I lie in a hazy, half-awake state, vaguely aware of a small hand gently tickling my scalp. A sleepy groan escapes my lips as I shift, trying to bat the persistent fingers away.

"Mmph, what is it, little one?" I mumble, eyes still closed. "Let me sleep a while longer."

But the tickling persists, growing more insistent. With a frustrated sigh, I lift a hand to swat at the offending touch, only to freeze as my fingers encounter a tangled mass of unfamiliar hair.

I scratch fiercely at my head again and again, increasingly frustrated by some relentless irritation I cannot seem to alleviate no matter how hard I dig my nails in. I'll scratch my skin raw at this rate.

Not only is there this maddening irritation, but as I run my hands over my head I realize with dawning alarm that my hair was not this long before. I grab hanks of the tangled locks, seeing that they are blonde, not my familiar dark tresses. This can't be right. My hair is gone, replaced by these dirty blonde strands.

I stare down at my arms, seeing they are those of a child, tiny and grubby. Confusion and alarm swirl within me as I struggle to make sense of this bizarre situation. What in God's name is happening here? This makes no sense. I'm clearly no longer myself, no longer an adult, but rather seem to be trapped inside the body of this urchin

Peering at my palm, I see lice eggs and excrement coating my fingers along with smears of blood from my vigorous scratching. The urge to scream or vomit is nearly overwhelming. Not only am I inhabiting this filthy urchin's body, but I'm infested with vermin. I clench my jaw, breathing hard through my nose as I slowly lower my hand. I cannot panic or they'll think me possessed. Somehow I've been reborn into this waif and I need to figure out what the hell is going on.

Catching a glimpse of myself in a metal bowl, I raise a small, dirty hand to my face, carefully inspecting eyes, nose, and mouth while taking slow, deep breaths to calm my racing mind. A dream?

How can I possess this waif's form? I have no recollection of my former self's life before awakening here. The lingering haze of forgotten identity haunts me, names and places hovering tauntingly upon the periphery of memory.

I lower my hand, gazing over at the man and woman slumbering nearby amidst the strewn straw. My...parents? The man snorts and mumbles in his sleep while the careworn woman lies silent and still. Would they even recognize the spirit inhabiting their daughter's flesh? I must conceal this disorientation to avoid awkward queries or, God forbid, accusations.

Peasant children aren't clever enough to ponder such peculiarities. I must pretend dull incomprehension, playing my role as this girl convincingly.

I move closer on bare feet, careful not to stir the dirty straw. The man snorts again, shifting in his sleep. I study his ruddy face, the angular features and heavy brow conveying a brutish handsomeness. His large frame exudes an aura of crude strength even in repose. This one looks capable of violence.

The woman blinks up at me, pallid blue eyes sunken in her careworn face. Premature lines frame her mouth, no doubt etched from a lifetime of hardship. Her resigned expression reminds me of a martyr accepting the knife. She sits up with a rustle of straw, speaking in a lilting accent that is strangely familiar.

"What are ye about then, lass? The sun's scarce up. Were ye cold?"

I freeze in bewilderment as the foreign words spill from her lips, yet somehow I comprehend their meaning. How is this possible? I've never heard such a dialect, yet can understand and reply effortlessly, the language flowing unbidden from my tongue. Alarm skitters through me at this unnatural facility with an unknown tongue. What witchery is at work here?

"I...had to pee?" My small voice sounds uncertain even to my own ears. Will she notice anything amiss? Her eyes narrow slightly, then she nods.

"Ah, I see. Best take care of it outside then." She lies back with a sigh, arm draped over her eyes. "Back to sleep, poppet."

I stand frozen for a moment, pulse hammering in my ears. She suspected nothing, it seems. As she begins to snore softly, I feel my racing thoughts start to slow. I must take utmost care in navigating this bizarre situation I find myself in.

