Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

01. No Rest for the Wicked (Literally)

POV Jane Doe.

Waiting rooms, I loathe them.

They bring back memories of my first cavity filling, every job interview that ended in rejection, and the time my ex-boyfriend gave me chlamydia...again, because obviously once wasn't enough. Yeah, I can see your judgmental look, but cut me some slack, I'm dead now. So you can't judge me for my questionable life choices. It's also rude to talk shit about dead people, unless they were child molesters, rapists, or Hitler.

Seriously, fuck that guy.

Speaking of shit, Limbo is basically one giant waiting room. But hey, at least it's not hell...yet. I blame my failed suicide attempts on bad luck. Like the time I tried to OD while listening to Billie Eilish and all I got was a stomach ache from too many pills and a half-empty bottle of dad's rum. Or the time I tried to slit my wrists with my sister's razor blade and ended up with a few superficial cuts. And don't even get me started on trying to hang myself with Grandma's hand-knitted octopus sweater.

Suffice it to say, death just didn't want me.

But here I am, in this shitty waiting room filled with other unlucky souls like Toothless over there. I call him that because he has no teeth left and it's a lot easier than remembering his real name. Plus, at least he won't waste his data scrolling through Instagram anymore.

"Do you think they have wifi here?" I ask. He drools on himself. Classic.

Turns out, Limbo doesn't have wifi either. Just endless hours of staring at the beige walls and wondering what mistake landed us here. In my case, it was someone else committing suicide for me. How fucked up is that? Like really, do I deserve eternal damnation for being bad at killing myself?

I let out a sigh and sink further into my uncomfortable chair. At least I have good company in Toothless. And hey, maybe we'll get lucky and they'll call our names soon so we can move on to the next waiting room. Fingers crossed it's not hell...although let's be real, it probably will be.

Sigh.

Time to start practicing my fake smile for Satan.

Or maybe I'll finally get to see if those 90s forums about reincarnation were onto something.

Fingers crossed for a rich white guy in the next life.

"Jane Doe," a monotonous voice calls out my 'name' from behind a desk cluttered with files and nail polish. "You're up."

I roll my eyes and begrudgingly stand up, shuffling over to her desk.

She points to the elevator and says, "Floor ninety and a half. Don't get lost...or do, not like you have anything better to do now."

"Wait a minute," I say, catching her name on her tag – "Evelyn."

"Just Eve," she corrects me with an air of superiority.

"Right, Eve, that's what I said," I try to sound charming but end up sounding about as charming as a two-week-old corpse. "Any tips for navigating this maze without losing my sanity?" I ask, hoping for some helpful advice.

Without looking up, Eve responds in a dry tone, "Don't worry, darling. Most people here don't have much sanity left to lose."

"Touché." I smirk, feeling a perverse kind of kinship with her bleak outlook. It's clear that Eve and I are cut from the same tattered cloth, only she's been fraying at the edges in this dump for who knows how long.

"Say, you wouldn't happen to have an express lane for the eternally damned, would you? Maybe one where the paperwork files itself?" I lean against her desk, cocking an eyebrow in mock hopefulness.