A bouquet of flowers that was never thrown. Was there a sadder sight in this world? If there was something in this world that would make a woman more tormented, Emily didn't know it.
She knew what was meant to happen. After the kiss, the kiss which would seal her future in glorious passion, she was to face the alter and toss the flowers high over her head. And lucky was the woman who caught it.
She could almost imagine it. The white ribbon floating like a butterfly's wings, shimmering and twisting in the sunlight. The milk coloured rose petals shedding free and falling like snowflakes, for love. The creamy lilies softly reflected as though in a dream, for sweetness. The baby's breath, curling timidly around the other blooms and holding them together…
Emily cast the bouquet to the side like a broken dream. It wasn't meant to be like this! Was it? And Victor. Oh, Victor. Living, breathing, real Victor. Straight from his pale, colourless Upstairs world. Emily almost felt her feathered wings sprouting when he'd chanced upon her in the forest. It had been so splendid, sharing with him the infinite excitements and hidden beauties of the underworld, her world. Gently exploring each wonder together, tentative to begin with like a first kiss, but twice as exhilarating.
He'd loved it. She knew he'd loved it. Especially that jazz music that whirled into one's brain and refused to leave, nudging something sleepy that wanted to dance. Something Upstairs lacked in their solitary piano notes, which wafted like cold draughts through their solemn houses. It was lonely up there. Tainted with suppressive, dulled tints of beige and grey, life was leeched instead encouraged. Electric shades of pink, blue, and green illuminated the dark shadows of Emily's world, pleasantly imbued with vibrant tones of glowing red and purple. Ironically, there was more life to the amaranth of Downstairs than Upstairs would ever have. Victor should be pleased he found his way down so young.
But there was that other woman Upstairs, that other woman who was spoiling everything. Victoria. Just thinking of her prim, unblemished skirts, her plump, blushing cheeks, and her dainty hands clutching so desperately at Victor, Emily's heart tightened. If only she could just say 'hopscotch' and will this complication away. Victoria was the very embodiment of life Upstairs; bleached of all colour, corsets laced tight enough to strangle, and, most importantly of all, living.
Maybe Victor and Victoria's two beating hearts did match. But Victor was Emily's, for better or for worse! Wasn't he? Emily wasn't sure anymore. Besides, what did Victoria have Emily didn't? Victoria couldn't play piano, or dance, or sing. But still that heavy truth twitched undeniable in her mind. Victoria could breathe air. Worse, she was pretty too. That memory of her pale, heart shaped face, simply begging Victor to stay with a slight inclination of her delicate eyebrows, her white teeth peeping between her perfect lips, would have made Emily's blood run hot if she had any.
It wasn't fair. A few years Downstairs, Emily couldn't help her flesh taking on the striking blue that had permeated her whole being. Except her lips, of course. They were still pink and waiting for that kiss.
But how could Emily compete with that woman dogging her beloved's thoughts? The cobalt tangles knotting down her back were nothing like Victoria's smooth, pristine bun carefully nestling at the nape of her slender neck, like a giant brown egg. Victoria's fine gown was lush and spotless; Emily's wedding dress, lovingly sewn with silken ruches, had long since been caressed into rags. In one place, her ribs were showing through. Not to mention the unsightly gash roughing her forehead, and the gouge along her cheek.
Some bride she was now. Victoria wouldn't have to worry about the skin and sinew sloughing off her bones for many years to come. Emily was already half a skeleton. Falling apart. Dead and faded like her once magnificent bridal bouquet, her very existence whispering of promises never intended to be kept. Only the pure, time-withered memory of a glorious day.
Emily sank to her floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes and wished she was properly dead. Not forced to live out eternity in the Land of the Dead because she first needed to calm the throbbing, uncontainable pulse of revenge. Revenge for the day everything turned black. Blood payment. She wanted freedom. She needed marriage. And Victor had almost granted both wishes when he'd stumbled along, practising his vows for pretty Victoria from Upstairs. Victor. She loved him so, but he was not hers.
This was wrong. He did belong with Little Miss Living, with her rosy cheeks and beating heart. He would leave Downstairs, leave Emily, and marry Victoria. And leave the dead to die. Something wet pearled in the corner of her eye, and floated down her cheek. Leave the dead to die. If only she could.