'd have a safe place to stay on the streets, I was growing more and more terrified by the second.

I could become the victim to anything. And whilst fate was indeed quite the dangerous weapon to someone as mystically fucked-up as I, I couldn't deal with the fact that I was, for once in my pitiful life, all alone. As much as I sometimes wished I could get some personal space of my own, this wasn't what I'd meant. Ever. When I enjoyed the company of people, I did truly enjoy it, especially when I knew the person was welcoming and knew exactly how to understand how my intricate yet simultaneously fucked-up mind worked. Being alone was a comforting thought to me until I was truly alone - and then I realised how exaggerated it was.

Fate would truly have a fun time picking me apart. It was lucky that it had me in its complex grasp, because I was truly a fun toy to play with.

Because, for once, fate had the possibility of winning. All the times before in my life, I'd won - but not this time, I did suppose. Not this time, because I just couldn't get used to winning, not especially when I knew that things in life were never eternally swinging in my favour. Sometimes, you just had to settle with the fact that, especially if you were human, you'd have to lose sometimes - that was where the 'human' part came into the mix. Considering that I still had some form of dignity, I didn't want to let fate win.

Admitting that fate was winning - it was enough. Fate was winning.

If fate was winning, fate had already won.

Attempting to find lodgings was a precedented disaster. Attempting to locate something to satate my hunger was a precedented disaster. Considering that I was somehow stuck in the middle of 1888, with no valid form of money, it was no surprise that my money wouldn't be accepted. People weren't going to wrap their head around a currency that featured the picture of a queen who wasn't yet born.

Hell, people weren't going to wrap their head around me. Strangers or not, it was commonplace difficult for people to understand why I was as ... peculiar as I was. That's a story for a different time; all I needed was somewhere - anywhere - to stay for the night. A small, leaky basement would be sufficient if I were allowed a moderately average spell of sleep. Considering my present situation of having no valid source of income alongside the very premise of my presumably "odd" clothing, it was obvious that I wasn't going to get what I wanted.

Not unless I did some serious begging, but I had pride. Begging was not particularly my cup of tea. Unless it came to the point wherein I absolutely had to beg for my sanity or life, I would not dare to beg. It was something that was honestly rather humiliating to someone with obscene levels of skyrocketing dignity.

It came to the point wherein I'd flat-out given up, and I'd sank to the floor in a desperate attempt to sleep. Sitting cross-legged wasn't a smart idea when I was wearing heeled boots, but sticking my legs out wasn't the best idea, not when I was trying to sleep in a rough, dark alley. I'd come to the conclusion that I was somewhere in London; even though I didn't know exactly where in London, it was most definitely somewhere in the rather broad region of London. Whether that was north, south, east or west, I didn't particularly care; it was London, and whilst I wasn't familiar with nineteenth-century London, it was a place that I referred to as my definitive home. There was absolutely no doubt about that; since I was eight, London was my home, and I was glad to be in some variant of it.

Even if that variant was a part of the nineteenth century, it was a place that I could very loosely call home. A place that I could very loosely call mine.

I just would've preferred this to be a cruel dream, one that my imagination had spurred from its wickedest depths. Considering that I was still suffering from pain from time to time, I had to face the facts: this was, indeed, real. It shouldn't have been possible to transport oneself from the midst of 2017 into the midst of 1888; it was over a century away from what should've been my present, after all. It was scientifically impossible, yet I felt like I was living in a fictional novella or something of the like. I was impossibly far away from home, and knowingly so. It wasn't as if I were in another country; one couldn't compare this experience to something as simplistic - and dare I say it - common as travel. This wasn't as basic as travelling from England to France, or wherever I chose - this was time travel. And whislt it was a form of travel nonetheless, it was a messed-up, terrifying form of travel that I couldn't wrap my head around.

