A Victim of Fate
She stared blankly ahead, her normally jubilant chocolate brown eyes desolate and barren. The thin, wiry, white birdcage veil which covered her face, pinned to
her by the obnoxious fake flowers in her tightly pinned back dark brown hair, failed to capture, conceal the torrential storm of agony that blared with a
deafening rage deep in her core. The man she wore this accursed garment for, never having known him prior to this fateful day, has plunged a searing, white
hot dagger into her heart – he's stolen her from all she loved, and she hated him, no, loathed him for it, a blazing, torrid fire of indefinite fury the only emotion
she could possibly feel, the sole fuel for her dull, monotonous heartbeat.
Smooth, sleek, flawless mocha skin seemed illuminated beneath the bleary light of the room, a sorrowful glow, one which resembled that of a corpse floating
atop the surface of a lake in the midst of the moonlit night. The sickeningly sweet aroma of fresh lilies – those deceitful blooms with their innocent white petals
that more often than not marked the presence of death – wafted about the room, drowning her lungs in their presence. Like quicksilver, just barely noticeable
by even the sharpest eye, her gaze drifted to that of the open window nestled within the farthest wall. The icy chill of early winter delicately glided through the
outside air; frost dusted the dry, brown grass: overbearingly tall, scraggly trees - devoid of all signs of life – were left naked and vulnerable; thick, opaque gray
clouds smothered the sky, filling the tepid atmosphere with a stagnant sense of hopelessness.
Her mind writhed with bitterness – not even God himself could bring his eyes to gaze upon her, to pity her last few moments of freedom. She couldn't help the
hollow, tainted smirk which cracked her emotionless façade; what with these moments to come being the pinnacle of irony – This day is known throughout the
world as one of joy, of life, and renewal. No, this dastardly, bleak event of her life would be the very embodiment of the dreaded season it marked – this would
be her end, end of everything she knew, everything she loved, everything that made her who she was would cripple into dust and fade into oblivion the minute
she uttered those two little words, her personal death sentence; and there would be no breath of spring, no spell of invigoration was going to overcome her
and fill her with new life.
In that cold, traitorous church, the people gathered there will see a wedding; a wedding arranged upon the birth of the bride and groom, leaving neither room
to object, and brutally enforced by the husband to be. In her heart, she will be attending her funeral. A funeral brought about by the heartless, lifeless ways of
money and materials, by the insanity of monsters that cared more for fame than family, by the violent manners of tyrants and the utter stupidity of drunken
gamblers. A funeral which could have been completely avoided . . .
If Only She Had Been Born As
Someone Else.