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.

Even my tits look perkier, defying gravity like they have a goddamn PhD in physics.

"Holy shitballs," I mutter, my voice laced with equal parts shock and awe. This is too freaky to be real, like I have stumbled into a fucked up episode of Extreme Makeover: Corpse Edition. But the longer I stare at my reflection in the gaudy, gilt-framed mirror across from me, the more I know deep in my non-existent gut.

This isn't a dream or some batshit crazy hallucination. I'm dead, deader than disco, and this Ollie guy has gotten creative with my corpse like I'm his own personal Barbie doll.

I grab the sheet, wrapping it around myself toga-style, half expecting to see "Made in Hell" stamped on the tag. The silky fabric grazes my skin like a lover's caress, and I have to admit, it's a step up from the ripped band tees and ratty flannels I usually rocked. Okay, guess I'll add nicer threads to the list of perks in this twisted afterlife.

But why gussy me up like a high-class hooker? What's the point of all this post-mortem plastic surgery? To make me look alive again, like some kind of zombie prom queen? The thought makes my stomach churn, and I swallow back the bile rising in my throat.

Raphael cocks his head my way, his voice dripping with mockery. "Ah, our Sleeping Disappointment awakens at last. Come now, Jane, we don't have all eternity to dally. Chop chop!"

God, what an arrogant prick. I want to wipe that smug grin off his fucking face with a rusty chainsaw. "Yeah, well, we can't all be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like you, Ken Doll. Some of us are still trying to process the fact that we're dead and apparently starring in our own fucked up version of America's Next Top Corpse."

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever fresh hell awaits me beyond that dressing room door. If this is the afterlife, I sure as shit hope they have an open bar and a never-ending supply of Xanax, because I'm gonna need it to deal with these chucklefucks.

As I steel myself for whatever fuckery lies ahead, Ollie rushes over to me like an over-caffeinated Energizer bunny on crack. He throws his arms around me in a bone-crushing hug that makes me question his grasp on personal boundaries.

"Jane, darling!" he gushes, his voice dripping with a level of enthusiasm that makes me want to gag. "You look absolutely ravishing, if I do say so myself. And while you were catching some much-needed beauty sleep, I had time to work on your dress for the big event!"

I manage to pry myself from his vice-like grip, taking a step back to regain some semblance of personal space. "Dress? What big event? What the fuck are you talking about, Rainbow Brite?"

Raphael, who has apparently invited himself to this little shindig, scoffs and makes his way over to a chair in the corner. He flicks something off the seat that looks suspiciously like a used condom before settling his pretentious ass down.

"I told you, Jane," he drawls, his voice dripping with condescension. "You have a date with Fate, and you're already fashionably late. Do try to keep up, won't you?"

I shoot him a glare that could have melted steel beams. "Listen here, you pompous prick, I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, but I'm not some dress-up doll for you to parade around. I'm dead, in case you hadn't noticed."

Ollie tuts, waving his hand dismissively in Raphael's direction. "Oh, don't mind him, love. He's just bitter because he hasn't gotten laid since the Black Plague. Now, let's focus on you and this fabulous creation I've whipped up!"

I have to admit, it's easier to ignore the walking, talking anal bead when Ollie is being so damn extra. He leads me over to a mannequin covered in a shimmery black garment bag, his eyes sparkling with a manic gleam that makes me question his sanity for the umpteenth time.

"I wanted this dress to capture the very essence of your death, Jane. To embody the tragedy and the beauty of your final moments on Earth. Behold!" With a flourish that would have made Liberace proud, Ollie unzips the garment bag to reveal the dress beneath.

And holy shitballs, it's a sight to behold.

The gown is a deep, rich crimson, the exact shade of blood. It hugs the mannequin's curves like a second skin before flaring out into a dramatic mermaid silhouette. But it's the details that make me do a double-take.

Delicate, hand-stitched embroidery covers the bodice, intricate swirls and whorls that look like they're dancing across the fabric. As I lean closer, I realize with a sickening lurch that the patterns are actually tiny, stylized renderings of my own face, contorted in a silent scream.

The skirt is even more unsettling. Layers of tattered, frayed tulle cascade down from the waist, each one stained a slightly different shade of red. It looks like I have been dragged through a sea of broken glass and rusty nails.

And the pièce de résistance? A fucking noose, fashioned from delicate satin ribbon, hangs around the mannequin's neck like a twisted choker.

I stare at Ollie, my mouth opening and closing like a brain-damaged goldfish. "Is this some kind of sick joke? You want me to wear a dress that looks like I've been mauled by Freddy Krueger's fashion-challenged cousin?"

