The Last Bride

I submitted this to a magazine and though it was rejected, they had some very positive comments. The main problem seemed to be with the ending and the character of the priest. Would love to know what people think...

I stand semi naked in front of my bedroom mirror. I should be dressing but instead I pause and flinch at my reflection. I am colourless except for purple veins scattered about my limbs. My breasts lie close to my body like two empty paper bags. The vision is completed by a curtain of white hair draped about my shoulders. I don’t recognise the old woman looking back at me. Turning away from the impostor, I begin to get ready.

My dress is laid out on my bed. I picked it out this morning and haven’t had time to iron it, so it’s crumpled and creased just like me. In my youth I would’ve cared about such things, but lately it hasn’t seemed so important. Still, I wish I could lie like that, stretched out and lazy. But I have to go. I pull it on, twisting the sheath up my waist, sliding it past my hips. I used to have so much trouble putting on clothes, huffing and puffing as I wriggled into too tight garments, forcing myself into tubes of clinging material. Now it’s easy. The fabric glides past protruding bones and swishes past wafer-thin skin. The only problem is I can barely twist my arms behind me as I pull up the zip. The bones in my arms creak as I tug at the fastening until it gives. My body doesn’t feel like my own anymore.

It’s cold outside so I add a thick jumper and woollen socks. Not the most attractive ensemble, but it’ll have to do. A big toe pokes out of the left sock but I haven’t time to find another pair. I fumble with the laces on my shoes, my fingers numb. For a brief second I think of my mother. I wish she could see me now. I crush that thought as quickly as I’d crush a spider.

I pull on long cream gloves that reach up to my elbows. Then I take a final look in the mirror; every inch of me is covered, except for my face. There are soft creases there, like crinkled tissues. Dark circles haunt my eyes. Even so it’s not bad I think. These days it takes a little more time but I scrub up well.

At a little before ten I step outside. The wind is fresh, cooling my brow. I teeter down the path towards the cliffs. Standing at the edge, I grip the railing, bracing myself against the oncoming storm. Below, the beach is deserted and above the sky is a heavy grey blanket. It will rain soon so I’d better go. Despite the gloom I am invigorated by the gale: my steps grow faster as if even the elements know that time is running out. As I am battered and blown, I trip over uneven paving stones and curse. A blast of air whips my profanities away

The clock strikes ten.

The church is bright and cheerful; little columns of light glow like stars. I scan the pews for a friendly face, but all I see are a couple of villagers huddled together in the shadows, the hum of their whispers buzzing like bees. They lower their eyes, scared they have been seen. I don’t have the energy to evict the gate crashers so I let them be.

My breathing is loud and staccato as I walk up the aisle. It seems to echo around the room but that’s just my imagination. I stride along the stone floor, hands clutching the bunch of daffodils I’d hastily tied together. Butterflies somersault like Olympic gymnasts in my stomach. I don’t know why I’m nervous. I just have to say a few words and it will all be over.

It was Spring when Jack first asked me. Little buds of green were just beginning to dot the trees. The mornings were lighter but we lay in bed longer, legs and arms and sheets all curled up, my limbs indistinguishable from his. He held me so tightly I could hardly breathe. When I finally untangled myself, I pottered about in the garden, the weak sunlight grazing my back as I dug up tufts of earth and planted new life. He followed me outside, cup of tea in hand. Leaning against the fence, he studied me as I worked. His gaze was more intense than the sun; I could feel it prickle my neck. I stopped and looked at him. The muscles in his arm rippled as he lifted the cup up to his broad mouth.

‘Will you marry me?’ he asked, as if he was asking me to do his laundry.

I shook my head and carried on working, feeling the hard earth succumb to the pressure of the spade.

‘Ask me again tomorrow,’ I replied. I glanced up to flash him my best conciliatory smile but he had already wandered back into the house.

The next day he asked me again. We sat in the pub, side by side in our quiet oasis. The stares of the regulars pricked my skin like pins and needles. Everyone mingled in couples, all laughing and kissing, the artificial light glinting off the rings on their fingers. My wine grew warm as Jack and I sat in silence; I wiped the condensation from my foggy glass, as if to erase the clouds between us. I fidgeted in the seat, my jeans stuck to the squishy leather which clung to me just as Jack did. He gripped my hand so hard I thought the bones would break. He would not let go.

‘Will you marry me, Alba?‘ Jack asked.

I said nothing.

He rubbed his neck, impatient and uncomfortable under the glare of his friends’ scrutiny. Their gap toothed grins beamed at us like lasers; they were content in their unions and their happiness mocked him.

‘Aren’t we happy as we are?' I argued. But he shook his head as if that answered my question.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, grabbing my hand. He pulled me so fast I knocked the table, my half empty wine glass tipping over, leaving a sticky trail on dirty wood.

It was cold and quiet as we walked home. The stars were hidden under a veil of inky clouds and the wind whipped us along the cliff path, pushing us precariously close to the edge. Jack stopped under an amber street light, enclosing my hand in both of his. A pool of orange surrounded us, so we were in a little bubble. In that moment I wished it could be like this always, just me and Jack. We don’t need them to tell us what to do, I thought, or how to live our lives. We don’t need a piece of paper to say we are complete. But Jack would not listen.

‘I chose you,’ he said, his fingers tight around mine like a vice.

I looked into his eyes, sunken and hollow in the gloomy light.

‘I didn’t ask to be chosen,’ I said.

After that he ignored me for days, turned his back to me in bed, my limbs my own again. He waited months before asking me again. There was always the same pleading edge to his voice which grated on me like nails on a blackboard.

‘Why?’ I asked each time.

‘So they know you’re mine, so they know they can’t take you away from me, ' he replied.

‘No one will take me away from you,’ I tried to persuade him. But he would not listen.

My final refusal was a year ago. I didn’t think that would be the last time, I thought we had years stretching ahead of us, that one day I would give him what he wanted.

Today Jack is early as usual, waiting at the altar. He used to tease my tardiness but always waited silently as I whizzed around in a maelstrom of panic every morning. Each time we were about to leave the house I would lose my keys, my glasses, my purse. Jack would stand mutely by the stairs, arms crossed as I hunted for them.

I am glad he is here. My stomach settles a little when I see him. His eyes are closed and don’t even flicker as my footsteps tap along the stone floor. A little colour brightens his face; two circles of red flush his cheeks as if someone has pinched them. He’s wearing my favourite suit; his pale skin seems illuminated against the navy blue fabric. I exhale as I reach the altar and stand by his side. This is it. My fingertips brush his cold hand.

‘Are you ready, Alba?’ the priest asks. His eyes flutter around the room, looking for a way out. He mops the sweat on his brow and then blows his nose with the same tissue.

I nod.

As he speaks I barely hear the hurried words of sickness and health, richer and poorer, until death do us part. They are not important now. My gaze is fixed on my groom’s face. Still Jack doesn’t look. ‘Hurry up’, I think as the priest babbles and trips over the words. I want this to be over, I want the first kiss.

‘… man and wife.’ The priest’s last words ring in my ears.

That’s it.

Once the gold band is on my finger, I step forward and bend over my groom. My lips brush his cold skin in a wet, salty embrace.

My knees scrape the cold tiles as I sink to the floor. I press my forehead against the hard wood of the coffin.

‘Till death do us part,’ I whisper.