Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

16. Slay or Be Slain: Dressing for Success in the Afterlife

POV Jane Doe.

I jolt awake, my heart pounding like a jackhammer trying to break through my ribcage. For a moment, I can't remember where I am or how I got here. The last thing I recall is... fuck. The elevator. Raphael. That godawful shaking.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I find myself in what can only be described as Dracula's wet dream of a bedroom. Gothic arches loom overhead, their intricate carvings casting eerie shadows that seem to writhe and dance in the flickering candlelight. Heavy velvet curtains, the color of congealed blood, block out any hint of natural light.

Everything seems to be cast in a perpetual twilight, the air thick with the musty scent of old books mingling with something vaguely metallic that makes my stomach churn.

I sit up, my head spinning like I've just stumbled off a particularly vicious tilt-a-whirl. That's when I notice the silky nightgown clinging to my skin. What the actual fuck? This definitely isn't the macabre dress Ollie had poured me into for that clusterfuck of a ball.

A wave of relief washes over me as I realize I'm no longer trapped in that nightmare of a gown, forced to parade around like some twisted beauty pageant contestant in the afterlife's sickest game show. At least this get-up doesn't have my own screaming face embroidered all over it. Small mercies, I guess.

I run my hands over the smooth fabric, trying to ground myself in the present. The silk is cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my thoughts. Part of me is grateful to be away from that hellish ballroom, away from Penelope's smug face and the suffocating weight of my past. But another part of me, the part that has learned the hard way that nothing good ever comes without a price, is on high alert.

Where the hell am I? And more importantly, who the fuck changed my clothes while I was out cold? The thought sends a shiver down my spine, goosebumps erupting across my skin despite the room's stuffy warmth.

Just as I'm trying to wrap my head around this latest mindfuck, the door creaks open like it's auditioning for a haunted house sound effects reel. Two figures glide in, and I swear on my grandmother's crusty dentures, they look like they've sashayed straight out of Tim Burton's wet dreams after a three-day absinthe bender.

The first one moves with the kind of grace that'd make a cat burglar look like a drunk elephant. She's tall and willowy, with skin so pale it's almost translucent, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Her eyes are huge, liquid pools of midnight that seem to drink in the light. But holy shitballs, it's her mouth that makes my brain do a record scratch.

Her lips, painted a violent shade of crimson, are literally sewn shut. Not metaphorically, not figuratively, but honest-to-god stitched together with thick black thread like some fucked-up craft project gone wrong.

Right on her heels, bouncing around like a labradoodle on crack, is her polar opposite. This one is all curves and color, with cotton candy pink hair piled high in some gravity-defying updo. Her dress looks like it's been dipped in a vat of glitter and sprinkles, so bright it makes my retinas scream for mercy. But it's her face that really takes the cake - she has a grin plastered on her mug so wide and cheerful, it makes the Joker look like a sulky teenager.

The moment Pinky lays eyes on me, she starts yapping away, her voice so sickeningly sweet it could've given diabetes to a pack of Pixie Sticks.

"Good morning, sunshine! Did you sleep well? I'm Melody, and this is Silence. We're here to help you start your day!"

I blink hard, wondering if I've somehow managed to die again and ended up in some twisted mashup of 'The Addams Family' and 'My Little Pony.' Maybe this is my personalized hell - death by aggressive cheerfulness and haute couture horror.