Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

11. Punching Celestial Beings: Why It's a Bad Fucking Idea

POV Jane Doe.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. I can't believe it. Penelope Blackwood, the bane of my existence, the thorn in my side since high school, is here. In the afterlife. In MY afterlife.

It's like some cosmic joke, a sick twist of fate designed specifically to fuck with me. Even in death, I can't escape her. The universe just can't give me a fucking break, can it?

I feel like I'm right back in those hellish hallways, with Penelope's mocking laughter echoing in my ears and her cruel smirk burning into my soul. All the old insecurities, all the pain and humiliation, it all comes rushing back like a tidal wave of toxic sludge.

I want to scream, to rage, to break something. How dare she invade my afterlife like this? How dare she ruin my death like she ruined my life? It isn't fucking fair.

But even as the anger boils in my veins, there's something else too. A morbid curiosity, a sick fascination. What the hell happened to Penelope? How did she end up here, in this fucked-up purgatory?

Did her picture-perfect life finally implode? Did all that cruelty and manipulation catch up to her in the end? Part of me is dying (ha fucking ha) to know.

But I can't face her. I can't let her see how much her presence affects me, how just the sight of her makes me feel like that scared, broken girl all over again. I need to get away, to hide, to lick my wounds in private.

So I run. I run like the Devil himself is on my heels (and who knows, maybe he fucking is). I run until my lungs burn and my vision blurs, until I crash through a door and find myself on some bougie-ass balcony, gasping for air that I don't even fucking need anymore.

I grip the railing like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity, my knuckles turning white as I stare out at the endless expanse of stars. They twinkle and swirl, cold and uncaring, a billion miles away from my problems.

I want to scream at them, to rage at the injustice of it all. I'm dead, for fuck's sake. Isn't that supposed to be the end? Aren't I supposed to be free of all the bullshit and baggage of my mortal life?

But no. Even in death, I can't escape. Not from Penelope, not from my own fucked-up psyche. It's like I'm trapped in some never-ending nightmare, doomed to relive my worst memories and darkest fears for all eternity.

I feel something hot and wet on my cheeks, and it takes me a moment to realize I'm crying. Fucking crying, like a pathetic little girl. I angrily swipe at the tears, hating myself for this weakness, for letting Penelope get to me even now.

But I can't stop them. They keep coming, a lifetime's worth of pain and hurt and humiliation pouring out of me in great, shuddering sobs. I cry for the girl I used to be, for all the dreams and hopes that Penelope had shattered. I cry for the woman I'd never gotten to become, for the life that had been cut short by my own fucking stupidity.

And I cry for myself now, trapped in this endless nightmare, forced to confront my deepest traumas and darkest demons with no hope of escape.

I don't know how long I stand there, crying my eyes out like a fucking baby. Time doesn't seem to mean much anymore. But eventually, the tears run dry, leaving me feeling hollow and exhausted.

I stare out at the stars, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. Fucking typical. Even my big breakdown is a goddamn cliché, an angsty teen movie moment played out against a backdrop of cosmic indifference.

The sound of footsteps behind me shatters my self-pitying reverie. I spin around, ready to verbally eviscerate whoever has the balls to interrupt my existential crisis.