Black Wedding
Thud. Thud.My heartbeats sound like gigantic rocks crashing against each other. I can actually feel my chest vibrate with the intensity. My stomach seems to be twisted up into unimaginable knots, and filled with fluttery, nauseating things, to top that. My legs feel insubstantial, boneless. And my head feels so, so, light, that I had I not been wearing this gorgeous white gown, and if I had had a headache as well, I could've easily put it off as a particularly bad hangover.
But this isn't any plain, simple hangover. A cup of strong, black coffee won't settle this. I'm getting married. Married.
I'm holding a large bunch of particularly sweet-smelling red roses, with a few lilies thrown in to balance the colours and the bright smell of freesia hinting at its presence. My train is long- very, verylong, and my hair is falling gracefully onto my shoulders. I am standing behind closed doors, waiting for them to open, so I can walk through the aisle. Why don't they get on with it already?
Suddenly, the doors burst open before me, making my nervous heart leap up a few inches. An organ starts up somewhere, and I jerk into motion, trying to flow as gracefully as possible with a whole marquee draped over me. I don't hear anyah's or any other approving murmurs. The church is dead silent, save for Wagner's march.
But I don't notice it at all. I can just see golden sunbeams shining onto the carpeted aisle before me, flower petals strewn over it. And far, far away, is my husband-to-be, conversing with the minister, his dark back towards me.
My eyes are fixed onto that straight, graceful back. I hear nothing, see nothing else. At that moment I think of nothing else but him, the man I will share my life with. I will love him as much as I can, I will support him all through. I will always be there when he needs me, no matter for what. It's like I'm already making the vows to myself, what I will publicly do in a minute.
The aisle seems never-ending, but, of course it isn't. As I approach him, he still hasn't turned around, and I almost want to run up to him and swivel him around myself to face me. But even as these thoughts run through my mind, I feel a sudden doubt rise within me. Was he always so tall, so dapper, my fiancé? Is his hair really like threads of pure gold, unlike the bright gleam of golden hay which I had thought it had? Did he really have that much grace and poise when he stood so still? Even as he finally turns around, I am wondering. Is his nose really so sharp, so aquiline, his brow so noble, his mouth so romantic? Have I underestimated him, ignored the good and the beautiful in him?
But then, foolishly saving the best for last, my gaze wanders to his eyes. But where I expect a tempestuous murky blue, I find deep, calm gold.
And suddenly the music stops. Everything is silent. My heart stops beating. I open my mouth to scream and nothing comes out.
He is staring at me, this angel of my dreams, staring at me with such despondence, that I collapse. But still the ethereally beautiful, beautifully terrible visage of his fills my vision. And then he speaks.
"Why, Esme?"
I have betrayed him. I have committed the worst possible sin in the world. I have betrayed an angel.
And even as I watch, he begins to cry. And the tears are ink, , they are tar, they are melting my angel's face away. And the black oozes into my world, onto me, turning my bouquet into smoking dry twigs, and my pure white gown into stifling, ugly widow's black…
Then my voice is returned to me, and I scream and scream until the blackness drives away the image of the dying angel.
White Wedding
I didn't sleep the whole night through. After that terrible, terrible nightmare, I didn't even want to close my eyes. The promised darkness behind my closed eyelids was nauseatingly repugnant to me. So I lit my lamps, and stayed awake, not giving a damn if I had tired eyes the next day.
It turned out I shouldn't have bothered at all. Tired eyes were nothing compared to the dreary event that marked the beginning of a new dreary chapter in my life.
The wedding in my nightmare had atleast a sort of dreamlike, magical beauty to it at first. My actual wedding was far, far different.
It was on an intensely cold February morning. The snow had not quite melted properly, and spring had not quite arrived yet. The net result was a dreary, cold, depressing environment. Hardly weather to get married in. My nightmare on the eve had left me cold and listless in any case, so by the time I had to leave for the church, I was entirely low and subdued.
Mother was trying to cheer me up. "Atleast it'll be a white wedding, darling."
I tried to put on a happy face, but I just couldn't. To add to my worries, Edward was ill again. And it was frighteningly alike to his previous illness. Of course, one can imagine the pandemonium in my house. Plan for a wedding with a sick child in the house, and not just any child, at that. I was all for postponing the wedding, but everyone was opposed to it. Even Charles had responded with ominous silence when I had tried to win him over. And little Edward himself protested as much as his weakening body would permit. He was to be the ring-bearer, and was, as a result, thoroughly excited, notwithstanding his health.
And so, flustered, worried, confused- this was my state in the few weeks preceding my marriage. My inner voice still protested against the whole getting married scheme, but in time I learnt to ignore it, just as I had learnt to ignore its unrequited craving for a certain handsome someone I don't want to mention.
The drive to the church was awkwardly quiet. All I could think about was that it was the last time I'd ever sit in my Ford, even though I wasn't driving. Yes, I had to say goodbye to even my car.As if there weren't enough goodbyes hanging in the air in the near future already. Taking your motor along to your in-laws- why, what madness!
And so I let the tears flow, savouring the last time I'd smell that indelible leathery smell that clung to my seats, the last time I'd feel the wind blow on my face, whipping my hair away, and making me feel fresh and alive. Charles had a motor, but it was close-bodied. So another sayonarawas necessitated.
"Esme!"- Elizabeth cried out in horror, slicing through my morbid thoughts. "Your make-up!"
It had begun to snow lightly by the time we reached the quaint little church. I was ice-cold, and my lips had turned blue; my tears had cut deep tracks into the heavy layered make-up on my face. I hardly looked like a blushing bride.
Elizabeth and Eleanor fussed over me, trying to make my face look a little better. I just brushed them away, distracted. My last few minutes as Esme Platt. Minutes. I took in a deep, shuddering breath, my eyes filling up again.
"See? I told you to put on another coat!"-Eleanor cried out triumphantly, wrapping her long, bony arm around me. I must add, the relationship between me and Eleanor had improved considerably since she got married. I think the main reason was because she lived so far away. You always tend to remember all the nice things when your sister is thousands of miles away. Of course, my previous animosity all came back the minute she stepped over the threshold of the Platt residence two weeks before my wedding. She, however, was at her sweetest and most formal with me. Probably because I would soon no longer be "irritating little Esme", but her sister, "the young Mrs. Evenson".
I'd feel a little shiver every time I remembered what my name would be after I got married. "Mrs. Evenson" had always conveyed to me the image of Charles' and Amelia's cranky, strict old mother. Now I was to enter their household.
"Don't be silly, Eleanor," I snapped, feeling irritated at being consoled for an entirely wrong reason.
Eleanor looked miffed, and withdrew her hand with a jerk. Elizabeth cut in quickly, "Go on in, Ellie. I'll help her."
Eleanor glared at me over her nose for a moment. I returned her look insolently. Then she turned around and swept away, into the warmth of the little church.
"She was only trying to help, Esme," Elizabeth said slowly, linking her hand in mine and leading me inside.
"Fat help she is," I grumbled.
"Stop sulking on your wedding day!"-she hissed, all her familiar rage rising to the fore.
Quickly I tried to change the topic. I really wasn't up to going against Elizabeth in a yelling match at the moment. "There's the fiery little sister I know," I murmured, keeping my voice neutral.
Elizabeth's anger ebbed away immediately. I could see it in her face. Suddenly, she caught me in a tight embrace. "I'm going to miss my mad, bad sister," she whispered, her voice shaking.
Tears filled up in my eyes again. "Don't," I mumbled into her satiny shoulder. We were like that for a long, warm moment before letting go. Instantly, we were both calm and aloof. We didn't usually become emotional over one another, and I think we both appreciated that fact.
"Come on," she said, pushing open the door.
Inside, the dark little welcoming room outside the chapel was filled with figures dressed in bright, ruffling white. "Finally!"-Mel cried out, excitedly in the darkness, and one of the figures caught me in a tight embrace.
"We'll be sisters soon!"-Mel whispered in my ear, the delight evident in her voice.
"I know," I giggled, as enthusiastically as possible.
My voice fell a little flat, but Amelia didn't notice. She withdrew a step, and gazed at me critically.
"Yes!"-she finally announced. "It's perfect. Charles will love you!" Then she added slyly, "Of course, I meant more than he already does."
I laughed, and this time, the fakery in my voice was very evident.
"She's nervous," Elizabeth put in quickly, saving me from bad grace again.
My laugh was fake because, well, frankly I didn't like how I looked.
I was dressed in stiff, Victorian ivory satin. Though the style and cut of the gown was à la mode, it still made me feel stiffly wrapped up. The gown had a severely straight silhouette, with a high waist adorned with a large satin bow, and solid satin sleeves covering my arms till my wrists. The only ultra-modern look about the gown which I had rebelliously designed into it were the hemline(which was resolutely above my ankle), and the neck. The neck was very, very deep and v-shaped, with a bit of translucent lace covering the hint of cleavage that would otherwise show. My hair was gathered up into a loose bun at the back of my head. Little sombre jasmines were clumped behind each ear, from where my long, wispy chiffon veil flowed till it swept the floor behind me. In my ungloved hands, I was holding a tightly bound little bunch of white roses, with even more jasmines, and a few subtle ferns.
Now, don't take me wrong. Everything about my gown was extremely fashionable. I should have been happier, if it wasn't for that damned nightmare. In the nightmare I remembered distinctly wearing a ridiculously simple gown in some soft, flowy material like chiffon or maybe crépe. My hair was just naturally, beautifully let down, and the flowers in my hand- oh the smell!
Curse the nightmare. Curse that stupid, unfashionable ensemble. It was just making my actual wedding worse for me.
"Alright, it is time," Mother's soft voice cut into my vain thoughts.
Immediately, I tensed my muscles, waiting for the feeling. The cold, the crazy thudding heart, the sick feeling in the stomach, the gooseflesh.
Nothing.
I was numb. Completely. Without so much as a shiver, I calmly stood next to my father, and linked my arm into his. My eyes were dry, and I was completely detached. My voice was calm, unshaking as I bid a temporary goodbye to my three bridesmaids- Eleanor, Amelia and Elizabeth- the latter being my maid of honour. Mother stood in front of me, holding Edward's thin little hand. He really had lost half his weight, it seemed. He still looked very weak and unsteady, as he stood behind the bridesmaids, waiting. Even looking at him in such pain, such depravity didn't shake me out of the limbo. It was like I had stopped sensing everything in the present. I would later, in my second life, in another era, learn a term that could aptly describe my situation at that moment.
I was on autopilot.
Then the doors opened with a sudden flourish, and immediately, the bridesmaids swept inside, in time with the organ music. I didn't so much as flinch.
Before I knew it, Mother and Edward were gone, too, and it was only me and my father. In the few seconds before the time came for our turn, I waited, hopefully, desperately for Dad to say something, some sweet parting words which I could treasure.
He did, eventually.
"You be a good wife, Esme."
It wasn't even given as advice. It was a warning.
I was stunned. Of course I'd be a good wife. It was expected of me. What did he expect me to become, a loud, brash, badgering slut of a wife?
The anger which rose inside me was not the, hot, sharp-tongued fury I was used to. It was sudden, cold rage, which subsided in a flash, and left me colder and meeker than ever.
"Of course, Father." I said tonelessly.
Already I was changed.
And then Wagner's March began in all its glory, and my father slowly led me onto the aisle.
People are often supposed to remember their weddings clearly. Every second, every special tear-jerking moment of it. All the sights, the smells, the colours, the sounds… The vows, the look in their betrothed's eyes when they say "I do"…
I remember no such thing. My strongest memories were before, and after the service. It was like my mind had purposefully masked those few moments when I had foolishly, willingly sold myself away to the devil.
Right at that altar, began the long series of misfortune upon misfortune in my life, my quick descent into the destructive eye of the storm which was to blow my life away.
It began with Edward.
Or I should say it ended with him. It always did after that, anyway.
Just after our vows, as he stepped forward to give the rings, Edward collapsed. His face was blue, and he was barely breathing. There was instant uproar.
"Edward!" The general cry was muffled by the sound of many people rushing to the altar, trying to grab him. As to me, I was frozen, frozen stiff. I couldn't move a muscle. I was already so numb, already so sure that this was some surreal dream, that I didn't, I couldn't move.
Charles kneeled over, and straightened up again in a flash, two plain gold wedding bands glistening in his palm. He had plucked the rings from my brother- my suffering, and possibly dying brother. I couldn't say a word. And I am marrying this man?
My gaze shifted, my eyes searching frantically for my mother, even as my feet were fixed to the ground.
When my eyes found her, my mother was standing at the base of the altar, frozen like me, frighteningly motionless in the midst of feverish movement, her stricken gaze shifting between me and Edward. She had to choose. She had choose between breaking my wedding(that was the worst possible scandal) and letting her boy go, letting someone take her son to the hospital while she watched me sign myself away to another family. Goodbyes either way.
It was that stricken look that did it.
Completely ignoring the commotion that was the people carrying my brother away, I turned to my fiancé. With Edward's blue, convulsed face the only thing in my vision, I said tonelessly, "I do," and slipped the ring onto Charles' left hand. I felt the cold metal slip onto my finger as well, bringing with it a sudden dizziness.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, darkness drove away another painful wedding scene from my sight. And so, wordlessly, I fainted, right on the altar.