𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

20

Morgan walked you down the aisle.

It was comical, actually, the way his arm entwined with yours. His fat fingers even gave yours a little tap, meant to be reassuring or paternal but ended up feeling more like a threat than anything else. On the rare occasions that he smiled, you were surprised to see that his teeth were flat and dull instead of razor sharp and pointed like fangs. He had donned a suit for the occasion too, an actual well fitting one that didn't gap at the collar and tucked in flat to his dress pants.

You looked away from Morgan, instead gazing onto the wedding decorations. One of the two audience chairs was occupied by a woman sitting pin straight, legs crossed and arms crossed over a bag set in her lap. Her hair was a fried blonde and her dress a deep peplum purple, garish but formal. In fact, you thought you recognized her.

Was that Dafne?

Your throat went dry. The sun blazed bright and you could feel the makeup that Yates caked onto your face drip down your cheek, lashes crusted over with mascara. If you reached up, you probably could snap one off and let it flit into your palm. The dress didn't help matters since it turned you into a sentient disco ball, the glimmering diamonds casting bright shafts of light every which way.

Why would Yates invite her here? Was it some sort of sick way to show his ownership of [name], to show that no matter what she did, that she wouldn't be able to tear them apart? Or was it a thinly veiled threat; to show Dafne that if he could force your own hand, that he could do anything to her.

You walked forwards, heels clicking. Yates had put those onto your feet himself, the pads of his fingers tickling your ankles as he strapped the shoes on, deliberate and slow. You refused to react.

Dafne finally glimpsed you, her knuckles going white. You didn't turn to look at her, not after what she did, but a slight pang of pity still echoed in her chest. You kept on walking forwards, your steps light and body fluid as if you were a ghost, delicate and spectral and wanting to disappear. If there was music playing, you didn't notice it.

Yates stood at the makeshift altar, the priest a foot or so behind him. The shorter man's brow wept with sweat as he clutched the bible with desperate, clammy fingers. As you approached, he stepped up onto the podium and cracked the book open, wiping some of it off of his forehead and looking up to the heavens, crossing himself. As if he was asking forgiveness for what he was about to do. You avoided looking at Yates and resigned yourself to scowl at the man instead, hoping that the grief would kick in and meld his face with regret so that he would run from this place and allow you another moment of solace.

It never happened.

Instead, Morgan led you further and further until you arrived at the altar. He let go, and for a brief moment, you almost missed his constant presence by your side. The man turned around and occupied the final audience seat, his countenance unwavering and impassive. Did he even blink?

You stepped up to the altar, looking down at the bouquet of flowers in your hands instead of your groom. The hungry edge in his gaze would make you go off running. He was always searching you, those brown eyes stripping you down and making him completely and totally his, like if he just looked at you, it would give him the keys for all your secrets; like he would be able to possess you by just looking in your eyes. Once, it had been romantic– you had swooned at the defiance and boldness of his gaze. Now, you shivered, feverish and wanting to escape your skin.

The priest opened his mouth.

It was ironic, actually. Yates had been brought up Muslim. Why a Christian wedding? Was it for his mother? Well, you supposed Dafne looked enough like her, with that frosted blonde hair, flippant look and absolute callousness.