Tragic

For The Girl contest.

 

Quietly, she walks through the garden, toward the cathedral. It is night time, and there is no one around. The gravel walkway crunches softly under her feet. The faerie lamps flicker along the paths. Everything is perfect.

Her dress is still white, despite the hems dragging along the soft earth. Her face and hair, painted and pinned, hidden behind pale, delicate gossamer. Pearls dripping off her neck and hands. A ghost in the night.

The cathedral doors are in sight now. They spill light onto the stone steps. In the shadows, she can see her friends, her family waiting, smiling. Everyone looks beautiful, bright colors muted in the darkness. Flowers in her sisters’ hair. Everything seems like a dream.

They reach out their hands, and hug her gently, careful of her clothes. Some are crying, but all are wishing her luck, and peace. She can’t help smiling back. They all laugh together, until a shadow appears in the doorway. She looks up expectantly.

Her father reaches for her hand, her arm in his, and he pulls her up the stairs towards the man standing in the light. He pats her arm in time with their walking.

Has she seen this man before? Does she know him?

She can’t make out his face; it is too dark in the garden, the moon hidden behind wispy clouds. He seems to be smiling, and that is enough. She hurries forward. Pulling her father along behind her. But, they make it to the man too quickly. Her nerves cause her to hide her face, her blush.

He takes her hand from her father, eagerly it seems. He wants this as much as she.

The almost race down the aisle, sometimes he is in front, sometime she is; both laugh, and smile, the picture of bliss. But this cannot last long. They reach the altar. There is no priest, no minister, waiting to bind them together for eternity. Only a single candle, burning a sweet essence into the air, honey and clover, stands to welcome them.

The room is silent now. The laughter gone, deaf upon her ears. The light flickering sweetly as ever, is now sad, sinister. Does he notice, she wonders, she looks.

He is still beautiful, unbelievably so, but his face no longer hold the joy she loves. It is darker, smiling, but frightening. His touch, no longer gentle, but hard, hurting her arm, and cold, causing her to shiver.

He pulls her closer. Roughly, not taking care of her dress. The pearls scatter along the floor, dropping with sharp, sour sounds—musical, but twisted in this new nightmare.

The room is now empty, everyone gone. The lights dimmed. Fear crashing upon her in waves. She knows what will come, she’s heard about it many times. She can’t help but twist under his unrelenting grip, pulling uselessly at his fingers. Nothing will help, no one will hear her.

Her tears smear her makeup, leaving long black trails down her cheeks. Her once soft, white skin, now too pale, sickly looking.

The man doesn’t seem to notice her crying. He is holding her too close again, breathing in her scent; ripping at the gossamer that hides her throat. The room is no more to him. He is lost in the thirst, the craving.

His teeth, cold and sharp, press against her trembling skin. It is sweet, soft, and the blood rushes through her veins. He can no longer resist the temptation. She is nothing, her frail strength nothing to his iron muscles.  The dress, ripped and wrinkled, is stained deep red, as the blood flows down.

She faints. Limp in his arms. This is the first notice of her he has taken since they reached the altar. He lowers her to the ground, slowly, careful of her lifeless body. Should he leave? When will she wake?

He waits next to her, softly brushing her hair back from her face, stroking her jaw line. She is still pale, but the beauty in her features has returned. The black lines no long wet, add to her silent misery. Her ruined dress fanned out underneath her, the red darker than before, contrasting the shining white of the satin.

Slowly, she wakes. She is still weak; he helps her up. There is still fear in her face. She knows his weakness, his strength, his cruelty.

He knows she will leave. But he will follow. Until he is forgiven for his mistake, he will be just one step behind. She is his everything, her beauty is his happiness. Her laughter, his music; her life, his. He must be forgiven.

He will be, for just as she is his all, he is everything. He is all that she is not. He is excess, she is reserve. He is irrepressible, uncontrollable. She is soft, gentle.

But she will wait till they meet again; she is strong enough for that.  And they will; they are irrevocably connected. They are everlasting, but tragic.