The Bride

Short story focused on sense of touch.

The Bride

           

I felt the cold white satin against my skin, a slithering mist around my body. With every movement, my legs, enclosed in a long white skirt, stiffened. My hands shook, the frosty air tickling my exposed wrists with tiny pinpricks of ice. At the musical cue, I stumbled forward; the heavy tiara and diamond pins digging deeper at my scalp with each jarring step. Virginal lilies filled my hands, thorns stabbing me through the stiff lace of his mother’s antique gloves. When the procession ended, the heavy weight of smug gazes fell on me. Under the thick netting, sweat beaded on my upper lip, a tangible sign of my role in this sacrilege. Buzzing bees filled my ears and stained glass wavered in front of me as the world tilted, like a rocking ship. A sharp elbow gored my back, jolting me into reality. Greasy hands grasped mine, and I swallowed, fighting the tight collar of pearls choking my neck. A lifetime of future restrictions bound in jewelry, the promise of restitution for my sacrifice. In that moment, the droning preacher murdered my freedom and I defined my character.