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PENELOPE

“Welcome to the Underworld,” says a clear voice, one that reminds me of what a mother should sound like.

I stare around with a vacant expression, as if my vision is altered by a lens that can’t focus. My mouth opens in a failed attempt to speak, only a groan escaping. My gaze lands on a woman standing near me—the only person I can find in this small, quiet, stone room.

“What?” I finally manage, my voice hoarse as if I tried swallowing… I can’t even think of an analogy. I can’t think of much, actually. I touch my head like it’s a novel attachment, recalling the searing pain ever since waking up in that foggy forest… then again, was that before waking up in here?

I stare at the patient woman, noting everything of hers is red, from her nails to her hair, down to her heels. Finally, her thin, vermilion lips curl into a smile. “You were in Nepo, where the guideless souls congregate. Your Chrysostomus weighed your soul and sent you to the Underworld. You blacked out between there and here, as most new souls do.”

That both simultaneously clarifies and confuses everything. “I’m so… sorry,” I begin, speech still delayed, as if coming out of a very long coma. “Please repeat?”

"Nobody ever likes to hear it," she says, her patience shifting into something more practiced, "but yes. You died."

The woman stands, the movement catching the faint candlelight to highlight a metal choker. A black stone sits at the center, the stone seeming to glow, yet consume light, all in the same existence.

I’m aware of wanting to move my hand from my head, only for it to linger there until it finally lowers.

My heart rate picks up, the details of the room sharpening. Dark, stone surfaces. Lit candles are either perched on the walls or scattered on the floor, the space so quiet I can hear dripping wax hit the floor. I survey my hands, staring at them as if trying to read very tiny writings; instead, I am realizing that these don’t look like my hands at all.

What are they even supposed to look like?

“Fell off my balcony…” I say to myself. My brows raise, as if this statement is news to me.

Deeply inhaling, the woman stands in front of me before saying, “The soul carries with it the last few hours of whatever it was experiencing. Sometimes that means the physical pain you died from. Most come with sorrow, as they usually were terrified or sad before they died, and some come happy as a rabbit with a carrot. When your soul is traveling to your new Realm, the Reaper puts a cast over you to dull your senses. So it will be hard to grasp for a while⁠—”

A wailing echo carries from somewhere behind me, as if the sound casts off stone and water. My body stiffens, but the fear washes right through me like a drug, carrying with it any possible worry.

All that’s left is the awareness that something isn’t right.

“I can’t be dead.”

"It's alright. You are not actually dead, in fact. If anything, you’re alive, just here." She gestures to the room, to the iron bars behind me, to the standing body of black water so still it could be glass. "And my name is Margaret."

Her words are kind, but I’m now aware that they’re severely lacking in emotion. Margaret. A simple name for whatever she is.

“The Underworld,” I repeat, turning my hands over slowly, the things foreign, and yet I still can’t quite pinpoint why. “I am dead,” I state with an emptiness that echoes and I don’t believe an ounce of this. “I must be having a hallucination. That would make sense. I fell, survived, and am in a coma of sorts,” I rationalize, my words forming quicker than before.

The woman raises a brow with a condescending smile. “Don’t worry, you will be back to Earth one day. The soul must recycle, for it is a long, long journey to ascension.”

I stare at this Margaret for a long time. As if I can suddenly see her, I’m aware that she has red eyes. Not umber, not a light brown, but they remind me of a beautiful ruby.

I glance over my shoulder, and the chair I sit on is made of rather plain wood. Behind me, a standing body of black water sits so still it could be glass. Iron bars lock me in this room, and on the other side are more rooms like mine, all arched with the same bars. Flickering flames hang in elaborate wooden chandeliers, reflecting like warmth against the water. I turn around, watching the shadows on the woman’s face move. For a moment, I swear I see a shallow, almost predatory stare. Whatever was there, Margaret quickly corrects it. I glance behind her, eyeing a giant spherical stone… door, perhaps?

This is so akin to a dream, except the details aren’t changing like I’m used to. A static sensation only found in reality.

My heart rate picks up.

To be dead, I have to remember what it is to be alive. What does alive mean? It makes sense and also doesn’t, like I know the answer and it’s killing me that I can’t recall it.

The candle on the wall dramatically flickers, and I’m instantly reminded of Christmas, pinecones, and snow… and an unhappy family, the holidays ending early because my husband had died, I was drunk, and I had ruined Christmas.

“No, I am most definitely hallucinating.” I examine my hands once more, this time with purpose, chewing on my lip as if it may help me focus. I have to understand why they look foreign—ah, that’s it. They are supple, not middle-aged.

Am I supposed to be middle-aged?

Margaret sighs, turning to push the circular rock from the side, rolling it with a deep groan, the heavy stone gritting against the floor, revealing a hallway behind it. She may be tall, but she’s too lanky and slender for that to make sense. The rock was heavy enough to sound like a dragon groaning as it was rolled away.

“The physics not making sense is a point toward this being a hallucination, or a dream,” I reason.