As a student who literally took Physics and Psychology, if I couldn't wrap my head around it, who said that anyone from the late nineteenth century could? Not even the most understanding of psychiatrists would be able to wrap their heads around what was going on in my world. As unfortunate it was, I doubted that I'd be able to find a proficient, able psychiatrist in 1888. Maybe if I were thrown into a mental ward and left to rot in a cell, someone would listen to me. Maybe someone wouldn't, and I'd be completely okay with that. Nobody was likely going to listen to me within reason; not when I was all alone with no way to contact any of my loved ones. If both myself and Isabella had gone through this together, we'd be battling the impossible situation together. Alas, I was alone, a sensation that I previously believed to be enjoyable.

That was before I realised how much I enjoyed the company of people, and, quite ultimately, how much I relied on the company of people, too.

Isabella was a phenomenal, unique individual, one who I'd been friends with since I was approximately six. We were both new additions to our primary school, and, because nobody wanted to deal with the bizarre outcasts who'd both joined at the same time, we almost automatically became friends. Whilst we were both different in our own ways, I admired Isabella for her youthful outlandishness. Whether that was her presumably inherent ability to win multiple fencing titles or her general bubbliness, I didn't know nor particularly care; we were best friends. There was absolutely no question about it. We were best friends who shared a love of baking and Norse mythology and intense extra-curricular activities. Isabella was a gem, and it was no word of a lie to say that I missed her. In my spell of loneliness - that I doubted would be resolved anytime soon, unless I was lucky enough to find a way to get back home - I could've really done with Isabella's company.

Chandler was my cousin, and, in every way, he was akin to what I'd love in a sibling. Kind and caring and generous and sweet with a tinge of sassiness and sarcasm; if I had to define him in one descriptive sentence, that'd be it. He was a little younger than me, but I didn't particularly care. We were raised in the same house until I was six - at that point, my parents and I moved to London. When my aunt took me in under her care, we were blessed with each other's company for another six months until my uncle was granted legal custody of me and I was shipped back to London for good. Whenever I was blessed with the boy's company, I would be ecstatic. He's a truly unique gem who is too good for the world that was supposed to be my present. In a word, fierce.

Introducing each of them to another was something that I did not dare to regret nor forget. Knowing that my two best friends had each other through tough times was enough for me. When I, for some reason, couldn't be there for either of them - whether that was a result of location or prior arrangements that made me completely unavailable - they had each other.

I imagined they were relying off each other's company whilst I was ... what? Frantically trying to find a warm place to sleep in 1888? No doubt I had it off worse than the two of them. I wasn't particularly jealous - it was probable that it was my fault, landing myself in the wonderful clutches of the mysterious 1888. The prospect of dying terrified me, for once in my life. It wasn't the dying part that scared me - it was the fact that, if I did die, I'd have to do it alone.

I'd just be a nobody buried in a county field if I were to die in this era. I wouldn't be recognised as a legible entry into the family crypt situated in the heart of Paris; I'd be recognised as an anonymous nobody who'd appeared from the absolute middle of nowhere and walked herself into a pit of starvation and loneliness. I'd just be one of those deaths, one who'd be neglected. Hell, if I died here, there would be a chance that I wouldn't even be buried. It was more probable than the prospect of being buried in a lonely county field, in an unmarked, freshly-prepared county field. I doubted that the late nineteenth century was majorly interested in burying people who weren't baptized as Christian, or a linked member to some form of aristocracy. If you were a street rat, dead or not, you weren't respectable. Instead of being respectable - a sensation that I undoubtedly loved and craved - you were an unsavoury type, in the eyes of the law.

I had to have some kind of goal here. Whether it was something as beautifully simplistic as finding something to eat and drink, or another kind of goal entirely, I had to have a charge. I always had a charge, after all. It was blasphemous to sit around waiting for a saviour that I knew wasn't going to come for me; for God's sake, I was trapped in the nineteenth century. I was a spawn from 1999, who'd managed to wake up from a presumed nap - that was taking place in 2017, might I add, whilst I was travelling to France in the comforts of a pricey cross-country train - in 1888. There was no plausible way that I'd have a saviour coming for me. Not in the slightest. I wasn't a damsel in distress, anyway. Waiting around for some kind of impossible saviour to save me from an already impossible nightmare was stupid, because, quite frankly, I knew that I was never going to see something as preposterous as an alleged knight in shining armour. If someone were to offer me a warm place to stay overnight with no costs whatsoever - which was a bit of a stretch, really - then, and only then, I'd likely dub them as something akin to a saviour.

