Games of a Different Kind-{sequel to Toys of a Dangerous Mind}

Chapter 8

Delicate fabric slid over my skin, cascading downwards like a waterfall. My hair was brushed out, each stroke of the comb a smooth and silky motion. Blush was applied to my cheeks and my eyelashes were accentuated with mascara. Daring red painted my lips, losing the pale pink and becoming bold. A veil was placed on my head, the soft material kissing my skin. My feet were shod in angelic-white high heels, with hundreds of tiny gems decorating the surface. 

As I stood up in full dress, the team of make-up artists, hairdressers, stylists and assistants, gasped in pure admiration. Every part of my skin had been moisturized. My hair had been styled in a fashion, which framed my face, plaits bordering sides of my cheeks. The dress was a miracle of inter-crossing straps at the back, supporting the dress itself, which billowed outwards.

My train was long, the smooth white material hiding the petticoat of many layered skirts underneath. The bodice shined with sparkling beads, and as I breathed in and out, the sound of the beads tinkling slightly was heard. Lastly, my face was accentuated with blemish-free skin, a red blush, painted lips, outlined eyes and the finishing touch of the caressing material of my veil, that held my face in mystery. 

I was dazzling. I was beautiful. 

I was alien. 

This girl, with the white costume, toned and smooth body, and the perfect portrait of a face was a shaped being designed only in imagination. A masterpiece: that wasn't me. 

"They're ready for her."

Whispers and I was ushered out of the tent, to be greeted with a terrifying sight. Set on the outside gardens of my prison, Raxis's massive mansion resided in the background, the center of the Games. Trees bordered this mocking scene, as tall dark and intimidating as the wedding symbolized itself. Hundreds of chairs were placed in careful positions, the many guests staring back at me in expressions of admiration, pity and sadness. 

Balloons were floating around the wedding scene, white balloons with black strings. The purity of the idea, yet tangled together with the horrific darkness of it all. Farthest away from me, at the end of my wedding aisle, was the minister, groom and best man. Waiting for me with his arm outstretched, was my father, dressed in a white suit and a somber expression. The agony in his eyes was terrible to see; it frightened me to no end.

The grassy ground was unforgiving on my heels, and combined with my complete loss of sense and mind, I would have collapsed if it wasn't for the two stylists at either arm, holding me up. I didn't have time for any other observations before Pachelbel’s Canon began, and I was prodded into the wedding march, like cattle being herded into pens. My father waited for me by the side. This was where I would begin the walk up the aisle.

Gliding. My father's arm was all that held me from falling to my knees and I felt like I was losing my mind, piece by piece. The aisle was scattered with white rose petals and yet was harder to walk than a path of knives. As I looked up from the fast receding strip of green and white, I saw two men that had twisted my life and my will away from me. 

Liam was clothed like he was an angel. Shining in white, he watched me as I proceeded forward. Waiting for me to reach the altar. His eyes were marked with wonder as he took in my ensemble. As our eyes met, I could see a future.

Walking down the aisle as if I couldn't wait for the end. Anxious, even, for my feet to no longer tread the path. This aisle was the beginning of a beautiful new era. A joining. Then, I was there. His hand reached out for mine, and I could feel the relief he exuded through the slump of his once tightly held shoulders, that he never wanted to let me go again. As he spoke the words of holy matrimony and I repeated it with a feverish wish, we neared the ceremony's end.