Ollie claps his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. "It's avant-garde, darling! A sartorial representation of the beauty in the macabre! And the noose, well, that's a nod to your little dance with autoerotic asphyxiation that went awry."

I blanch, my hand flying to my throat. "How the fuck do you know about that?"

Ollie just taps the side of his nose and winks, like we're sharing some kind of inside joke. "I have my ways, love. Now, let's get you dressed and ready for your close-up!"

I glance over at Raphael, hoping against hope that this is all some kind of cosmic prank. But the smug bastard just smirks and gives me a little finger wave, like he's the Queen of fucking England.

I'm trapped in a room with a flamboyant mortician and a douchebag with a God complex, about to be stuffed into a dress that looks like it has been shat out by Satan's asshole after a particularly spicy curry.

Fuck my afterlife.

Ollie rubs his hands together like a demented fashionista, his eyes gleaming with unholy glee. "Alright, my dear, let's get you into this stunning creation and show the underworld what Jane Doe is really made of!"

I glance over at Raphael, who is still lounging in his chair like a pretentious prick at a polo match. "Is he just going to sit there and watch? Because I'm not about to give Ken Doll over there a free peep show."

Raphael scoffs and averts his gaze, picking up a magazine from the nearby table. "Please, as if I have any interest in seeing your mortal flesh. I'll just be here, catching up on the latest news in the afterlife."

I roll my eyes so hard I'm pretty sure I see my own brain. "Wow, I didn't know they had a 'Pretentious Douchebag Weekly' down here. You must be thrilled."

Ollie tsks and begins to help me out of my makeshift toga, his fingers skimming over my skin in a way that makes me shudder. "Now, now, let's play nice, you two. We have a dress to get into and a grand entrance to make!"

As Ollie starts to wrangle me into the gown, I let out a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush. The bodice is tighter than a nun's asshole, and I swear I feel my ribs creak in protest.

"Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker, did you make this thing for a goddamn Barbie doll? I can't breathe!"

Ollie just giggles and continues to tug and pull, his tongue poking out in concentration. "Beauty is pain, darling. And trust me, you're going to be the belle of the underworld ball when I'm through with you."

After what feels like an eternity of cursing, wheezing, and questioning my life choices, Ollie finally manages to get me zipped into the dress. I turn to face the mirror, ready to be horrified by my reflection.

But holy shitballs, I almost don't recognize myself. The dress hugs my curves like a jealous ex, the crimson fabric shimmering under the dressing room lights. The tattered skirt swirls around my legs like a macabre dream, and even the little screaming faces on the bodice look kind of badass.

Raphael glances up from his magazine, and I swear to God, his jaw actually drops. He quickly schools his features back into his usual mask of disdain, but I can tell he's impressed.

Ollie claps his hands and does a little twirl, his rainbow coattails flaring out behind him. "She cleans up well, doesn't she? Our little Jane is going to knock 'em dead! Pun very much intended."

I flip Raphael the bird, enjoying the way his eye twitches in annoyance. "Try not to choke on your own tongue there, pretty boy. This corpse is spoken for."

Ollie is already rummaging through a drawer, muttering to himself about accessories and finishing touches. He emerges with a mask that can only be described as "phoenix chic." It's all feathers and glittery bits, designed to cover just the eyes.

"The piece de resistance!" he crows, holding it up to my face. "A symbol of rebirth and transformation, rising from the ashes of your former life!"

I have to admit, it's pretty fucking cool. But then Ollie reaches for the noose, and I hold up a hand. "Oh, hell no. I'm not wearing a fucking noose around my neck like some kind of morbid choker. Give it to Raphael instead. It'll match his pretentious ascot."

Ollie shrugs and skips over to Raphael, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Come on, handsome, let's get you accessorised!"

Raphael just rolls his eyes and bats Ollie away, his face a mask of long-suffering annoyance. "I don't have time for your little fashion games, Olivier. We have a schedule to keep, and Ms. Doe is already late."

I adjust my mask and give my reflection one last appreciative glance. "Fashionably late, darling. And trust me, if this whole 'date with Fate' thing is as big a deal as you keep making it out to be, they can wait a few more minutes for all of this fabulousness."

Ollie is just about to usher me out the door when he suddenly smacks his forehead, his eyes wide with realization. "Oh my stars and garters, I almost forgot the most important part! The shoes!"

He dashes over to a wardrobe and flings the doors open, revealing a dizzying array of footwear. He rummages around for a moment before emerging with a pair of heels that look like they could double as deadly weapons.

