Runaway

Bride

The months leading to her twelfth birthday were dizzying. Not because of the party. No she wasn't even sure people remembered she had a birthday on the way. Because of the wedding. Which would be five days befor her twelfth.

She was terrified. She told herself to be brave. To stop being so weak. To stand up and take it like a woman. 

She was hopeful. Maybe he loved her. Maybe she would be happy with him. 

He was kissing her more roughly now. More hungrily. His touch was burning more than before now. 

She grew her hair out longer. Straight silky tresses framed a head - which was slightly overly large - and proceeded to cascade over her shoulders and tumble down her back. He said he liked it. He didn't say he liked her. 

He said she was gorgeous. He didn't say she was amazing or kind or wonderful or wise. He said she was so incredibly pretty. She didn't know whether he loved her or whether he wanted to swallow her whole. 

She was told that this was love, that this was how men loved and how men showed their love. She accepted it. 

If you're scared, if you feel your heart pound and your skin crawl at the thought of him, push those thoughts to the side, push them away and ignore them because that's just you being naive. He knows what's good for you. He knows how to show you love.

The dress was too tight around her waist. It hugged her slender hips. Fell like a waterfall down her legs and onto the floor. It was all pearls and lace and stiff, too-hot, white fabric. 

Hair: done up in elaborate braids. Make-up: light, elegant, just how he liked it. Dress: choking her. Nails: long and polished clear. 

She was shaking as she walked down the aisle. 

Pews full of people wearing  dresses of expensive fabric and suits stared at her. Their eyes were pushing her on, telling her to make them proud, to be the daughter, the little girl, that they wanted her to be. 

She kept telling herself to be brave, to be strong, to do her duty. She had a responsibility to him. 

She got to the altar. It was ornately carved. Shining silver like a fishing hook in water. 

The blonde child looked up to meet his greedy gaze. He was drinking her with his eyes. He was a foot taller than her so she strained to meet his eyes in such close proximity. That would change over time. She would grow. 

The priest. Asked if he did. And he did. He asked her. 

Her chest felt like it was collapsing. Her heart was beating faster than she could have imagined possible. Her throat dried up. Constricted. Did she? Of course she did. Anyone with sense would. Anyone respectable would. So therefore she did. Yes. She had to. She did. 

"I do." Shaky voice. 

She was supposed to be happy. But she couldn't. She was terrified. And nothing about this was fair.

She got into the black and silver car adorned full of flowers and ribbons and pearls. He took her to his house. Large. Ornate. Towering walls and spiralling stairs and gold statuettes. She could tell it would be hard to keep this place looking beautiful for him, it was just so big. 

And he hurt her that night. Hurt her like she never thought hurt could hurt. She cried, she wasn't strong enough to hold her tears in. She felt like nothing. Like she would rather not exist. She felt like she wasn't even human. She was terrified. I can't describe the pain she was in because it's not describable. 

But she was ashamed of herself for crying. It wasn't supposed to hurt. Or, if it was, she was supposed to accept the hurt. She was supposed to be proud of being his. She was supposed to be proud of fulfilling her duties towards him.

She hated this. But she forced herself to be what she thought was strong. What she thought was brave. 

She forced herself to put up with his scalding hands all over her every night. 

He was fire. And she was being burned alive. Constantly. Constantly. This was hell. 

Her blue eyes were full of sorrow. She found refuge in darkness. 

She forced herself to always yield to him. He knew what he was doing, she reasoned. She was told how good of a wife she was. And she knew she couldn't let everybody down by stopping his advances. 

The responsibility. To be consumed. Entirely. Fell upon her. Sweet baby. 

The carpet of their house was ornately patterned with deep shades of red. A sea of blood. 

She sometimes singed her fingers on cooking pots or on candle flames. This fire hurt less than the fire he burned her with. It somehow helped. 

The years rolled by. The story continued. 

Her eyes grew darker. Stormier. A midday-sky blue that somehow carried a midnight hurricane.