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Brian leans down to kiss me, sweetly bringing his lips to my own. He’s always been a good kisser, but modest in public. I know that later tonight, I’ll get the real bridal kiss, not just this innocent, honey-sweet brush of his lips against mine that melts all of the old women’s hearts in the audience.
The guests clap as we pull away, turning to face them. Taking my hand in his own, Brian begins to lead me back down the aisle. My father smiles at me from the front seat, wiping away the blood that covers his face.
Wait.
The blood…
My footsteps slow, my feet dragging against the polished floor as my heart stutters in my chest.
The blood…
I tug my hand from Brian’s, looking down at my open palms. My hands and forearms are covered in blood, slick and red with it. It drips onto the floor, each dark droplet landing with the finality of a hammer falling.
Pop!
A bullet pierces my side, and pain explodes through my body.
Wave after wave of a dull pain washes over me as I float somewhere between awake and the realm of my dreams, head pounding. My whole body feels like it’s been run over by a car, and though my mind is foggy from sleep and pain, I know that everything is wrong.
Deep inside, something doesn’t feel right.
I try to roll over, to move—anything to feel some control over my own body—but gravity weighs me down, pressing me into the hard mattress beneath me. My limbs are slick with sweat and my body feverish. My mind is a confused mess.
Why am I so weak? I don’t remember being sick.
Groaning, I try to arch my body off the bed, but I barely have the strength to lift a finger.
My eyes feel glued shut as I struggle to open them, needing to see the familiar and comforting walls of my bedroom. The dreams about the wedding have been haunting me for weeks now, but I know it’s just nerves. Cold feet, maybe. It’ll be fine.
But the survival instinct embedded in my chest pulses out a steady rhythm, the message strong and unchanging.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
This is wrong. Something is wrong.
A rush of adrenaline helps clear some of the pain and grogginess from my system, and I force my eyes open. I’m staring at a blank wall, painted a dull beige color with water stains near the baseboard.
That’s not my wall.
This isn’t my bed.
At that thought, everything comes rushing back. The church. The gunshots. The blood. My father, dying in front of me.
I surge upright with a choked gasp. Pain instantly floods my body, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. But I ignore both sensations, crawling toward the edge of the bed and scrambling off of it, looking around wildly for an exit. The world tilts in my vision, and my knees go weak before I’ve even taken two steps.
“Not so fast, kitten.”
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I hear the sound of chairs scraping the floor behind me, and I know it’s too late, but I still try.
I lurch forward, throwing myself toward the door as though if I can just touch it, just reach it, I’ll find salvation.
But I should’ve known better than to even hope.
