THIRST

Chapter Two

⤖ chapter two ⬻

She knew people were looking at her: the beautiful bride, the show. She could feel their wandering eyes on her, scanning the fluid beauty of her dress, the way she walked uncertainly—led by the hand on her arm, the hand of her father.

Would he leave her so soon? Give her off to a man she’d never seen? Was this the last time she’d feel the steady hold of a father’s touch? Rosa clutched her bouquet of roses closer to her chest, focusing on her steps. One, two… another step forward—avoid the dress, that’s it.

Her organised wedding day was all she could ever hope for. In her depiction, she pictured a sprawling, luscious garden overlay. With petite roses stationed at each table side, lanes of pearl white cushioned chairs accompanied by spirals upon spirals of ribbon, decorating each and every surface; an altar at the front posed with a figure in all black, patiently waiting upon her arrival.

Her husband. Her dearest.

Yet nothing was there. The veil on her head felt thick though light; it guarded over her, like a firm brick wall, from seeing that magical world she so desperately envisioned. Was it as magical as she heard in fairy tales, so long ago? Had her eyes not been blocked, would they widen and stare in awe?

Would she see to hope that her future… the future laying in the hands of her husband... be as magical as she had visioned this day?
A thorn from the rose stem pricked her finger, drawing a light shock of pain from her lips, bringing her back from her oh-so-sweet illusions. Clouded. She felt her world become clouded.

How she wished to see beyond… how she wished—

Her father’s hand, ever-the-guide, pulled her to an abrupt halt. It was there that Rosa would have to maneuver up the stairs herself, without the guiding hand she so desperately clung to.

Rosa’s feet stuttered—if feet ever could stutter—and she felt the grasp on her bare arm slowly melt away, leaving her suddenly feeling empty and cold. Simple emptiness had replaced the secure hold, and Rosa had to swallow as she turned her head upwards, and pictured the stairs in front of her.

Walk, she demanded of herself. So she did. It was a slow ascent, and she had to use a free hand to hold up her dress. Each step felt uneven to her heeled feet, but eventually she made it. Another hand grasped her arm. This time it was unfamiliar to the touch—too different from the sure hold of her father.

It was firm and commanding. It pulled her forward, to the front of a black-suited figure. She could not make out details, but the figure was tall—loomingly so; it towered over her and darkened her warm and fragile soul. Her mouth turned parched, and even a desperate lick of her lips did none to satiate her thirst.

It dawned on her, in that moment. The fact, so obvious it might seem, had entirely escaped her.

The figure, though clouded by white flowers of lace, was wearing a black suit, or so she assumed. She slowly trailed her eyes up to its head, its face. It was a blur of bronze in her eyes, and it took her yet another moment to realize the blurring was caused by her glassy tears.

Tears on her wedding day? Rosa had never felt more ashamed.

Another hand, of the same breed as the one on her arm, pried the bouquet from her frozen fingers. Frozen and numb: Rosa didn't dare to move.

Was this fear? She asked herself, swallowing dryly as a long finger swiped over her pricked one, wiping away the small droplet of blood. A sprout of pain struck as the man had touched the miniscule cut, and Rosa had to resist the urge to wrench her hand away from his firm grasp.

Love him, don't resist. She forced herself. Why do you act so menacingly already? He’s done nothing but lead you forth and wipe the blood from your mere finger. Consider him gentle and warm-hearted for even helping you out!

But Rosa could not see the warmth in his actions, no matter how hard she tried. There was something wrong in his touch. It burned her, it made her insides heat and inflame. She’d never felt like it before… so warm. As if she were on fire.

Water, she felt her mind pleading, I need water.

“You cut yourself, mi cara,” A rich voice spoke quietly, rumbling so deep it rocked all throughout Rosa’s body - even to her feet. His hand on her arm steadied her as if he felt her uneasiness. “Be careful, I do not take well to the hurting of my wife.” he leaned in closer, and through the veil, she had felt the cool whisper of his breath on her face. “Or consequences shall ensue.”

His words forced a shiver to run down Rosa’s spine; ice cold it was, almost like a sliver of ice had been dripped down the inside of her dress, chasing away the warmth of her back and replacing it with  cold hard emptiness.

She had asked for water. And he’d given her ice.

She did not reply. She had no idea what her reply would come out to be, had words left her mouth. So she bit her lip and listened as the priest’s familiar words filled her uneasy mind, echoing with their familiarity—the recipe for marriage, the words that bonded two souls in matrimony—as if they were a thin ribbon, she felt it being tied tightly around her frail finger. She had no say in this; her fickle worries would only occur to be of nuisance.

“And do you, Flavio DeMoris, take Rosa De Ricci to be your wife, in health and sickness and love, for all your life?”

“I do.” Her husband said, and Rosa felt her shaky fingers slide a ring down a long finger of his own. It felt strong and powerful, a mere finger, yet so unfamiliar and unlike her own.

“And do you, Rosa De Ricci, take Flavio DeMoris to be your husband, in sickness and health and love, for all your life?”

Her heart was pounding in her ears. This was what her life had been made for: to marry. Say the words, Rosa, she chided herself, opening her dry lips to speak.

Say it!!

“I- I do.”

And with those words, the cold silver object was placed upon her finger, forever binding her to this man, in sickness and health, in death and life.

In sadness and in pleasure.

Her heart was bouncing wildly when the next words left the priest’s mouth—one's she’d known to expect for so long, but had not heard them leave with such intention.

“You may now kiss the bride.”