Bride of Lazarus

1; Arranged

The happiest day of a woman's life is her wedding day. At least, that's what I grew up hearing; From movies, magazines, and even from my aunt Georgia who's currently working on her third marriage. She says it's the kind of happiness that carries you through the rest of your life on a white cloud. Granted, aunt Georgia got to choose all three of her husbands. Me? I was born to marry a dead man.

My childhood, coincidentally, was normal. Loving parents, a warm home, and two shithead older brothers: Peter and Paul. (Yes, my mother was a Christian. And no, she didn't realize her boys would end up being such unholy terrors). I always did well in school, and I never had any trouble making friends. I was lucky that way, I guess. Really it wasn't until my 13th birthday that everything started to crumble. I still remember my mouth was full of cake when mom sat me down and said "we have to talk. Swallow that first though, bunny, I don't want you to choke." Well, that was my first clue. I'll never understand why I thought it was going to be good news.

"What is it," I asked, spraying crumbs on both her shirt and mine. My mom looked back at me with the kind of love that only a mother could feel after being spat on. Then, she spoke and my life changed forever.

"You're a teenager now, Fae. And that means... Well, it means you're old enough to understand certain things. Things I could never tell you before." Mom clutched at her chest and for a fleeting moment, it looked like she could collapse. Instead, she took a deep breath and went on. "Five years from today when you turn 18, you will meet someone very important; A man. You might not be attracted to this man. You might even... hate him for a little while. But..." Mom took another deep breath, her comforting smile melting away. "You will marry him," she said firmly. "Whether you like it or not." That scared me. Mom never spoke to me that way. There was always an option B with her; always a way out. But not this time.

"Is this a joke," I remember laughing nervously. "Who put you up to it, Peter or Paul?" She offered a pathetic smile in response. Then, softly shook her head.

"Nobody put me up to it, bunny. I'm sorry but it's the truth," she sighed. "A few years after you came into the world, I made a promise to a very sick friend that when the time came... I would carry on his bloodline with my own. That's you, bunny. You're my bloodline."

"Well, so are Peter and Paul! Why don't they do it?!" Mom laughed softly in response.

"I don't think they're gay, baby. And even if they were... they can't bear children." And that's when it finally hit me; At 18 years old, I was to be married off and bred like an animal. "Do you understand now," mom asked, taking my chin in her hand. I nodded blankly. That's the only thing I remember about my 13th birthday. I wasn't present for the rest of it.

Mom and I never spoke on the subject again. For a while, it even felt like a fever dream; Something I imagined to make my life seem more exciting than it was. Four years, 11 months, and 30 long days later... Here I am, balancing on the precipice of 18. And as the morning wears on... That conversation seems less and less dreamy.

"Alright, then," Mom says, pulling hard at the laces on my corset. I suck in a sharp breath. "Are you ready, bunny?" With a last glance at my reflection, I nod.

"Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose." She's done a good job, I think. I hardly recognize myself in this ridiculous dress... Why so much tulle and lace?! Ugh. I resent that the boys get to wear slacks, meanwhile I'm prancing around in this crimson abomination that quite literally screams Marie Antoinette. If mom thinks she's pinning my hair up in a pouf... Well, she's got another thing coming. I'll tell you that much.

"Here." Mom reaches over my shoulders, draping a string of pearls around my neck as she speaks. "My mother wore this on her wedding day. She told me never to give it away; That it would bring me good luck for the rest of my life. But I think you need it more than I do now." She smiles wistfully in the mirror, then throws her skinny arms around my waist. "You and your brothers... You're all the luck I ever wanted." I turn around and hug my mother hard, like it's the last time I'll ever see her. She laughs warmly in my embrace.

"I love you, momma."

"Love you more, bunny." As we separate, she twirls a lock of my ginger hair around her pointer finger. "I don't suppose you would let me---"

"Absolutely not," I answer preemptively. "No poufs, no pins. If he wants to marry me so badly, he'll just have to accept the curls."

"But they're---"

"Everywhere," I roll my eyes, steadying her invasive hands. "I know. And I stand by my previous statement." Mom grumbles but ultimately caves. After all, she's the one who told me never to change for a man because 'the right one won't ask you to'. I wonder if she knew then who 'the right one' was for me.

"Oh, have it your way," she sighs. "Come now. We don't want to be late."

"We don't?" Mom whacks my arm and I can't help but to laugh at how easily her pot can be stirred. "Joke! It was a joke," I assure her. "I'm ready." Mom intertwines her fingers with mine. Then, we're clip-clopping away in the old buggy before I can blink. Peter and Paul are busy at college this morning, but Dad sees us off with a teary-eyed wave from the porch. He couldn't bear to come with us. Says he doesn't wish to be jailed for beating the man who's 'stealing his daughter'. I promised him that was not the case; That I would be home in two days time, cursing the concept of marriage and begging him for his famous garlic herb bread to console me. Dad laughed at that.

As the horses come to a screeching halt nearly two hours later, I turn to look out the window and audibly gasp. "What? What is it," mom asks. There's slobber streaked across the window, as well as the side of her face. I stifle a laugh at her expense as I pull her closer by the sleeve of her dress.

"Look," I say. Then, the two of us sit there in dumbfounded silence, surveying the all-black building that looms over our carriage. The coachman breaks our laser focus a moment later.

"This is it, miss," he calls out. "Your husband paid the fare back in Kingston. Would you like a hand with your bags?"

"N-no thank you, Fritz." Mom is still struggling to tear her eyes away from the castle outside as she answers. "I think we can handle it. Fae, are you ready?" My stomach ties itself into about a thousand knots. My hands quake at my sides and I feel my heart drop straight into my buttocks. Then, I spit out the same lie I've been telling all morning.

"Ready as I'll ever be."