𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

38 || Unholy Matrimony

Taylor Swift - Wildest Dreams (Slowed + Reverb)

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

White.

The only color I hate more than pink.

And today, its everywhere.

The detailing of my stilettos, the petals of the flowers that line nearly every surface of this summer house, and the silk of my dress as it drapes down my body.

Late afternoon sunlight streams in from the bay windows, while a light breeze floats in through the French doors. Beach waves crash softly in the distance, drowning out the light chatter of guests, while my eyes connect with those of my mothers.

I don't know why I let myself get talked into white. I looked too much like a woman people like me weren't fit to be.

I looked too much like her.

Like what Ayra Ayad not only dreamed of for herself, but for me.

A bride. One that someone, anyone would look at and think; beautiful.

My mother was the only soul foolish enough to call me that.

There was nothing truly beautiful about me, any beauty strong enough to catch one's eye, died along with her that day.

Expensive silk cools my fingertips as I run my hands over the material and tilt my head to examine the dress.

I didn't belong in it. 

I knew that when I agreed to a white dress and I knew that when I packed a black gown to slip into right before the reception all those weeks ago.

Yet now, it feels like a chore to resist.

A soft click, uneven footsteps and a slow pace disrupts my moment of piece. I don't need to look back to know who's entered the room. I wait for the only woman who can get away with shit talking me to making her snappy commentary, but she doesn't.

Alarmed, I look up and turn to her, only for every nerve in my body go rigid at the sight of her eyes, not only glistening but dampening. "Ya amar."
(Arabic~ you shine like the moon)

"You look like everything your mother wished for." She gets closer and continues her assault of words thrown in soft spoken Arabic. "I can die happy now."

Unlike her, my Arabic is sharp. "You're not ever going to die."

"If I did, it'd be peacefully." She shrugs. "I don't have to worry about you finding a husband to take care of you anymore."

I let her frail hand take ahold of mine. "I don't need a man taking care of me."

"You need someone." She places a few candy mints in my hand,

I ignore her last statement and pop the mints into my mouth, knowing I probably needed them.

I didn't need anyone, though. Especially not a man who has proven to not only be a disappointment, but a psychopath.