"No. Absolutely fucking not," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "I didn't even wear heels to prom, and you expect me to walk in those death traps? I'll break my damn neck!"

To my surprise, Raphael actually laughs. It's a rich, deep sound that makes me want to punch him in his perfect teeth. "Is something funny, asshole?" I snap, glaring at him with enough venom to kill a small elephant.

Raphael smirks, his eyes glittering with malicious amusement. "It's just refreshing to see that even in death, you're still as graceful as a newborn giraffe, Ms. Doe. Truly, it's a wonder you survived as long as you did."

I flip him the double bird, my nostrils flaring with barely contained rage. "Listen here, you pompous prick—"

But before I can finish my scathing retort, Ollie is kneeling at my feet, gently guiding my toes into the heels. "Now, now, let's not let a little thing like footwear ruin our big debut! Just think of them as an extension of your fierce, fabulous self!"

I wobble precariously as I stand, feeling like a toddler taking her first steps. I try to take a step forward and nearly face-plant into the vanity. "Fuck me sideways, this is impossible!"

Ollie just clucks his tongue and helps me regain my balance. "Chin up, buttercup! It's all about confidence and attitude. And you, my dear, have both in spades!"

I manage to waddle a few more steps, cursing under my breath with every tottering movement. Raphael, who has been watching my struggle with undisguised glee, finally stands up and offers me his arm.

"As much as I'm enjoying watching you flail about like a drunken flamingo, we really do need to get going. Take my arm and try not to look like a lamb being led to slaughter, won't you?"

I hesitate for a moment, torn between my desire to tell him to go fuck himself and my need for some kind of support. Finally, I grab his arm, my fingers digging into his expensive suit jacket.

We stare at each other for a long moment, our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. If looks could kill, we'd both be nothing more than smouldering piles of ash on the tacky dressing room carpet.

"If you let me fall, I swear to God, I'll haunt your ass for all eternity," I hiss through clenched teeth.

Raphael just smirks, his free hand coming up to adjust his pretentious ascot. "I've been haunted by far worse than the likes of you. Now, let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

With that, he begins to lead me towards the door, his steps sure and steady despite my wobbly gait. Ollie trails behind us, humming some jaunty tune under his breath and occasionally throwing out words of encouragement.

As we step out into the hallway, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking towards my own execution. But hey, at least I look fucking fabulous while doing it.

As we approach the elevator, my heart begins to race with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Ollie, sensing my unease, pulls me into a tight hug, his lithe frame surprisingly strong.

"What, are you not coming with?" I ask, hating the way my voice shakes. I'm not sure if I can face this twisted afterlife gala without Ollie's flamboyant presence by my side.

Ollie pulls back, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, darling, don't you worry your pretty little head! I'll make an appearance tonight - I'd never miss a party in purgatory! All staff are expected to attend, you know."

He doesn't seem particularly thrilled about the prospect, his mouth twisting into a slight grimace. "But first, I need to prepare the rest of your wardrobe. Can't have you looking anything less than absolutely ravishing, now can we?"

He leans in close, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispers something that makes my breath catch in my throat. I feel a shiver run down my spine, and I expel a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding.

Before I can respond, Raphael tugs me into the elevator, his grip on my arm like a vice. The doors slam shut with an ominous clang, and he presses a button on the control panel.

As the elevator begins its descent, Raphael suddenly slams me up against the wall, his body pressing against mine with a force that knocks the wind out of me. His eyes burn into mine, his face mere inches from my own.

"When we enter the ballroom," he growls, his voice low and aggressive, "you will do exactly as I say. Don't speak unless you're spoken to, act with decorum, and don't even breathe unless I tell you to. Do you understand?"

I stare back at him, my heart pounding so hard I think it might burst out of my chest. I can't even push him off - his strength is unnatural, superhuman. The heat of his body seeps through the layers of my gown, making my skin prickle with a confusing mix of fear and something else entirely.

After a long, tense moment, Raphael smiles deviously, his perfect teeth glinting in the dim light of the elevator. "Good pet," he purrs, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw before he finally backs off.

I sag against the wall, my knees weak and my mind reeling. What the actual fuck has just happened? And more importantly, what fresh hell is waiting for me on the other side of those elevator doors?

I straighten my spine, adjusting my mask with trembling fingers. I refuse to let Raphael see just how much he has rattled me. If he wants a demure little puppet, he has another thing coming.

Jane Doe bows to no one, not even in death. If the afterlife wants a show, I'll give them a fucking spectacle they'll never forget.

Alright, fuckers. Let's dance.