Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

04. The Devil Wears Prada (And I Wear Whatever The Fuck This Is)

POV Jane Doe.

My eyes snap open and I jolt upright, instantly regretting it as a wave of dizziness crashes over me like a fucking tsunami. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog from my vision, but it's like staring through a kaleidoscope on acid.

The walls of the dressing room assault my eyes with clashing neon colors that make me want to hurl. It's like Tim Burton's wet dream collided with a rave at a mental asylum.

As I slowly regain my bearings, I can't help but notice the array of fucked up oddities scattered around the room. A jar of eyeballs stares at me from a shelf, next to a taxidermy raven that looks like it has seen some serious shit.

An antique doll with half her porcelain face missing grins at me with a sinister smirk that makes me want to smash her creepy ass face in.

Clothes of all styles and eras hang haphazardly on racks, like a thrift store on steroids. I spot Victorian gowns, flapper dresses, and even a few anime cosplay outfits that make me question Ollie's sanity.

The vanity is cluttered with hair products that look more like medieval torture devices than beauty tools. I half expect to find a fucking guillotine hidden among the curling irons and straighteners.

But it isn't just the batshit crazy decor that makes my skin crawl. It's the lingering haze in my mind, the unsettled feeling in my gut that tells me this isn't just another one of my fucked up dreams.

Everything is still fuzzy, like my brain has been stuffed with cotton balls soaked in chloroform and then set on fire. I feel like I have been roofied at a party hosted by Salvador Dali and Marilyn Manson.

I try to piece together how I ended up in this freakshow, but my memories are slippery, like trying to catch a greased-up pig at a county fair. The last thing I remember is Ollie handing me that sketchy ass drink that tasted like a mix of battery acid and unicorn piss.

Note to self: never accept beverages from a dude who looks like a demented clown on crack.

I have no idea how long I have been out or what fresh hell awaits me in this twisted fun house, but one thing is for damn sure - I need to get the fuck out of here before I end up as another one of Ollie's "artistic" experiments.

With a groan, I swing my legs over the chair, ignoring the wave of nausea that threatens to make me revisit my last meal. It's time to face this nightmare head-on and hope to God or Satan or whoever the fuck is running this shitshow that I still have all my organs intact.

I hear Ollie's voice first, drifting near the entrance like a creepy lullaby. "You can't rush art, Raphael. Perfection takes time, darling."

Raphael's crisp British accent slices through the air like a pretentious knife. "We don't have time, you flamboyant fool! Ms. Doe is already late for her date with Fate, and you know how they hate to be kept waiting."

"Well, maybe if you'd done your job and, oh I don't know, actually told her what to expect here instead of being a cryptic sourpuss, I wouldn't have had to give her a little beauty nap while I worked my magic, you overdressed stick-in-the-mud!"

Their bickering fades to the background as I look down at myself, my eyes bugging out of my skull. The sheet covering me is thin and leaves little to the imagination, but it isn't my usual pasty, meth-addict complexion and sagging curves beneath it.

No, this body is smooth, toned, like I have spent the last year living off kale smoothies and doing yoga on a mountain top. My drab brown hair, the bane of my existence when I was alive, now cascades down my shoulders in flawless, crimson waves that would make Jessica Rabbit weep with envy.