Member-only story
Down the Aisle of My Doom
What awaits me is a kiss of death.
The white dress and matching veil are going to be my funeral shroud. I know this because he promised me I would never see the morning after my honeymoon. The marriage bed was meant to be my final resting place as my breath departed my body.
You might think me a victim of circumstance, but know this: it was my choice.
When I sat beside the body of the man I was supposed to marry, Death himself took pity on me. I looked up, my face still stained with tears, and I did not even balk at the specter I saw staring down at me.
“We were just out for a walk,” I said — as if the words would matter. As if they were a mistake of some kind. “But — but then someone came and — and, oh God, he’s really gone, isn’t he?”
More sobs trembled through my mouth as I lay my head against the now-still chest of my love. So little time had passed, and already his body was growing cold.
“Come with me,” Death said. “Come with me, and you’ll never know this kind of sorrow again.”
The hope in me had shriveled up to barely the size of a raisin. I looked up, nodded, and took Death’s offered hand. As soon as we touched, the illusion of skin fled, revealing a bony hand that clasped mine.
