The Bride Wore Blood

“We didn’t do anything, you’re crazy.” Her words still echoed in my mind and every time I heard them they sawed deeper into my heart. Every new hearing brought more blood, leaking from the woman he loved, until I collapsed. A wreck. A wonderful wedding wreck.

Heartbreak was exhausting. I’d run marathons, and I wasn’t shy of the gym, so you’d think endurance was my strong point, but I’d been shattered, from my only source of vulnerability. She had caved in my chest, and carved my beating heart to ribbons, decorating herself in the remains of my dignity, and staining my perfectly picked dress beyond recognition.

I looked up, helpless at my husband, as the night slipped away and the fantasy we had built was unmasked as nothing more than a a pitied game of pretend. He said nothing, as if I wasn’t owed an explanation, and her body simply belonged with his.

I was disgusted, and dropped from the cloud I’d been perched on for as long as I’d known him. My very own prince charming, introduced by the woman who would eventually steal him back, and where did this leave me? Floor bound and forgotten.

Of course, they didn’t mean to hurt me. Of course, they didn’t even know what I was saying. Of course, they denied it. Of course, he promised I was the only one he loved. Of course, despite saying that, he still fought for her life, as if she were me. Blood, leaking from the woman he loved, and the woman I could never be. Of course, I was crazy.

Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.

That’s what they’ll say, you know. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy. I know the truth.

Guilty minds leak details, and guilty hands feel cold as ice.

So do dead ones.


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