This is it: the moment of truth, no backing down. Petals from the flower you clutch in your hand hit the velvet carpet that covers the concrete, absently, without a mind of purpose. Laughter and cheerful voices ring hollow in the distance, but you cannot bring yourself to listen in. There is no turning back from here.
Autumn is slowly closing
in, evident in the way the tree’s outside of the church are steadily changing and
shedding colors. You find that oddly ironic, in a way. She was always fond of spring.
You’d have expected her to choose a March or a late April wedding, not that of your
favorite season: fall.
Everything you’ve built up
to this point has come down to the same thing. Fall.
You carelessly watch as
the flower petals flutter and twist to the ground, the head crushed in your
palm. The dress you wear feels tight and constricting, and your high heels are
making your toes cramp. It’s not exactly your typical manner of attire, but
it’s necessary for the ceremony. You squeeze your fingers a little tighter
around the flower and breathe deep the scent of crumbling dead leaves and food
from the restaurant opposite the church. You block out faint memories of eating
there – being out with the woman of the hour, holding hands with her while you
wait in line.
It’s that laugh - a laugh
you know all too well; the one that haunts you with past ghosts, trails at your
side. Sharply looking over, you find yourself face to face with your best
friend who is carrying two glasses of red wine. God, she’s so beautiful. She’s
the light – all golden hair and bright blue eyes. She’s that central light
you’ve sought all this time; the tangible being of your fantasies.
Her heels thump on the
carpet as she crosses to you; and her smile makes your chest tighten. Her dress
– her goddamn wedding dress – simple as it may be, her beauty strikes something
deep within you. You match her smile briefly as you meet her eye and muster up
the will and courage to protect yourself from the pain that’s coming.
“Congratulations dude,” you say with
carefully crafted smile. You’ve learned to hide the pain of seeing her with
someone else far too well over the years. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Yeah, thanks,” she says
back; warm and sweet. “This is all so amazing; I never thought I’d be here
today.”
“Yeah, neither did I,” you
say and make a conscious effort to keep the hurt out of our tone. She doesn’t
remember those days, you remind yourself. She’s moved on and you’re the one who
is still living in the past.
She’s three feet from you
and you’ve never felt farther away. Young love, you’d both called it. That
cheap, young love you feel when hormones are high and you’re still an
adolescent. Both of you are past it, now, however. At least that’s what you’d
said. It’s so easy now, you think. It’s so damned easy to lie and to hate, to
wish that you could be bitter and blame this all on her. But you can’t – this
is a hell of your own making; for being too fucking stupid to let go of something
dead.
But you can still feel her
breath on your neck, her smile against your skin as her fingers curl into the
labels of you shirt. She breathes a laugh and you wrap your arms a little
tighter around her as the fireworks begin. You’re both huddled on a wool
blanket in a mass sea of people watching the display. It’s hot, too hot in the
July weather to engage in close human contact, but neither of you seem to care.
You’re in a sea of people but it feels as if you’re alone together. As always
your world is narrowed to her, and after everything – after everything, you
still love her. Some part of you always will because you’re simply too weak to
let go of that fully.
Because she didn’t break
your heart, after all. You broke your own, and you made damn well sure of it.
“I’m glad you’re happy,”
you amend, and have to take a moment to make sure the smile is still on your
face as your eyes start to sting and prick.
She nods at that, but
doesn’t seem to notice a change in your behavior. She doesn’t comment on the
crushed flower you’re holding down at your side, or the litter of petals on the
velvet covered concrete sidewalk in front of the church.
Instead of acknowledging
it, she hands you one of the wine glasses in her hands, and you drop the corpse
of the flower in favor of accepting it. Just like that; just how it’s always
been. She says ‘jump’ and that’s all there is to it. You drop everything for
her, and you always will.
She makes a gesture to
follow and you both walk side by side back into the church. The music continues
and the couples dance and her newfound husband waves at her from across the
room. She blows a kiss at him as the two of you remain off to the side. You’re
sure there’s some sick joke in all of this. Some sick joke hidden behind the
piles of intricate floral designs and wedding cake.
“As my Maid of Honor,
you’re required to make a speech, you know,” she says to you with a grin. You
nod in agreement and take a deep drink from your wine glass.
“Yeah, but in a little
bit, okay?”
She laughs gently and
nudges your arm, but it falls a little flat. The pain inside you is spreading;
it sits deep like a vile cancer in your bones. You lift a hand to rub at your
neck as if to alleviate tension, and you catch her watching you out of the
corner of your eye. You glace over and she averts her gaze.
“I kind of wish we still
did the Bachelorette party,” she says by way of passing. “It would have been
fun to party with you again.”
“That wouldn’t have worked,”
you counter as you keep your gaze drifting at nothing.
“Sure it would’ve! We’ve always planned
awesome parties, and-”
“It wouldn’t have worked,
man,” you say again, this time more forcefully. “You know why.”
She doesn’t say anything
for a beat or two and when you look, you can see her frowning and her blue eyes
have dimmed. Your fingers clench into a fist and you curse quietly to yourself.
That’s your all abiding special talent, after all. Making her frown – taking
away her smiles and laughter and leeching off her colorful light.
You’re dull; everything
inside you is monochrome and lifeless. You have no colors of your own so you’ve
stolen rays and hues off of her like some goddamn parasite.
