Something Old, Something New.

"Oh! Careful Lily," Mom says, "You don't want to crack the stems."

She carefully removes the bouquet of roses from my vice-like grip and sets them down on the nearby table as if they were crafted from precious crystal. She doesn't notice the droplets of my blood that cling to thorns, or the scratches that line my palms.

I ball my idle hands into fists to stop me itching my thighs. The endless layers of ivory shaded tulle and organza are supposed to feel delicate. Elegant. Beautiful. Instead, the fabric suffocates my lower body. Perhaps the gown was designed to stop brides from running.

"Has anyone found my bracelet yet?" I managed to ask, the first words I have spoken in an hour.

As much as I hate the layering of foundation and blush upon my cheeks, being preened and painted gave me an excuse to remain still and silent.

"No," my sister sighs, twisting gems into my scrapped back hair, "No sign of it anywhere."

"Could you stop fussing over me and keep looking for it?" I grate out with a smile. The three layers of lipstick making the movement as physically challenging as it is emotionally.

"That old bracelet is battered. It will look silly with your dress," Mom offers, fussing over my shoe straps.

"Well, it's important to me," I snap.

The constant rustling of fabric and clinking of glasses stops for the first time all morning. Only the gentle fizz of champagne dares to interrupt the tension. As much as I enjoyed the momentary quiet, the stung look on Mom's face threatens to break me.

"I'm sorry," I sigh, "It's just that Dad gave it to me and...and..."

My voice trailing off is interrupted as pain, as if I cannot bear to mention Dad's name on such a monumental day. The legion of ladies around me nod slowly, and offer sympathetic smiles, before returning to their duties. Little did they know my hesitation was because I couldn't think of a way to finish the lie.

Using your dead Dad is a new low Lillian, I chastise myself silently. Who knew my moral compass had spun so far off-kilter?

With a persistent tug, my sister hauls me from the wicker chair I'd resigned myself to and drags me in front of the long mirror.

"Dad would be so proud of you," she says gently, her eyes glassy in the reflection, "You look as pretty as a button!"

The irony of buttons holding seams together whilst I'm coming undone does not slip by me. The twisted smile that crawls it way to my lips is confused for joy by my sister who gleams beside me.

It takes every inch of self-control to not punch the mirror. How badly I wish to distort the image in front of me. Whilst my family focus on the tightly pulled ribbons of my corset, I see the taut muscles of my shoulders, straining to hold me together. Where they admire the pink blush along my cheekbones, I only notice the red, blotchy rash that dapples around my chest as my inner turmoil begins to move outward. Maybe now they will notice. Maybe now they will save me.

A rhymical knock on the door snags their attention away from me. But I stare at the hollow eyes in the reflection. Everyone seems so busy preparing the shell of my body that they seem oblivious to the lack of soul inside.

Golden light pours into the room as the door yawns open.

"Good heavens, I thought you were Joe!" My cousin exclaims, "I was about to take off my heel and smack you into the hall with it!"

Champagne infused giggles burst around the room from everyone. Except me. And except him. I remained staring at the ghost reflection in front of me, not needing to look at him to know who it is.