What in God's name is this language I somehow comprehend with ease? The lilting words flow like a half-remembered song, tugging strange familiarity I cannot place. Is it possible I knew this tongue in some past life now forgotten? The notion seems absurd, yet no other explanation suffices. Perhaps the former soul inhabiting this waif had knowledge of such things. But how does that essence linger while my spirit resides here now? Nothing about this makes sense.

I shift on the lumpy straw, nose wrinkling at the pungent aroma of old sweat, manure, and other less identifiable stenches permeating this foul bedding. What a vividly detailed vision my slumbering mind has conjured. I can feel individual stalks poking through the grubby cloth I'm using as a blanket, can hear the snores of that filthy peasant man echo through the cramped chamber.

My dreaming self seems to have neglected basic amenities like indoor plumbing and mattresses, not to mention the vermin nibbling at my scalp. I lift a tangled skein of blonde hair, peering at the seething lice as they scuttle and feed. Such attention to detail for something so repugnant.

A fat louse loses its grip, plopping onto the blanket. I watch its progress with idle disgust as it navigates the folds looking for a new perch, antennae waving. Vile creature. I pinch it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the satisfying crunch. If this is my dreamscape, I refuse to tolerate such pests. Now, how do I will myself awake?

I pinch my arm fiercely, gritting my teeth against the sharp pain. This feels far too vivid to be a mere figment of my imagination. The unpleasant stimuli assaulting me from all sides seem irrefutable proof that I am somehow trapped in this waif's grubby body.

I slide from the lumpy straw pallet, bare feet recoiling from the slimy surface of packed dirt below. Is a floor too much to ask for? Even condemned buildings have plywood and rat carcasses to brighten things up. But this is straight out of an archaeological dig - dirt layers representing years of accumulated filth and discarded crumbs. I'm afraid to consider what species of ancient pathogens lurk within.

The man snorts loudly in his sleep, mouth sagging open to reveal blackened stumps of teeth. He more closely resembles a rabid boar than a human. I can practically see burbling strands of drool and bristly hairs quivering in anticipation of attack. If this repellent creature contributed genetic material to create my current body, no wonder I'm crawling with lice.

I make my way towards what seems to be the main area of this "hovel".

The fetid stench hits my nostrils first, a noxious mélange of bodily odors, stale sweat, manure, smoke, and other less identifiable sources of filth. I gag, eyes watering as they scan the interior of this foul hovel.

Mud crumbles from the cracked walls, which are bare save for a few storage nooks carved unevenly into the grime-encrusted surfaces. Shafts of light pierce through several chinks and gaps in the dilapidated walls, illuminating swirling dust motes. I spot two narrow slits passing as windows, their missing wooden slats allowing frigid drafts inside.

My gaze falls upon the crude hearth occupying the room's center - a haphazard circle of stones blackened by fire and heaped with ash. Bits of charred wood and bone fragments litter the packed dirt floor surrounding it. I spot several cracked clay pots and bowls scattered nearby, crusted with burnt food remains.

The only furniture is a rickety table and single bench, both crudely constructed from unfinished planks. They look ready to collapse into splinters if breathed upon. I shudder at the thought of consuming a meal while perched on that precarious bench, though the table itself seems unlikely to bear the weight of any food beyond a few shriveled turnips.

This foul sty cannot be real. The stench assaulting my nostrils, the visceral sensations of my grubby feet recoiling from the filthy floor...it feels far too vivid for a mere figment of my imagination. Yet how can this be reality? Surely no human can live in such abhorrent conditions without rapidly expiring from disease or despair. There must be some logical explanation, yet none present themselves to my increasingly disturbed mind.

I halt abruptly, heart pounding as I recall the brief glimpse of my - or rather, this waif's - reflection from earlier. Those yellow eyes staring back at me...no human possesses such unearthly features.

I desperately grasp at logical explanations, but my thoughts chase themselves in maddening circles. A dream...surely this must be a bizarrely vivid nightmare and I will wake any moment in my own familiar skin. But the stench, the visceral sensations assaulting me from all sides...those seem irrefutable proof that I am somehow trapped here in this foul hovel inside the grubby peasant girl's body.

