Wedding Day

Do you like my dress?

The fabric has seen better days, all tattered and faded, stained and yellowed with age, but it will suffice, I think. At least it’s still white. Well, mostly.

A bride should always wear white, don’t you think?

You look dismayed. Am I not appealing enough? Perhaps, my appearance isn’t ideal, with rotting flesh and bones sticking out from withered skin, but use your imagination. Try to picture me as I was on my first wedding day. Walking down the aisle in my pristine dress, so crisply white, all lace and flowing silk. Waves of dark hair under my gossamer veil that almost floated in the air.

I was beautiful.

Everything about that day was beautiful.

Except for the ending, that was horrible. I can’t say I cared for being murdered. Slashed and stabbed, bleeding out in what was supposed to be my marriage bed. That’s what ruined my dress, so blame that lying husband of mine.

Although, I supposed I deserved it.

After all, I had planned to kill him in the morning until he beat me to murder. He would have been my fifth victim. A shame, really. I made a lovely widow. Even prettier than as a bride.

Oh, don’t look so shocked. You’re not innocent. That’s why I’m here and you’re stuck with me now.

Oh, don’t protest, and please stop screaming. That hurts my ears. Don’t blame me, you’re the one that summoned me from hell. The wedding must commence.

No, you don’t. No running off! There, got you. Stop struggling, I might accidentally break your arm. You can’t escape. You’re as bound to me as I am to you.

Begging now? Tacky. Don’t debase yourself. It won’t help, and it’s disgusting. Accept what will happen, give in. I mean, I do like it when my grooms fight; it lends a sweet excitement to the proceedings, but that option is never painless for you. If you fight, I’ll make it hurt.

That’s good. Nice and calm, resigned to your fate. I’ll be gentle; a few seconds to eat your soul and you’ll be a hollow corpse, all your cares forgotten.

Now, come give your bride a kiss.

~ A. F. Stewart