My impossible situation was growing more and more impossible by the minute, and I absolutely despised it. I did not particularly like my situation already; it was something that I would not wish upon the worst kind of evil. I was lost, and I disliked the feeling of being lost. I was alone, and I disliked the feeling of being lost, despite formerly believing that it would once be satisfactory. I was cold and hungry and tired and in pain; with a cocktail of true evil, I completely found myself hating both the situation that I was stricken with, and, quite coincidentally, myself.

All in all, it was quite a ... curious situation to be in.

My survival skills weren't quite polished enough to be enabled whilst I was in a different era. My survival skills were polished if I had a phone that coincidentally happened to have service; of course, considering my present situation, I could not particularly use said survival skills. They were essentially of no use in said situation; it was an unpleasant, cruel situation to be stuck in, and yet I managed to find myself in the middle of something that was the spawn of fate itself.

I'd really drawn the short straw.

Not too much later, I'd realised it was getting dark. The evening was hitting me and I still hadn't been able to find a valid place to sleep. It was probable that I wouldn't be able to find a warm place to sleep, and I'd have to rough it out on the streets, something I'd never done before. It was a terrifying aspect; I possessed a lot of valuables, and I didn't want some petty thief coming around and stealing what I considered my best assets. Whether they were the three family heirlooms that hung limply around my neck or something as meaningless as a mobile phone, I didn't want anyone to steal them whilst I was in my most vulnerable state. My phone wasn't of any use to me unless you counted music streaming. I doubted that anyone in 1888 would take interest in such a trivial and materialistic thing that they didn't, in all fairness, know how to operate. Still, being a victim of theft wasn't something I wanted.

Stretching as I paced around the dimly-lit alleyway that I'd marked as my own - for the night, anyway - I realised that I seemed quite ... desperate. In my state of desperation, I was easily a subject of unruly people.

Almost as an afterthought to my thoughts, I found my eyes locking onto an approaching figure. Instantly scanning the figure's silhouette, I jumped to a few conclusions. Based upon the figure's shadow alone, I grew positively attached to the fact that the person approaching me was a man. He was staggering and muttering incoherently to himself, suggesting that he was rather intoxicated; great. Just great. A drunken man was exactly what I needed.

"You're a pretty little thing," slurred the man, tripping over his own two feet. A half-empty beer bottle was in his hand; even from a distance, I could smell the reek of alcohol on his breath. Pleasant. I was half-tempted to walk away, although a deranged part of me was telling me that it was wise to ride this out for the sheer purpose of amusement. I was battling a reasonable approach to a drunkard and one that wouldn't result in anything particularly beneficial towards my own safety. "Aren't you? Pretty girl. It's n-not saaaafe to be out here on the streets on your own, pretty girl. Why don't you come back home with me, pretty girl? I'll keep you safe and warm."

Whilst an insane part of me was telling me to go ahead with the plan for the sheer purpose of warmth and a potential bed, I knew that this man's approach wasn't ideal. Through his words, I knew what he was really saying; in some fucked-up part of his mind, the man wanted me to spend the night with him. This was certainly a cruel situation to be in. On one hand, I wanted to stay in a warm bed for the night ... in a world wherein fate was teasing me, it was practically all that I wanted. The sane, logistical side of me told me otherwise; trying to make reason with a drunkard man who likely only wanted me for the sheer purpose of sex was not an idea that I wanted to follow up on.

"Whaddya say, darlin'?"

I wasn't particularly intimidated by the man. He was stupid to assume that I would be. I wasn't a very emotional person, generally, so why would I actually be intimidated by one stupid drunkard? Sure, I was a vulnerable adult - and that was barely something I was used to - in an era that wasn't mine, but I was already rather well adjusted to that fact (despite not knowing why I'd been subjected to such nonsense in the first place). Little to nothing could intimidate me less than one pathetic drunkard who couldn't even stand up straight without losing his balance.

