Today's Reading
As I swing my feet to the floor, more details of the room—the jail cell? the torture chamber?—crystalize.
The painting above the bed, a girl riding a mint green bicycle, a bouquet of brightly colored flowers sitting in the basket.
The furniture, all coordinated and—gag—made of white wicker.
The plush armchair wrapped in a floral fabric any grandmother other than mine would covet.
"Maybe I died," I muse out loud, still talking only to myself. "This must be my own personal version of hell." Can't say I'm too surprised that's where I ended up.
I open the closet, which is lacking my standard lineup of designer suits and structured separates. They seem to have been replaced by dresses. Lots and lots of dresses, in soft pastels with masses of ruffles, nothing like the LBDs I don on the rare occasion I actually go out for something other than a business meeting. I pull out what looks like the least offensive one, a sky blue concoction. At least, it's the least offensive until I catch a glimpse of the strawberries embroidered all along the front of the bodice.
I drop the offending garment on the plush white carpet.
I spin in a slow circle, trying to absorb all of the pastel-colored nightmares surrounding me. Except it all blurs together like I'm on a carousel from hell.
And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging over the dresser.
And I scream.
My platinum, ice blond, took multiple bleachings and even more conditioning hair treatments to achieve, perfectly sharp bob is gone. Instead, I have honey blond hair that hangs past my boobs, highlighted and barrel curled like I'm some fucking cheerleader.
And my face. My face is perfectly made up, my skin airbrushed and blemish free. Which means I slept in my makeup, which as Grandmother taught me at the ripe old age of ten, is one of life's greatest sins. I press said face closer to the mirror, trying to spot any hint of a breakout, but all I see are rosy cheeks in a shade brighter than I would ever dare to wear and lashes that look fake but somehow seem to be real.
I think I'm going to hurl.
Sprinting toward the bedroom door, I throw it open, not knowing what I expect to see, or even want to see, on the other side. I'm sort of hoping the door will open into the fiery pits of the inferno and I can just leap in and put myself out of my misery.
But no flames swirl on the other side.
It's just your standard living room, complete with a cushy sofa that looks to be covered in blue and white gingham and a million throw pillows, many of which appear to be crocheted.
I force my feet to move, crossing through the living area into a kitchen that I can't even digest. Suffice to say the KitchenAid mixer is color-coordinated with the cushions on the chairs surrounding the farm-style dining room table.
It's the little ties that do me in. The cute little bows keeping those motherfucking cushions in place.
I sink down onto the couch—it practically swallows me whole, it's so plush and overstuffed. I know enough to know I need to drop my head between my knees and try to steady my breathing, but both are easier said than done. Bending in half is hard when I'm fighting against the quicksand of this sofa and breathing is even harder when I realize I must have lost my damned mind.
Either that or I died in my sleep and am currently in the underworld. And honestly, I'm not sure which is preferable at this point.
The last thing I remember is sitting at my desk in my home office, trying to get some work done. Not exactly a singular memory.
I force my lungs to fill with air.
I was irritated, annoyed. Someone had done something to piss me off.
Again, not exactly an unusual set of circumstances.
I'd been on a date right before. Another one of Grandmother's setups. This one was cute, but not cute enough to distract me from the work I should have been doing instead.
We said our goodbyes and headed home. I went through my normal nightly routine, slipped in between my five-thousand-thread-count sheets, and fell asleep.
And after that, everything goes blank.
I cautiously raise my head, pretty sure I'm not going to pass out.
Examining the facts always helps, so I review them in my mind once again. I was annoyed by my date, went home, tried to work, went to bed. And then?
And then I woke up in the bedroom of some '90s teen sitcom.
...
