I have decided not to ponder over the situation I had found myself in anymore.

It was a rational decision that I have made not that long ago. Just now, actually.

For the sake of my mental health, it was clearly the right choice. Obsessing over it and feeling sorry for yourself will not help you solve anything, was what I told myself.

And yet in reality, staring down at my sticky hands, I couldn’t help but think about it.

The only source of light in this room was a single furnace at the other end of the table. Although the flames were dancing happily, it was still a bit too dim for me to actually see anything more than a silhouette of my soggy fingers. Not like I didn’t know what I would see.

“I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry,” weak words escaped my mouth.

My fingers grasped a knife on the table. Still warm from the fresh blood, its handle felt right at home in my just as bloody palm. My hand gripped the knife tightly, as my eyes found the gory pulp on the table.

(Maybe the darkness isn’t so bad after all….. At least I can’t see that thing.)

The smell of blood was filling my nostrils and a taste in my mouth was that of metal.

Just some hours ago I was on my way home from a supermarket, but through some cruel twist of fate, my whole life turned upside down in a blink of an eye.

“No, shut up!” I heard myself say.

I have decided not to think about this situation. I have decided not to feel sorry for myself. And it wasn’t that long ago either. Just now, actually.

So why the hell was I so set on looking back to today’s events?

I have to keep looking forward. The only way for me to survive in this unfamiliar world that I was thrown into is to adopt quickly. Even if it means doing things that I wouldn’t normally do.

I felt my grip on the knife harden. If I wanted to survive, there was no other way.

“I’m sorry mister chicken, but it’s time for you to go.”

Slaughtering a chicken isn’t something I had ever done before, but once my livelihood depended on it, it turned out to be surprisingly doable. It’s crazy, the things people would do to save their life.

The only thing left was actually making something out of it.

My hand shook slightly and I put the knife back on the table. Not just my future, but my whole survival depended on my making the best dish this world had ever tasted.

Not only was I forcibly thrown into this medieval-like world, now I’m cooking for a royalty in order to not get executed. What kind of shitty luck is that?!

Oh, right. Is it too late to say that I can’t actually cook?