With growing horror I realize I cannot recall my true identity before awakening here. The lingering haze of forgotten memories taunts me, names and faces hovering upon the periphery yet remaining stubbornly out of reach. Panic rises in my throat, threatening to choke me. What witchcraft has spirited my soul into this waif? What happened to the essence that once inhabited this flesh?

None of this makes any sense. I dig my fingers into my scalp, gritting my teeth against the sharp pain. The foul odor of unwashed peasant mingles with the iron tang of blood from my torn skin. I have to get out of here before I lose my tenuous grip on reality.

The boar-like man snorts himself awake, the stench of his unwashed body cutting through the fetid air. He scratches at his matted beard, blinking bloodshot eyes crusted with rheum.

"Aislin!" he barks, spittle flying from his mouth. "Get yer scrawny arse movin' and fetch me breakfast, woman!"

The careworn woman stirs on the filthy straw, resignation etched on her prematurely lined face. She avoids meeting his glare, murmuring acquiescence as she gathers her skirts.

The man's glare swings to me, red-rimmed eyes narrowing. "And why is the brat wanderin' about so damned early? Should be sleepin' still."

He lumbers to his feet, the motion menacing. I shrink back as he advances, pulse racing. Will he strike me for some unknown transgression?

"Useless girl, can't even perform a simple task. Shoulda drowned ye after birth and tried again for a son." He aims a half-hearted kick in my direction. "Get movin' and help yer mum."

I scramble away on all fours like a frightened animal, bumping into a pile of turnips. They scatter across the dirt floor, eliciting another bellowed curse from the man. Face burning, I right the turnips with fumbling fingers, avoiding eye contact.

What is wrong with this wretched man? Surely parents, even peasants, feel some affection for their young. Yet his every word and gesture conveys contempt, even hatred. It's clear this brute wanted a son to labor in his fields, not a useless girl child.

My stomach twists itself in knots as I meekly hand the turnips to the woman - my mother? - with downcast eyes and hunched shoulders. I must pretend utter stupidity, as any cleverness would surely rouse the man's ire further.

"Sorry," I mumble, widening my eyes and poking out my lower lip in my best imitation of a dull-witted waif.

The woman's eyes soften slightly and she pats my head. "All right, lass. Just try to be helpful, aye?"

I nod vigorously, relief flooding me. She seems kind enough, if weary. Perhaps I can win her trust and protection from that loathsome man. As she slices turnips over the hearth, I resolve to observe their interactions closely to determine what other landmines I should avoid. There are clearly perils I do not yet grasp in navigating this bizarre new existence. I must tread carefully.

The brute narrows his red-rimmed eyes at me, thick fingers drumming on the rough wooden table. "Why ye starin' at me so, girl? Ain't yer mum taught ye not to look yer betters in the eye?"

He spits on the dirt floor, the wad of phlegm narrowly missing my bare toes. I quickly drop my gaze, cheeks burning. How could I have forgotten something so basic? Peasant children surely know to keep eyes downcast around men.

"Apologies, father," I mumble, scuffing my dirty sole against the packed earth. "I meant no disrespect." Will he cuff me for my impudence? I tense, preparing to dodge any blows.

"Ye simple or just stubborn as an ass?" he grumbles. "Aislin! Why's this whelp not know her place yet?"

Mother glances up from the bubbling pot over the fire, worry creasing her brow. "'Tis my fault, husband. I've had my hands full keepin' her from harm out in the fields. Haven't had much time for proper instruction indoors."

I peek up at her from beneath my tangled hair, silently pleading for her help. She presses her lips together before turning back to her cooking.

"See that ye start teachin' her soon," Oisin snarls. "Else I'll do it meself, and ye won't like my methods."

The man gulps greedily from a clay jug, wiping his mouth with the back of a meaty hand. He glares at Aislin across the crude wooden table.

"Why ain't ye given me a son yet, woman?" he barks. "Three whelps birthed and nary a boy among 'em. Are ye even tryin' or just enjoyin' makin' me suffer?"

