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A Bride’s End

Fictional Short Story

By Rachel ReillyPublished 4 years ago 8 min read
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A Bride’s End
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I can just hold in this jittering feeling as I stand, gazing at the rectangular mirror in the far left of the room. My luminous reflection stares back at me, painting a portrait of a cheerful yet anxious bride in the silvery gleam. I twirl around in my dress, relishing my time alone for a little longer.

Sequins line my torso and smooth, white silk flows out below my waist. I take in the delicate feeling of the material against my bare legs, stroking my skin with every minimal movement. My gaze floats up to my hair and makeup. The makeup makes me look like an expensive actress from a Hollywood film who wears just a little too much on her face. Soft pink hues cover my pale eyelids and cheeks, gentle rosy pink coats my lips, and a few lines of eyeliner help to define my ocean blue eyes. As for my auburn hair, the hairstylist had decorated it into a delicate, braided bun - a style I would never even think about wearing in everyday life.

Actually, now that I think about it, nothing about this ceremony represents how I live in my daily life. I never look this good, even after dressing myself up for a special event. I barely know half the people that will be lining the church benches when I step outside in less than a half-hour. Also, they all seem to be expensive-looking while the people I surround myself with day to day barely have the money to afford rent. This whole ceremony isn’t me at all.

“We’re ready to begin. I’ll take you to the front of the church,” a young, gentle-looking blonde woman announces to me when she arrives at my room. I send her a polite smile, then follow her lead. I work on displaying a face of excitement despite the anxiety that fills my chest. I’ve never done anything like this before, of course. I just want to get to the altar now and not have hundreds of eyes follow me down the aisle, watching how my legs tremble with each step.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the young woman when we arrive at the start of the carpeted aisle.

She grins at me, “No problem, sweetheart. Congratulations once again!”

I don’t respond, I can’t. I’m too busy wondering if this is really something I want to follow through with. I mean, I have no choice. I have to hold the arm of someone I don’t know at all as I nervously make my way to the front to meet everyone standing there. My childhood friends, my childhood sweetheart and my two sons who are sitting in the front row with tears in their eyes. They knew this day was going to come at some point. Now it’s just something they’ll have to deal while they wait for their turn.

Time slips by as I lose more of myself in my thoughts. It’s time for me to hold a random man’s arm. I try to relax and forget about why I’m here. This should be a day of happiness - or so they told me when I was trying on my dress, a frown on my face and hating all the choices that were picked out for me depending on what fit my body best. I’ve tried to see the happiness and tried to feel the happiness but it’s harder than they perceived it to be in television shows and movies.

I try so hard to smile through the physical pain; I feel stabbing at my heart. I try my best not to show what I’m feeling as I’m led past people I almost never see, past people I haven’t interacted with in years, even people I’ve never talked to in my forty-five short years on this earth. I tell myself I’m sure I’ve passed them in public before, I’m sure I’ve seen them somewhere before, or else they wouldn’t be sitting here at my ceremony. Letting myself believe so helps calm me slightly, but not much.

Reaching the altar, I feel like my knees are going to give out as I stare into the eyes of my childhood sweetheart. He smiles back at me, comforting, and somehow it manages to melt away my anxiety. Now that I’m here, with him, it doesn’t seem half as bad. Maybe I can get through this. Maybe we’ll all be okay after this ceremony comes to a close.

That’s what I believe until I look my oldest son in the eye. The twenty-year-old holds his sixteen-year-old brother - who barely has an idea of what’s going on right now - tight in his embrace. They’re both crying. Jordan’s crying mainly because his brother, Bailey, is having a hard time keeping it together even though I told him not to worry. It is how it is.

Bailey refused to believe that. I’m not sure why. From a young age, we're taught that this is a normal occurrence for everyone at some point in their life. It has to happen, I can’t stop it from happening.

“Bailey, it’s okay,” I whisper to him when we make eye contact. He only shakes his head. It hurts so much to see them like this. Is this really a good idea?

“Let’s begin with giving the bride our full respect.” The same young woman that led me out of my room, stands on my left, a paper in her hands that she seems to be reading from. The crowd quiets down at her words, turning to give me their full attention. I only grow nervous again when hundreds of eyes lay on me.

“Mrs. Jamison, please make yourself comfortable.” She speaks. A creepily huge smile occupies her face, giving me an unsettling feeling in my stomach, but I follow her instructions as she points to the mahogany-colored, wooden casket. All I can hear are the cries of my children and the sniffles from my husband and our best friends. I don’t dare look their way or else I know I’ll break down too. Carefully, I lay myself down at last. My hands drop to rest on my stomach and the lady comes over to fix my dress as I stare up at the cream-colored ceiling.

She steps back, addressing the crowd again: “Today we are here to celebrate the life of Mrs. Jamison and all she achieved and who she met along the way. First up to speak about his wife’s experience on earth is Mr. Jamison himself. Let’s give Mr. Jamison our full respect, please.” She welcomes my husband to the podium at the front. He steps up, starting his beautiful speech. I tear up immediately.

Next, my best friends deliver their speeches about me and after that, my co-workers from my job at the publishing firm down the street. They all deliver tear-jerking speeches about what it was like to be my friend and to work with me every day. I know I'm going to miss them. They were so good to me and they always insisted on helping me out with the kids when they were younger. I hold back a sob.

Finally, they move on to my oldest son, Bailey. He wears a frown as he approaches the podium. When I make eye contact with him, I force myself to tear my eyes away from his red, puffy ones. I can’t see him like this. It hurts me too much.

“My mom,” he starts, his voice weak and choking on tears. “She does not deserve this. What you are seeing here…” he says, throwing down his paper with his speech written down on it to the floor, continuing, “This is not what you think it is. This isn’t a celebration of life. This is a murder… you are all allowing our government to murder my mother. Think about what they do with her after we’ve gotten through everyone’s speeches. Think about it!”

I lean up in the casket slightly to see everyone’s reactions. They aren’t much different from my own. Everyone’s gasping, wearing surprised expressions and whispering to each other about what Bailey has just said. The woman who smiles a little too much stands behind him, stunned at his words. She’s looking around frantically, trying to decide what to do about the situation. But it’s too late to do anything.

“Don’t let these crazy people kill my mother! Who do you think you are just sitting there, letting my world be ripped away from me? You careless bastards!” He continues to create a scene, his words pulling at my heartstrings as I'm willing myself not to break down crying. What is he saying? What does he mean they're murdering me?

In our world, murdering means to kill someone before they are supposed to go, with bad intentions. Our celebration of life brings us from life into death peacefully when the government decides it's our time to go. It's always been this way, no different. So what can Bailey be saying? What does he know that we all do not?

"Thank you, Bailey. That's enough. Let's give the bride our full respect, please." The lady jumps in to try to dissolve the situation. It doesn't work.

"What do you mean she's a bride? A "bride" is a woman getting married to spend the rest of her life with someone, not to end her life! Let her go-" He fights back.

After that, I zone out. I can't remember what happened next. All I know is that the door to my casket was slammed by the lady I thought was so sweet, so gentle. Then, the screams that squeezed through the cracks of the casket to my ears. Next, I don't know how long after, I'm dropped, hard. A loud booming sound hits the top of the wooden casket every few seconds until suddenly it stops. And then, it's harder to breathe.

And suddenly, everything stops. The world around me, my life, my ability to think and breathe. It's all gone.

Murder... I think. What if this is murder?

literature
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