Author's Note: This was written for an assignment in my AP English Literature class, in which we were to re-write the Ceremony from Serena Joy's perspective. It is both much shorter and much less explicit than the original, but my teacher loved it, so I figured I might as well post it here. Feedback makes you a cool person.

Disclaimer: The Handmaid's Tale is the property of Margaret Atwood.

The Wife's Tale

The Ceremony goes as it always does.

I hold her hands through the whole thing, like mothers do for scared children. Like a child, she keeps her eyes closed, so as not to see the monsters. If I were to close my eyes as well and shut out everything but our clasped hands, I might be able to pretend that that is all that is happening. I might be able to feel a hint of pity for her.

But my eyes remain open. I see everything. I see the white canopy and the white carpet and the pale swaths of blues and lavenders that make up the room. I see my own legs extended, draped in blue, like those swaths. Matching. Blending in. She does not match; she is a blot of red floating amidst the muted décor. He does not match; he is a black stain on the pristine bedspread.

Red, the color of blood, of life. Black, the color of death. Life and death and the pale blue scenery.

I hold her hands through the whole thing, not as a mother comforting her child but like a drowning person clinging to a tether. Perhaps I cling too tightly, but if my rings leave marks on her fingers, at least there will be some sign that I was here.