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Aaaarghhh!
More pain. Like I said, this is total bullshit. Death is supposed to free you from the tribulations of mortal suffering.
More to the point: if I died in childbirth, then why the hell does it feel like I’m still giving birth?
“Wren…”
Ooh, is that God? I always knew He was a She. Which would be so much more awesome a discovery if I didn’t have to die to discover it.
“Wren!”
“Be patient with her. Her body’s going through a lot. Just give her time.”
Is that… Dr. Liza? Last I checked, she was still a member of the living world. Which means either she’s dead, too…
Or I’m not as dead as I think I am.
“Wren, it’s okay; I’m right here. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
That voice makes no damn sense to me. But I’m guessing solving the mystery is going to require some sight. So, with a groan, I blink my eyes open and promptly cringe against the blinding fluorescents.
Surely heaven has no room for fluorescent lighting. That shit belongs in the depths of hell.
“Hey, you. Good to see ya.” Bee’s face blocks out the lights on the ceiling, creating an eerie halo around her head.
“B-Bee?”
“I know it’s a shock to see me here?—”
“You’re supposed to be dead?” I feel a squeeze on my arm. “Or… am I the one that’s dead?”
“No one’s dead!” Bee laughs. “You’re alive. I’m alive. We’re all alive up in this joint.”
I pull my arm out from underneath hers. “But… but… how?!”
Her gaze flickers to Liza helplessly for a moment. “Do you wanna maybe do the whole explanation part after you have your baby?”
“No!” I bark at her. “Unless you wanna be kicked out of this room in five seconds, start talking.”
She smirks and pats my hair. “I missed all that feistiness.”
“Bee!”
She holds up her hands. “Okay, okay. Very long story turned very short: my funeral was a hoax, my death was faked, and I went into hiding in the upstairs penthouse.” She grins down at me awkwardly, waves some even more awkward jazz hands, and adds, “Surprise!”
I blink.
I stare.
I blink.
I stare.
And then I say, “I swear to God, if I weren’t in labor right now, I’d fucking kill you.”
She titters uncomfortably. “Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you.”
“I just can’t—” But another contraction swallows up my words before I can spit them at her.
