A/N: I've been having a severe bout of writers' block lately, and decided the best way to get over the rough patch was to just power through it. This story has been in the works for a while now, so I'm going to give it a shot. I obviously don't own any of the characters.
What choice do I have?
Reprehensible as it was, the young woman couldn't think anything else as she stood in the tiny, windowless room. The space was rather austere for its purpose; even the brochure had made it out to be more elaborate: Bride's dressing room. Of course, for this bride the discrepancy would have been a plus- on any other day.
A table, a chair, and two mirrors, one vanity-style above the table and one full-length. And floral wallpaper, and all the time in the world to be alone with one's thoughts.
She tore her gaze away from the silvery glass for a moment, attempting to distract herself in the other details. But no patterns stood out from the stupid cabbage roses on the walls, or the striped border around the door frame. And the bottles of makeup and lotion on the table bored her as much as they had an hour ago, while she was getting ready.
"This isn't right," she muttered aloud. "It's my wedding day, for god's sake."
I'm marrying the man I love…right?
Right. Of course. How could she not love him, the man who worshipped and adored her, who would do anything for her, who was little more than her helpless slave?
Satisfied that her thoughts were finally in check, the bride looked in the full-length mirror once more. A slender, pale 22-year-old stared back at her with solemn brown eyes. It was the same reflection she'd known for years- chin-length black hair, bloodless skin, semi-expressionless face. Only the gray silk gown was new, and the matching veil.
Gray had been a compromise, she remembered. "Mom couldn't deal with a bride in black," he'd said. "Could you maybe…"
And she'd gone along, of course, because this was the Man of Her Dreams. He saw her as she was and still wanted to marry her. Not to mention that she loved him.
"I love him," she said to herself, and watched the reflection's lips curve upward in a hesitant smile. The fact that it didn't reach her eyes was staunchly ignored.
Turning back to the table for her bouquet, she paused with one hand touching the petals of a rose. Another compromise.
"Look, thorns are traditional. They're not my favorite, but Mother carried them, and Grandma, and her mother…it's just a thing."
"Baby, come on. Roses are the flower of eternal love. Could you maybe…"
Once again, the only thing to do had been to give in. At least they were red and white rather than pink like her future mother-in-law had suggested. Besides, wasn't marriage all about compromise?
She picked up the bouquet and stood before the mirror, letting the front part of her veil fall over her face. "You may kiss the bride," she whispered. And at that moment, it hit her that this was really happening.
She was really going to get married. After years of thinking it would never happen, that no-one would ever want her. Pretending not to care that, all around her, the perfect, blonde girls who'd always had everything were getting happy endings they didn't deserve. Admitting to herself that while it wasn't necessary, she'd rather not be alone.
They'd teased her, those girls; called her witch and freak and said her parents were a fluke, that weirdos like her didn't fall in love. And now she was proving them all wrong.
A thorn stabbed into her thumb and brought her back to the moment. Of course, that wasn't why she was marrying him. She was marrying him because she loved him. That was why people got married, after all.
As she examined the bead of blood, bright red against her skin, something snapped. The bride raised her hand, and swiped the cut against the bodice of her dress. A flash of red against the gray, right over her heart.
Perfect.
A perfect dress on a perfect bride for a perfect wedding, the perfect end to a perfect story-
Someone knocked on the door, bringing her scattered thoughts back once again. She slumped in the chair, feeling dazed, as if something was pounding against the walls of her mind.
"Wednesday? Darling, may I come in?"
"Y-yes, Mother," she replied. Come on; get a grip.
The door creaked open, letting in both May sunshine and her mother. Morticia's face was impassive, mercifully devoid of the tears Wednesday had expected. Once safely out of the sun, the older woman removed the filmy black veil that shaded her face.
"Why you have to do this on such a miserable day-" she began. Wednesday sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Mother, I told you. My mother-in-law wanted June, so we compromised."
Morticia's lip curled. "Your mother-in-law isn't the one getting married."
"Do you have to make this complicated? You know they're not like us," the bride said.
"Yes." Morticia glanced around the room, taking in the hideous wallpaper and delicate, whitewashed furnishings. "That's becoming more and more evident."
"Mother…" Wednesday's voice took on a warning tone.
"Relax, my pet; I'll behave myself," her mother replied, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender. That or exasperation, but Wednesday chose to interpret it as the former. She glanced into the mirror one last time.
"How long until-"
"About five minutes. That's why I came to get you." Morticia swept closer to her daughter, until she, too was visible in the mirror. The contrast between them- one in clinging black, the other in a gray dress full enough to require a small hoopskirt- made the younger woman uneasy in a way she couldn't define.
Normally, she wanted to look as different from her mother as possible, but today something was wrong.
Morticia sighed, sweeping the front of the veil back over the tiara holding it in place. "Oh, my dear. I can't believe this day has come."
Wednesday rolled her eyes. "Not you, too, please."
"Darling, you know I never doubted you'd find love. But this engagement happened so fast that I can't help but wonder…" She trailed off, the unspoken conclusion hanging in the air.
As if on a movie screen, her fiancé's proposal flashed before Wednesday's eyes. The diamond ring, the traditional one-knee pose, the words… it was idealistic, but somehow she'd hoped for something more than "Could you maybe consider…?"
"One long string of 'Could you maybe's," she muttered under her breath. Morticia raised an eyebrow.
"What was that?"
"Nothing." Letting the veil fall in front of her face once more, she took a deep breath. "Let's go."
As they neared the ballroom of the Art Deco mansion-turned-event space, the strains of piano music reached her ears. Pachelbel's Canon In D. The bridesmaids, four girls she barely knew and whose names she still couldn't keep straight, would be processing down the aisle right now in their emerald-green dresses. And the rows of seats on one side of the massive room would be oddly empty.
Very few Addamses had wanted to attend the wedding, and she couldn't pretend not to know why.
They'd reached the mahogany double doors; the flower girl, a cherubic little girl with brown curls and a jade-green dress, smiled at Wednesday before checking her basket of rose petals. Gomez rose from a chair beside the doors.
"Paloma," he said, and Wednesday could see tears in his eyes.
"Father."
She took his arm and Morticia slipped through a side door to take her seat. As the flower girl started down the aisle to the first notes of the classic wedding march, Gomez smiled up at her. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," she said quietly. And they started forward.
The walk down the aisle was probably supposed to seem long. It always did to brides in books, she'd noticed, on the rare occasion any book she'd read had involved a wedding. But to Wednesday, it took no time at all. Within what felt like the space of one breath, she was standing beside her husband-to-be.
"Nervous?" he whispered, with that goofy grin that she told herself she found endearing.
"No."
And then the officiant began to speak. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…"
Wednesday barely heard the words. Whatever had been pounding in her mind was more insistent now, practically screaming, a thought just out of reach. She glanced at the man next to her, and it grew even stronger.
"I do."
My turn. She tried to pay attention as the elderly man rattled off a list of obligations and promises. And around the second mention of love, the stifled thought finally broke free.
I don't love him.
"I do."
"Then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
As he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers, she told herself it had been an errant thought. After all, this was her true love, her perfect man, her husband- her Joel.
A/N: Before you hang me in effigy, please notice that this is the PROLOGUE of the story. Meaning there's more to come. And your opinions are greatly appreciated. *points to review button*