Chapter Text
Black.
At least, that’s what he expected. He’d never given much thought to death, too focused on work and being bigger, brighter than everyone else. How did he die, anyway? He couldn’t remember. He sat up with a groan that didn’t quite come from his mouth.
Confusion hit him instantly. His head felt heavier than usual, his limbs ached, where the hell was he? Looking around, it almost seemed like a worse version of the city. Broken glass, shouting, gunshots in the distance; it was very red. His hands came up to hold his aching head before he realized what he was holding. A television.
“What the hell!?” In a panic, he attempted to pull it off, only to cause his neck immense pain. His death rushed back to him in an embarrassing flashback.
Him. Vincent Whittman, on top of the world. Giving one of his now weekly speeches to his loyal followers. Sure, he’d been hyped up on cocaine, but the set up seemed like a good idea at the time, symbolic even. Televisions hanging from wires to show his followers that he, soon, would rule the airwaves, a slightly flooded floor to mimic a baptism, his chair, his throne, showing all of them that he alone was God.
But he wasn’t. Gods didn’t die, at least not good ones. The television had fallen on his head, he was dead. This certainly didn’t look like heaven, so it must’ve been…
“Oi! Fuck outta my way!” A sharp kick landed on his side, causing him to yelp in pain, “What’s this look like, a fuckin’ park bench!?”
Vincent looked up, scowling violently at the sinner who dared to lay a hand – well, foot – on him. He looked disgusting. Like a slug, but more eyes, more hair. He couldn’t keep the disgust off his face, much to the sinner’s annoyance.
“You got a staring problem, pal!? Move it!”
Vincent, too tired from the passing over, stood up and stepped out of the sinner’s way. He still wasn’t used to the weight of his head and swayed slightly before finding his balance. His eyes roved over the land with a disgusted grimace, landing on his hands with sharp claws and–
What the hell!?
His claws? Vincent Whittman didn’t have claws! His hands were soft and trustable! For the third time, what the hell!?! Everything that Vincent had believed up until this moment had been flipped upside down. For the first time in his life, he was unknown. Unloved. The movement of the crowd was the first thing to knock him back into reality, to the progression of everyday life, no matter how much Vincent Whittman was able to catch up. The crowd swept him away as his thoughts moved elsewhere, the only ability he physically possessed was putting one foot in front of the other.
His mind was drawn to his life, the rot in his chest he’d possessed since he grew unhappy with his weather reporter position. The dread that crawled on his skin every time he put on a suit, every “sir” and “Mr. Whitman” clawing at the rotten, aching core of his body. He’d always hated his appearance. He felt that he looked too sharp, too masculine. He missed the soft curve of his jaw that his face held, the bright eyes, smooth skin. Growing old had been truly dreadful, and he’d all but sworn off looking in a mirror if not to make sure his hair looked his best.
He’d somehow stumbled into a clothing shop – at least, what looked like one – standing at a dress rack. Good grief. How many times had he ended up here in life, too? He figured his brain had an odd fascination of being with a woman that looked… much like him. Yeah. That was all. A sigh escaped his ventilation as he reached in his pockets, hoping that he had any cash on him. He couldn’t be seen in this ratty, death-smelling suit, after all. His feet brought him to a nice suit, one he’d wear to work or on a fancy date with some producer wanting to buy his company. He checked the price tag in a rare instinct and almost winced at the ridiculous pricing. Well, no new suit for him. His eyes drifted to the changing rooms, then the workers, who had been arguing about something or other. He quietly stepped over to the rooms and locked the door behind him, turning only to find a lilac sundress sitting on a hanger.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he growled softly. His irritation was cut off as a woman knocked on the changing room door.
“Hey, hurry up! We got people waiting!”
What?? He’d only been in there a few seconds! How were there already people needing the rooms!? He didn’t have time to think about it as he took off what was left of the suit. He wasn’t sure why he put the dress on, he could’ve just walked away, but the mirror that stared back at him as the dress slipped over his television-head was nothing of what he’d ever seen before.
He couldn’t stop staring. The dress looked right, but his body looked different. Wrong still. Too sharp, too muscular. Undeserving of the softness the dress offered. The fabric flowed like ribbons below his calves, over his broad shoulders. He was forced to step out of the dressing room and wasn’t stopped as he walked right out of the store without paying. He decided to find another mirror he was welcome to.
As his legs carried him down the busy street, he only grew more agitated the longer he perceived his surroundings. It was trashy, though he supposed that was a fitting adjective for hell. The neon bright signs of strip clubs, casinos, and bars assaulted his eyes, not a single professional business in sight. However, everything felt better than it would normally. Almost lighter, like he was floating on air.
He followed the smaller crowd of dark-eyed, proper folk into a nicer part of town. He hadn’t bothered to read the sign coming in, he was far too busy admiring the stark contrast this place had to the outside of it. Women walking arm in arm, laughing and gossiping. Men walking with their wives and children. Proper businesses, there were boutiques and butcher shops and floral arrangements; it almost reminded him of his old neighborhood when he was a teenager. His eyes landed on a woman, bright red hair speaking to a fancily dressed woman much taller than her. He felt his feet pick themselves up, moving to speak to the woman, before he was stopped by a honey sweet voice.
“My, aren’t you just beautiful! Where on Earth did you get your dress, miss?” Asked a woman whom had taken Vincent’s arm. He felt his chest fill with an unbearable warmth at the word miss, a feeling he stuffed deep down in the back of his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman kept speaking. Rude. “Ohh, you must be new!” She nearly squealed, a noise that Vincent was sure could rupture his eardrums, “I can smell Earth all over you, what’s your name dear?”
“Uuh,” he stammered, hesitation lacing his tone. This place was new. Nobody knew Vincent Whittman, nobody cared. He hadn’t been asked his name in years, everyone just knew. But now he could answer. Play pretend for a little while. Women were trusted more, after all, he could use this to his advantage. “Violet. Violet Whittman.”
“Violet, that’s a lovely name! Come, come. I’ll help you get settled in, dear,” soothed the woman, looping her arm with Violet’s.
Interesting. Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad.