I am back again with a new piece of flash fiction.
I missed last week due to Good Friday and family commitments.
Hope you enjoy this one.
The white silk and lace floats around my ankles as I twirl in front of the mirror. I can barely breathe in the corset, one hand laid on my stomach as if that would stem the pain and discomfort I am in.
My heart is beating hard, racing to try and pass these moments of agony and indecision.
My hair and makeup are perfect, not a blemish or hair out of place. The auburn bun on top of my head gleams in the window’s light. I am ready, on the outside at least.
My skirt grows still as I do, contemplating my reflection, asking it for an answer. It will not answer, of course. It cannot.
The bed behind me has not been slept in. Not yet. It is made only as a hotel bed can be. On it lays a note, written in beautiful handwriting, beautiful words from a beautiful mind.
Come away with me. Take my hand and I will never let it go.
She has nothing but my heart. He has everything but my heart. My family would disown me. I would have no inheritance.
But I would have happiness. I would have her.
And when it all goes wrong? The little voice in my mind whispers, the same vile creature who insisted I lose weight to fit into this dress, that I sit in that makeup chair for two hours this morning, that controlled my fingers as I wedged my feet into these heels.
Tears threaten at the back of my eyes, and I try to swallow them down, to blink them away. I can’t ruin my makeup.
I pick the note up, and I feel that I can smell her. That curious mix of grass and sunshine and lemon tea. Of chocolate and coffee and cake. Of days spent consumed by the most intense happiness I have ever known.
My heart screams at me and I can no longer ignore it. This wedding is not what I want. He is not what i want.
She is. Her and the world of laughter and adventure that she offers.
I pull at the buttons holding my dress together, holding me in. My fingers are frantic, not caring if they rip the delicate fabric. The dress comes loose and drops to my ankles. I rip my hair down, pulling out pins that took such precision to place. My hair tickles my shoulders as it falls loose.
I slip off the heels, and my feet sigh in relief. They are free. Just as I am.
The clothes I brought for my honeymoon are sat at the bottom of the wardrobe. I pull open polished wood doors, and open the suitcase to jeans, a checked shirt, and boots. I dress, then wipe the makeup from my face, and look again in the mirror. What I am doing is frightening. Everything I want is on the other side of that fear. All I have to do is walk through the door.