"You see," started I, walking towards the man with a long, developing smirk sliding across my lips, "in a world wherein I felt completely safe being escorted to an unknown location with a rather drunken man, I would. Alas ... as you can probably tell, I don't feel particularly safe going to an undisclosed location with someone who I do not particularly know. Nor do I want to know. I'd prefer to be left alone, if you wouldn't mind."

"Awwww, is that so?" Uh-oh. Bad move, Alice, bad move. Considering the fact that he was approaching me with a rather intimidating stance, I knew that I hadn't said something that would work in my favour. Oh, oh ... this wasn't good. This wouldn't be good. "See, I don't see a pretty little thing like you having another choice on a night like this. These parts are dangerous, you know? I think it'd be much safer if you were to come home ... with me."

I was getting rather irritated by the drunkard's forceful mannerisms. "Like I said ... I'm not going to go to an undisclosed location with a drunken man who is threatening me for having common sense. So ... and I don't particularly wish to get forceful ... no, thank you."

"Is that so, pretty girl?" drawled the man, approaching me in a stalkerish manner, intimidating me more than I ever could've imagined to spawn from someone who couldn't particularly stand on his two separate feet without wobbling. "I don't want to have to get violent with a pretty face such as you, you know?"

"And neither do I," muttered I, my eyebrows twitching in anger, "but considering that you've invading my personal space with no care towards it whatsoever, and you're threatening me, it seems that I may have to get violent, too. I wish I didn't have to, you see? I'm trying to find a compromise to your situation, yet you aren't finding competence to listen."

The man chuckled under his breath, his hand trembling. I noticed that the hand that possessed the green beer bottle was in his trembling hand, something that terrified me. If I didn't do something to stop this man, who was clearly a fool, I could get seriously hurt. I knew that I was vulnerable when one considered that I was in an era that I did not know at all well, but I did not particularly feel as if I were any more vulnerable than usual. It was just the differing time period that allowed me to feel as vulnerable as I did.

"Oh, really, now. You feel you're in a position to threaten me, pretty girl?"

Yes, I thought, biting my tongue to prevent any further incident from taking place, yes, I do, because you're a drunk man who cannot stand particularly well, whereas I'm standing quite confidently in opposing you.

"You know that isn't a particularly good idea when you're so vulnerable out here on the streets, right, pretty girl? Making loose threats to a man who could so easily outdo you isn't a smart idea. Maybe, for next time, you should shut your mouth and understand that men will always outdo women."

"Oh, my, you people are entertaining, aren't you?" My lingo was likely confusing the man, something I was proud of. Being from a different time from this sluggish mess of a man, it was interesting to see confusion crawl across his face as I approached him, swerving around him like a maniac, like some kind of Disney villain. "Always saying that the woman is lower than the man ... I regret to tell you that, in this case ... you may be rather wrong, my friend. Because I do not hesitate to knock anyone down if they're in my way. You, my friend ... you happen to be in my way."

With intense rapidity, I yanked a switchblade from the inner pocket of my rich crimson jacket, pressing it softly against the tip of the man's throat, his eyes twitching with terror and fear and mania as I, quite essentially, threatened the life of the scumbag.

"N-no," stammered the drunken man, his eyes quivering with fear and indefinite periods of trauma, "y-you d-don't have to do t-this, really, really."

"Ah, you see," whispered I, my voice sending a rough shiver down his spine, "I think I do."

With a relatively merciless movement of my wrist, I slashed the knife against the entire length of his throat, spilling blood onto my knife. His alcoholic beverage toppled out of his grip and onto the floor, smashing just a few inches ahead of the end of my leather boots. As his figure slumped onto the floor, a heavy smirk danced its way across my lips, the gravity of the situation not particularly sinking into my mind as of yet.

In a deep, dark corner of my mind, I could see myself regretting this in a few days.