A New Me

I wake up in a sea of velvet. Everything feels soft. Real soft. As my eyes flicker open, the first thing that swarms my dim vision is the expanse of the room. Hell, this isn't my room. For one, there are no Marie Curie posters anywhere. No Spelling Bee trophies mounting shelves. No awkward hanging stack of books. And most importantly, the room is just about the size of my entire childhood home. And I'm not kidding. Whoever lives here surely must be a filthy rich vampire, in that exact order.

As my vision clears some more, my eyes become accustomed to the shadowy aura in this new room. The bedside lights are actual antique lamps, drawers large enough to feature as a desk in a Fortune 500 business office, and way too huge oval mirrors overhead. I sit up with a start.

Okay, what the hell is going on here?

Did I get kidnapped by some Mafia boss to be his sex slave or something? Either that or I must have joined a cult after the prom dance.

Yes, the prom dance?

Every surreal and sordid detail of the party comes rushing into my head. I recall a mass of randy, hormonal teenagers. I recall Lance, oh beautiful Lance. I recall our dreamy, dreamy dance. And I most certainly recall Cheyenne damn near giving me a head split. I did get the kiss, but I also almost got killed for it. Thinking back though, it was totally worth it. Lance's lips were even sweeter than I'd imagined. To add to the surprise of this grand bedroom in which I find myself, I have no jarring headache. Nothing. It feels even weirder. I look around from the ocean of sheets that somehow manifests as a bed—if anything were above queensize, this would be it. The entire room is painted maple red, lush and enticing. Twin murals of some picturesque countryside hang off the left side of the walls and a few red candles even glow in the silence. And is that mist I smell?

At least, I think this is what it should smell like.

I move over to the edge of the bed, aware that my heart beat just tripled. The softest rug meets my feet. Gosh, it's almost like I'm stepping on a cat. Mind you, dad was a real estate realtor and mom was a surgeon, so we were pretty up there financially. But this—this room, this is real money. I almost crawl back to bed in the hopes of waking up banged-up at prom with Cheyenne fuming over me. Rather, I focus on Lance.

What happened after our dance? Did he reach me on time? Did my parents pick me up and take me home? Is this all just a weird dream? The rug feels real though. Treading lightly, I carry myself few steps away from the gigantic bed to face the mirrors.

What the fuck!

Jesus!

Cursing and blaspheming at the same time? Not good, Allie. Not good at all. But one can't blame me. The figure that meets my eyes in the mirror makes me turn behind, just to make sure. Three words. I AM STUNNING. I was pretty attractive before but now…knockout baby! I seem to have grown two inches overnight. Whoah! At five nine, I bet I wouldn't need to stretch too high to say…kiss Lance? In the silver chemise I'm spotting, my body is a work of art. Tall, legged like roe, curvy; narrow waist, full hips, and my breasts. God, what happened to my boobs? I know they are fuller. I just know.

My skin is white as milk all over. Some might even say pale. In this moment, I feel like Diana Prince. I am Wonderwoman. But it is me, still me; Alessandria Irene Forsythe. It's the eyes and hair; emerald green—howbeit catty, and cream white—howbeit fuller and longer. It drops down right to my waist. My fingers move of their own accord; my mind's unconscious response to such perfection, and soon enough my palms move from tracing the curve of my hips to testing the perkiness of my bust. A girl just can't help herself. My lips part in excitement and I wonder at this newfound sexual bravado. Even my lips, rose pink and—

The door suddenly flies open—a door I didn't even know was there.

Christ! My hands drag close the chemise. I sweep around…and my jaw drops. Maids. Yes, maids—straight out of the Handmaid's Tale. Three of them. You know, the kind that only work estates of European oligarchs. Clothed in similar red and gold uniforms with skullcaps over their hair, they all meet my wide-eyed expression at the same time. And then they bow, in perfect harmony—that speaks of years of practice.

"Your Grace," they offer politely. And like they can't see my shocked stiffness, they all head off to different corners of the room, drawing open heavy red drapes.

Oh yeah, I was definitely kidnapped.

I'm still staring dumbstruck when a fourth maid enters. In the golden resplendence of daylight now flooding the bedroom, I can tell this woman approaching is lead maid or something. Her uniform is more gold than red and she wears no cap. She clears in from the open brilliance of the doorway, and I nearly faint.

"Cheyenne?" Oh, you've got to be kidding me. I knew all this weird silliness had something to do with her. She meanders purposefully to me, her fair skin untarnished—and for the first time since I met her without a speck of makeup on her face. I notice cute freckles. Who knew?

"Your Grace," she bows robotically like the others.

Oh, don't Your Grace me, you conniving bitch. She must catch the look on my face because she takes steps to stand close to me.

"Are you alright, Your Grace? You seem pale. Perhaps, we should call the physician?"

What! I nearly scream. The nerve on her. You are not about to gaslight me, you she-devil. And with that thought in mind, I lift up my hand and slap her right across her innocent-looking freckled face.

"That's for ruining prom for me, bitch!"