A String of Blues ✓

18 | till death do us part

final short story: till death do us part
word count: 2300

Identical to the three others before her, the bride lounges upon a deck chair on her terracotta tiled terrace, decked in a ten-pound shararah and flawless makeup. The only thing out of place is the hole in her head.

Far away—sipping hot cocoa—a stranger smiles.

The last bride was dead.

***

An entourage of giggling aunties climbed the stairs to Nalini's Bridal Boutique on the corner of Fonseka road. Inside, a bride and her mother awaited them with pleasant smiles.

"Stand up straight, ma."

Amani Yusuf straightened her spine at her mother's instruction; wishing she were anywhere but where she was—in anything but what she wore. But she kept silent; and when the aunties asked her to twirl—she twirled.

Upstairs, she dreamed of numbers. She made up accounting defects, journalized their correction, and then calculated its net impact. And when all that failed; she did long division.

Finally, they were finished.

"Amani, take off your bracelet, ushuru. It's going to catch on the lace when you take it off." Her mother told her. Amani looked at her favourite bracelet, sighed and then unclasped it. It was a charm bracelet with little pendants to signify all the things she loved; her cat Momo, an abacus, Sri Lanka, and an elephant from Pinnawale. She tucked it into her handbag.

She changed out of the wedding dress and into her regular clothes. Adjusting her hijab, she glanced at the dress on the hanger; it was beautiful. A dark burnished gold; the bodice and the skirt came in separate pieces. Bejeweled lace crawled up the sides only to meet at the center in a burst of golden flowers.

God, it was heavy though.

"Mama, I have to go to work. I'll meet you at home, in sha Allah," she told her mother as they walked out of the boutique.

Her mother's laugh was forced; "Wedding in a few weeks and she wants to work." She told the other aunties. Then, in a more lowered tone; "Here, guess what I heard? Javid told me that the bride found dead in her bedroom last month? Apparently, it's connected to two others that happened exactly the same way!"

Amani walked out before she was sucked into the conversation. The air smelled of trees, car smoke and humidity; of home. Her office building was not too far away; otherwise her mother would have kicked up more dust. She sighed; she was twenty-five years old and her mother still treated her as though she were five. As she walked to the two blocks to her office, she checked her phone; there was a missed call from her fiancé.

It was the middle of summer; sweat trickled down her nose, and the material around her neck was damp. Well, she didn't have to call him back right this second. She held her hand out and jogged across the road. Cars honked in protest, and pedestrians yelled back.

Soon, a twenty storied tower of glass and steel came into view. Amani fiddled with her bracelet, sighed, and then placed her fingers at the corners of her forehead. A dull edged knife began hacking away at the veins in her forehead. Perfect. Just what she needed.

She opened her eyes and a familiar face came to view. Without thinking she said—in English because her Sinhala was rubbish; "I know you."

The lady flushed. Her hair was dark and her face looked bright, but tired. There was a little scar at the corner of her lip. "Ou, ara wedding dress eke? Matakade?" she asked; her accent thick.