It wasn’t that long ago
that she was lying in your arms, drawing invisible patterns on your stomach
with her fingertips. It wasn’t that long that you could make her smile – that
you knew how to act like a stable human being who didn’t fuck up at every
chance and turn, hurting others while on your path towards self-destruction.
All of it simply leads to
a place where suffering was a game; a mocking game that holds isolation as a
prize.
“I’ll be back,” you tell
her before either of you can say anything further. You don’t look to see her
reaction as you cross the room, breathing deep the sweet scent of flowers and
cake as you make your way over to the buffet table.
You stand there for a
moment as you try and collect yourself, looking simply as if you’re undecided
on what to get. You lift the glass of wine to your lips once more, and down it
all in one go. You wince at the taste – you’ve never been very refined with
these sorts of things – and place the empty glass next a decorated fruit tray.
She was yours, once, and
she was the rock that kept you grounded. She’d smile at you in the mornings,
bringing you cups of coffee with sweet wake-up kisses. She’d ask you about your
day and show genuine interest in all your sardonic complaints. She’d sleep
curled against you, head on your shoulder with her hand curled at your chest.
She has her faults, but to you – she was perfect. To you, reality has become
disgustingly sharp and biting ever since she’d left and killed a part of you in
the process.
You don’t even think about
it, really. It’s not like it’s planned. You find yourself several glasses of
wine later once you’d looked back and realized she’s not waiting for you on the
opposite side of the room. She’s laughing with her bridesmaids and you rub a
hand over your face, not caring if it smears any eye makeup as you take another
drink.
“I thought you’d stopped
drinking,” comes a voice at your side. You sigh deeply as you turn to greet the
sight of him – the man who’s now bound to her in the eyes of Ohio state law.
“You honestly expect me to
stay sober for something like this?” You shoot back, and you don’t bother
trying to hide the bitterness in your tone. You’re being a jerk and you know
it, but you can’t keep yourself from glaring at him. As far as you’re
concerned, you have every right to be pissed and hurt.
You shouldn’t be here;
that much you know. You shouldn’t have been invited in the first place, and yet
here you are watching the girl you love married to some asshole while you stand
off as the Maid of Honor. No, that’s not right. He’s good to her, you know that,
but it doesn’t help the feelings of resentment and jealousy that burns deep
inside of you. Because you’re not a good person and you can’t be happy that
she’s happy. You hate him because he has colors of his own – because he can
amplify the colors that she shines and cast them off like a kaleidoscope.
You have nothing to offer
her. You never have.
“Give it here,” he says as
he leans forward with the attempt at taking your nth, half-filled wine glass.
You immediately move out of his reach with a mild curse, taking a step back as
he continues trying to retrieve it.
“Why don’t – don’t you
fucking touch me,” you all but snarl at him, dropping the glass and ignoring
the way it shatters on the floor, red slicking the carpet at your feet like blood.
You withgo all restraint and give him a harsh shove to put some distance
between you. “She doesn’t fucking deserve you, you know that?” You spit, even
though you know your words are a lie. You’re talking shit and you can’t seem to
stop it.
He backs away from you,
hands up in a surrendering manner. “Calm down, I just -”
“Don’t you tell me to calm
down, pal!” You shout at him, and by now there are many onlookers. The music
continues to play and people continue to enjoy themselves, but they’re starting
to notice the half-drunk Maid of Honor standing at the buffet table yelling at
the Groom.
He tries to pacify you, so
you only yell louder and your curses become more creative.
“What are you doing?!” You
hear her voice as she runs to the two of you. She stands between you and him,
looking at you with blue eyes that radiate a betrayed hurt. She’s standing
before him, guarding him against you, and you know it. “Jesus, are you drunk?!”
She’s trying hard to keep her voice down, a shaky sort of whisper and she looks
like she might start crying.
You step back, back away
from them and shake your head.
“I can’t believe you would
do this to me,” she says and her voice hitches.
“That makes two of us,”
you start. “What kind of sick joke do you take this as? Inviting me to your
goddamn wedding was bad enough, but you made me your Maid of Honor?”
“You’re my best friend!”
“I’m your ex-girlfriend.
I’m your fucking ex-girlfriend, and I’m still in love with you, you selfish
asshole.” You know you have no right to say it; she didn’t do anything wrong.
There were no ill intentions, no malicious foul play, and she didn’t do this to
hurt you. She loves you as a best friend, and sees you as such. You’re the
selfish one for ruining her wedding.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and
this time she’s crying. He comes up beside her, placing an arm around her waist
as she watches you in disbelief. She has nothing to apologize for; you’re the
one in the wrong.
“Fuck you.”
The music has long since
stopped and there’s whispering all throughout the church. You know you’ve
officially lost many of these people as friends, but you tell yourself that you
don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore.
“Have a wonderful
honeymoon,” you say as you lean down to unstrap your high heels. Bare feet meet
the carpet and you carry your heels in your hand as you walk away; ignoring the
staring and the sound of her pleading for you to stop. You exit the church and
make towards the first bus stop you see, never mind that you’re barefoot and
wearing a 900 dollar dress.
You’re the villain of your
own goddamn story, and you don’t know how to stop it.
No comments:
Post a Comment