Aislin's shoulders hunch inward, her eyes downcast. "I wish for a son too, Oisin. 'Twas not my doing the last babe came early and..."

Her voice trails off, pain etched on her careworn face at the memory of her lost infant.

Oisin slams a fist on the table, making the worn wood creak. "Useless woman can't even birth me an heir. And this scrawny lass ye finally managed to whelp will likely die of fever before she's ten."

He gestures rudely in my direction. I shrink back against the crumbling mud wall, trying to appear small and stupid.

"At least she might fetch a few coppers spreadin' her legs when she blossoms," he continues crudely. "Could rent her out and finally make some coin from havin' useless girls 'round."

Aislin presses her lips together, a protest dying in her throat at Oisin's threatening look. She turns back to stirring the bubbling pot over the fire, shoulders slumped in defeat.

I stare wide-eyed between them, pulse racing as I struggle to comprehend Oisin's vile words. Surely no father would speak so foully about prostituting his young daughter? Revulsion and rage boil inside me, but I swallow hard and continue playing the dull-witted waif. I must not react and risk provoking this brute's temper further.

Oisin gulps greedily from his clay jug, wiping stray droplets from his scruffy beard. He glares at Aislin across the crude wooden table.

"Useless woman, ye've failed over and again to birth me a son," he snarls. "Mayhap I ought to set ye aside and take another wife - one who can actually whelp proper heirs."

Aislin pales, her weathered hands trembling. "Husband, I've tried my best, God knows it to be true! The babes kept comin' early, or..." Her voice breaks as she remembers her tiny blue-tinged infants.

Oisin slams his fist on the scarred wood, making the crude table jump. "Yer best ent good enough! No sons to work the fields, just scrawny lasses fit only for whorin'."

He takes another long swig, eyeing Aislin's slender frame with contempt. She wraps her arms around herself under his cruel gaze.

"Please, husband, don't cast me aside," she whispers desperately. "I swear before Heaven the next babe will be a boy! Just give me one more chance..."

Oisin laughs harshly. "As if yer promises mean a damn thing. A woman's word is worthless - ye've no souls like men do."

Leaning back, he gestures crudely at her body. "Yer lucky I let ye sleep inside and wear clothes. Most men would turn out ungrateful sluts like ye to fend for yerselves."

Aislin bows her head, defeat etched in every line of her gaunt frame. "Yes husband," she whispers tonelessly. "I'm grateful for yer mercy."

Oisin takes another swig, wiping his scruffy beard with the back of one meaty hand. "Just see that ye remember it, woman. And remind that whelp that without my charity she'd be a starvin' guttersnipe."

He belches loudly, throwing the empty jug onto the dirt floor. It shatters, inches from where I huddle near the hearth. I flinch away from the shards, pulse racing as his bloodshot eyes fix on me.

"Useless girl can't even clean up properly around here," he grumbles. "No wonder I need me a son..."

What vile madness is this brute spewing? Women have no souls? We're viewed as less than human, not even worthy of the basic dignity of clothing or shelter? What bizarre hellscape have I awakened in? This cannot be reality.

That whoreson actually suggested whoring out his prepubescent daughter to line his pockets. And the poor woman - my mother? - silently endures his threats against her very personhood. She's so cowed she actually thanked the bastard for his "mercy" in allowing her clothes and a roof.

I want to retch at their words. Or better yet, smash the jug over that shit-eating grin spreading across his smug face. My hands clench into helpless fists as rage storms through me. How can they accept such degradation as normal? I would sooner die than surrender my autonomy so completely.

If this is not some fiendish vision, then I've been reborn into a sadistic patriarchy masquerading as civilization. One where brutish animal men like Oisin hold the power of life and death over mothers, daughters, wives...

I dig my fingers into my scalp, relishing the bright pain centering me amidst the scarlet haze fogging my thoughts. I must conceal this fury lest they see the devil in my eyes. But God help the bastards who try to treat me like a soulless animal. I'll show them what this "useless girl" can do.[...]