The Walk
The pews were lined with white roses that smelled faintly of sugar and something metallic, like the aftertaste of a hospital bandage. I could feel the weight of the silk veil snagging on my hair as I stepped onto the aisle, the hem of my gown brushing the polished oak floor with a soft, hollow thud. My lip was split, a thin line of bright red bleeding into the pale skin of my cheek, and the veil was torn near the crown, a jagged edge that fluttered like a wounded bird when the draft from the open doors caught it.
Every step felt like a verdict being read aloud. The pearls sewn into the bodice of my dress trembled, as if they sensed the gravity of the moment and tried to clink together in protest. The organ behind me groaned a solemn hymn, its notes lingering in the vaulted ceiling like a sigh.
I glanced sideways at the congregation. Three hundred faces, most of them smiling politely, some holding back a gasp, a few turning their heads toward the altar as if the sight of me would give them something to talk about later at the reception. My mother stood near the front, her hands clasped around a silver locket that had belonged to my grandmother. My best friend, Lila, squeezed my hand once, then let go, her eyes flickering between my face and the groom.
