Dawn burst, violent like a ruptured womb— the sun reincarnated as itself for the millionth time. Light spilled, faltered—hesitating at the rusted bed's edge where she, the bride-to-be, lay so still she might be mistaken for dead. The light did nothing to warm the air that moved like knives over her skin, turning it a flirty purple, as if her flesh were bruising from the cold alone.
Then, the mourning dove perched on the frost-laced sill, barely distinguishable from the morning mist. The dove's gentle eyes rested upon the bride, and a silent conversation unfolded between them. It cooed softly, a sound not heard but felt.
“Awaken,” it cooed, “adorn yourself with the garb of despair, for today you wed life.”
"Rise. Rise. Rise, now, my beautiful. It is time."
The bride's response was a mere flutter of eyelids, acknowledging the call. There was no fear in her, only a profound recognition of the pact they shared. In this moment, the room—the entire world—seemed to hold its breath, the space between each heartbeat stretched thin, the stillness punctuated only by the intermittent puffs of visible breath that escaped her lips.
She sat up. The room was a bare shell, containing only a rusted bed and a wall from which a wedding dress hung—ugly, faded, the color of neglect. The dress seemed woven from the dust of forgotten months spent asleep. A wind came in through the unsheltered window, it cut across the room with a cruelty that seemed deliberate, and she stared for a while at the frost that had settled on the inside of the glass, so thick it mimicked the lace of the gown, mocking its pretend elegance.
She dreamt and dreamt of this day, and how she'd cry—a relentless, piercing wail that would refuse comfort, how her hands would clench with such intensity that her knuckles would whiten before they'd ever see the world. She would reject her mother’s breast and milk, keep her eyes wide open, never blinking, as if even in her earliest days she saw too much of the world’s sharp edges. And she could not wait to look at her mother with an implacable hatred, as if indicting her for the existence she had been given.
She stopped her dreaming, looked ahead. The dress hung, waiting to be filled and taken over. As she approached, the fabric crackled, mocking her body. Slipping into it was an act of violence; the dress clung to her, too tight, seams straining against her frail, almost skeletal frame. It pinched her skin, suffocated her. Every breath was a battle, with the fabric turning her movements into a pantomime of a bride. But it would soon be worth it. Or so she hoped.
Stepping from the room, barefoot, she found herself enveloped by a congregation of women—widows of life, brides-to-be, nurses, milk mothers, midwives, whores. They lifted her above, their hands cold yet strangely comforting, bearing her through the blasted landscape to what remained of an ancient cathedral, its roof long surrendered to the sky, its stones succumbing to ruin, collapsing in on itself with every little movement. A bleached bone sanctuary wherein crumbling walls sung the slow songs of decay.
The earth lay desolate, scorched as though devoured by flames, reduced to ash and the stark silhouettes of long gone love and tree skeletons. Amidst this bleakness, jarringly vibrant splashes emerged—honeysuckle, belladonna, and foxglove, blooming defiantly, their beauty making women weep.
As the women encircled her one last time, their collective mourning rose and fell, a lamentation not just for the bride but for themselves, and for every ending that a beginning promised. Everywhere there was a grieving—an ache that enveloped everything. Her dress fluttered against her legs, ribbons and honeysuckle woven through her headdress—a nod to the ritual that birthed her widowhood. The air, thick with the scent of bloodrot and flowers, clung to the veiling that obscured her face, making it hard to inhale.
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