A Gothic Short Story

The Bride

The chapel lay quiet, as if no soul dared set foot inside. A vane stood confused, pushed by an uncertain wind which drove cold daggers into the flesh of men, lined up in file outside. Within that holy building, stood a girl of the same ilk; the image of divinity, innocence, purity. Her dress, white, bearing similar resemblance to her skin. Freida, she thought, yet her second name was unclear. No tool nor machine was as fractured and as broken as her mind. At intervals, blue eyes shone up to witness her cold and drab surroundings, yet normality couldn't cease the terrors that lay behind oak and iron. They talked, she heard, yet only murmurs and broken sentences followed suit. What purpose had she here? To serve a single duty, to a family pushing forth into cold and unknown hands; locked into an eternal contract. To suspense, her hairs responded, rising up in fear towards the unknown. It wasn't love that continued to provoke the blood to run through her veins, or purpose to clear her mind. She felt surgeons picking at strands, examining her thought; judging her every quake, shivering, whimper from dried scarlet lips. To look into the eyes of marriage, was to the look into the void of a skulls sockets which bore no eyes. Bleached bone, empty space; an unrelenting abyss of nothing.

A path paved the way to the end, a slaughter involving only one beast. Hidden by the shadow of a veil, the matrimonial convict edged further to the altar. Is this it? To end it here, in front of two hordes of frozen bodies; eyes piercing, locked and focused centre. A circus, where no one cheered. Music flooded the empty space within her mind, the puppets yanked up by their marionette strings, tethered only to God. Hell stood to the right side, cladded in black with a white rose wilting within his lapel. Her eyes winced, watered and faltered; this was her capture, her everlasting friend. Two hands bound by God, two souls roped by a transparent spirit, specter. Two rings, two bodies, one book and one oath to swear by. Cold steel itched the fibers of her skin, running up her leg; electric pulses echoing sinister whispers around her body, a smile releasing across her bloodied lips.

Two tracks digging deep into the winters snow. Startled symphony, raging out from hallowed ground, chasing her presence across barren land. Not even the familiar embrace of the pine wood could comfort her broken soul. Drowning. Drowning in the fog that now encompassed the landscape. The mountains that had once stood tall and great amongst the Gods were shrouded by a mask of infertility. The shadow of stolen youth lurked beyond yet close to a wedding veil of lies and prejudice. To a rabbit running away from a wolf; what waited in the jaws of man, of men, of the world? "Should I fear the jaws of such a wolf?". To run, would to die. To stay would be the same. Black clad, the fur of a demon running wild in pursuit; tracking innocent paw prints in the snow. No blood, no scent, just tracks. The fog drew dark shadows, persuading the world to commit treason upon peace. Two bodies, two souls, unlatched. Through warmth in the cold snow, now bleakly connected. To a pine tree, she fell; warm tears igniting red flames under her skin. A black shadow of the past loomed over, the white rose turned brown in the lapel. Into his eyes, she looked through flesh and bone, into the similar void where two rings sat. Yet now those rings had no meaning.

Two bodies, one tethered, one not. An embrace welcomed her, with a demon on her back. A shadow, enveloping, accepting? No. To that demon, she looked, smiled and turned a snow white cheek. For his blood would run cold, on the winters snow.