Afterlife: Oblivion #Wattys2024

17. Post-Mortem Meet and Greet

POV Jane Doe.

Fuck me sideways with a rusty chainsaw, this place is a goddamn trip and a half.

Doomstead Abbey? More like Doom's-Day Funhouse of Eternal Mindfuckery. As Raphael drags my ass through these twisted hallways, I can't shake the feeling we're being watched. And not in the sexy, "ooh someone's checking me out" way. Nah, this is pure "cosmic voyeur getting off on our existential crisis" vibes.

The air feels thick, like trying to breathe through cotton candy made of ghost farts and broken dreams. Each step echoes like a gunshot, probably announcing to every celestial dickwad in earshot that Jane Doe, fuckup extraordinaire, is in the building.

And don't even get me started on these shoes. Whoever designed these torture devices clearly had a vendetta against ankles and the concept of walking in a straight line. I'm one wobbly step away from face-planting and adding "died again, this time from sheer embarrassment" to my heavenly resume.

Raphael, that prissy feathered fuckwit, glides along like he's on a Sunday stroll through Prick Park. His constant presence behind me is like the world's worst hemorrhoid - irritating, painful, and making me want to set shit on fire.

Just when I think this parade of absurdity couldn't get any weirder, Feathers McFuckface decides to go all Obi-Wan on me. His voice slithers into my brain like a greased-up eel: "They're watching us, Jane. Watching you."

Well, shit on a stick and call it a popsicle.

I nearly eat marble right there in the hallway. "What the actual fuck, Raphael?" I spit, loud enough to make a bunch of passing souls stop and stare.

And what a freak show they are. To my left, a group that looks like they've stumbled out of a Renaissance Faire gone wrong - all frilly collars and doublets, but with an ashen, just-crawled-out-of-the-grave pallor. One dude's ruff is stained with what I hope is very old wine.

On my right, a cluster of souls that seem to have died mid-Burning Man. One chick's dreadlocks are still smoking, and a guy with more piercings than skin is leaving a trail of glitter in his wake.

Bringing up the rear is a sad sack in a rumpled suit who looks like he died of boredom during a particularly brutal PowerPoint presentation. His tie is still caught in his jacket zipper.

They all gape at me like I've just grown a second head and started singing showtunes.

Realizing I probably shouldn't be yelling at the voices in my head out loud, I switch to the psychic hotline. "Get out of my fucking skull, you celestial cockwaffle!"

"Your eloquence never ceases to astound me," Raphael's voice drips with sarcasm. "Now, if you're quite finished with your little tantrum, I suggest you listen carefully. The donors are observing everything that transpires here. Every move you make, every word you utter - it's all being scrutinized."

I feel my stomach drop faster than a lead balloon. "What fresh hell is this?" I demand silently, struggling to keep my face neutral as we pass more groups of souls, all decked out in their orientation finest.

"This isn't merely a training facility, you obtuse mortal," Raphael's mental voice is sharp with exasperation. "Doomstead Abbey, this orientation - it's all part of a preliminary round. An audition, if you will."

"An audition?" I echo, my mental voice dripping with disbelief. "What is this, 'America's Next Top Sinner'?"

"Your penchant for flippancy is as tiresome as ever," Raphael sighs. "This is far more significant than your mortal reality shows. The donors select their favorites based on what unfolds here. Only the most intriguing, the most promising souls will be chosen to compete in the actual trials."