Well, this is a fine mess.
I don't know what I expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Like, really? Can we not just have a normal afterlife? Is that too much to ask? No, instead, I'm being shoved back into the physical realm like a paper-thin excuse for a rebirth. And how, pray tell, does that work? A dead body—no, wait, I don't even have a body. Or I didn't.
Ugh. Why am I overthinking this?
I have air in my lungs now, which, fun fact, I didn't even know I missed until it was shoved down my throat like I'm some kind of wind-up doll that needs constant maintenance. Great. The warmth from before, that comforting nothingness where I was free to do… absolutely nothing, is gone. Now, there's only this relentless assault of bright lights and coldness.
Cold. Of course. Just to drive the point home that I'm not exactly in the lap of luxury.
For a moment, I just lie there—okay, wait, scratch that, I'm not lying down. I feel like I'm lying down but also somehow sitting up? My perception is all kinds of disjointed, but my body seems to be fighting with itself, too. It's like I'm being forced into this strange position, as if the universe—or whatever powers-that-be that are behind this ridiculous farce—decided that it'd be a nice touch to throw me into some sort of absurd theatrical display.
My first instinct is to scream. Like, I want to really scream, like the kind that would have made my neighbors in the dorm go "oh no, she's doing that again," but no. Instead, this soft, pitiful sound comes out of my mouth. It's almost like I'm trying to sound alarmed, but instead, I'm just… a baby.
A baby.
I'm an adult. Why in the world am I now a baby?
Oh my god, this is humiliating. The logic of this all makes no sense. I was dead. I should be, I don't know, gone. Gone and floating in some meaningless oblivion, sipping on existential dread, unbothered. But instead, here I am, apparently part of some... family? Which, by the way, looks like they've been expecting me to pop out of the womb like some sort of star-studded debutante.
I blink up at them, trying to figure out where I am and what this hellhole is. The glare of light stings my eyes, and I think I can feel the sharp sting of cold metal against my skin.
I'm in a… hall. Right, okay, big deal. It's a hall. There are people standing in the background like they're some type of glorified decoration. So far, so good. It's not like this day can get any weirder.
Except it does.
In front of me is a pair of middle-aged people, with regal posture, both dressed in fancy, medieval-esque attire—like, you know the kind of thing you'd expect in a Renaissance painting, where everyone looks like they have more wealth than common sense? Yeah, those people. The woman's dress is practically bursting with pearls, and she wears the kind of makeup that says "I've had plastic surgery, and I'm not ashamed of it." Not that she needs it; honestly, she doesn't look bad, just... suspicious. The man next to her is even worse. He has the expression of a man who knows exactly what the stock market is doing and what taxes to evade. I mean, I don't know how to put it better than that—he looks like a tax evader who does CrossFit. I bet he's never even seen a real problem in his life.
And then there's this boy, standing in between them, grinning like he just found out what candy is for the first time. He's cute, I guess, but there's an unsettling "I'm too happy for this situation" vibe about him. He looks like he's about six, maybe seven, with a gap in his teeth, but like a smug little brat who's been taught that his charm can fix any mess. The kind of kid who's probably never had a tantrum because he knows his parents would just buy him a pony to shut him up. It's actually kind of impressive, the degree of entitled smugness oozing off him.
Oh, but wait.
The gazes. The gazes fall on me like a thousand invisible daggers, each one laden with something—expectation, excitement, maybe even fear? Or is that just me projecting because this is the weirdest thing to ever happen to me? And I thought dying was supposed to be the worst part.
"Ahww she's so pretty," someone whispers from the sidelines, and I swear I almost roll my eyes so far back in my head, I might get whiplash.
Oh, please. Pretty? Really? What's with this freakishly excessive adoration? I'm a baby, people. A baby. I don't even know how to hold my own head up right now, but okay, sure, call me "pretty" if it gets you points in the club.
"Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Whitehall, your child…"
Oh no. That's not even a question. That's an announcement. What are they, royalty? God, I hate that term. It's so pompous. So pretentious.
I hate this so much. Every second of it. Not even an hour in this new life and I can already tell, I'm going to hate all of it.
And then, it hits me.
Wait.
Whitehall?
Oh, sweet hell. I'm not just some random baby, am I? I'm… I'm a Whitehall. That has to mean something, doesn't it? The thought makes my stomach twist in a way I don't like. The word Whitehall is just dripping with power, wealth, and entitlement. It's the kind of name that demands respect—no, demands fear. Great. Just great. I'm not just a baby; I'm a baby in a dynasty I have zero interest in being a part of.
"She looks just like her father," the woman in front of me says, and there's this strange reverence in her voice, like I'm supposed to care. Like, no one asked me if I wanted this life, okay? But of course, no one asked.
You'd think I'd be used to being put on a pedestal. I mean, I've had my share of glowing reviews and zero real autonomy, even in my previous life. The only difference now is, instead of being adored for my obvious brilliance, I'm adored for being… the daughter of these people. Like a puppet strung up to look good in front of a crowd.
How does anyone stand it?
I'm still fighting the urge to scream, to start kicking and flailing and making a scene. But all I do is let out another soft, pathetic noise, and my tears, which seem to come without my permission, streak down my face. No, I'm not crying because I'm happy—that's absurd. I'm crying because I'm trapped. Trapped in a new body, trapped in some ridiculous new reality, and absolutely hated by the burden of the expectations that this stupid, well-dressed family has put on me without so much as a by-your-leave.
I wish I could just stop time. Reverse all of it. Call it off. But, of course, nothing works like that.
No, in this twisted fairy tale I'm stuck in, I'm expected to shine. To live up to all this ridiculous potential.
But I don't want to.
I want to go back to my soft, comforting darkness. The one where I didn't have to pretend. Where I could just be.
But I guess the universe doesn't care what I want.