I’m really happy with this and so I’m going to post it. Probably not going to post everything I write, but this is something I’ve wanted to for a long time. This does have a fair amount of Victorian Flower language because I’m a nerd like that, so all the meanings and shit are above the cut.
Hemlock (... small, dainty white flowers...) - You will be my death
Asphodel - My regrets follow you to the grave
Mock Orange Blossoms - Counterfeit
Red geranium - Stupidity
Checkered fritillary - Persecution
Nikola Lowell dreamed of weddings.
She was in a white dress, being led down the aisle, but she didn’t recognize a single face looking at her. Their features were marred and grey, the bare basics of their faces visible, nose, chin, eyes, lips, complete with shaky black ovals for eyes that looked like they’d been drawn on, flat and lifeless. When she looked back up, she saw the groom.
The groom had sharper features, still fuzzy, but she could make out the shape of regular eyes and a Greek nose, lips that were curved up in a smile that bordered on a smirk. He wore a boutonniere of small, dainty white flowers, and a red tie that matched her lipstick. Her bouquet was made of asphodel flowers), studded with mock orange blossoms. Someone hastily powdered their nose, and in the reflection of the compact’s mirror, Nikola saw her reflection. Red geranium blossoms and more mock orange blossoms had been woven into her hair, complete with a veil held in place with a diamond hairpiece. The veil was made of fabric so fine, she hardly noticed it as she walked down the aisle.
She couldn’t recognize the man leading her down, but he had an oddly familiar appearance, though blurry, albeit one that sent shivers down her spine. She finally looked at the officiant, who was dressed in the robes of a vicar, but she stumbled as her eyes trailed up to his head.
It wasn’t that he was ugly. Well…
The officiant had the head of a Satanic goat, complete with deep red eyes and horns that curved away from his face. A pentagram was etched into his forehead, an angry scar that was impossible to miss. The man leading her down caught her and she trembled at his touch.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, very quiet.
“Tripped on my dress.” She heard herself say, smiling sheepishly and straightening up. “Was it very obvious?”
“No.”
She straightened up and walked up to to the groom, though internally she didn’t want to at all, pointedly avoiding the reverse-satyr’s crimson gaze.
All around the venue, Nikola recognized odd flowers, something her mother had called checkered fritillary in her big book of plants. The goat-headed vicar began speaking, and Nikola flinched.
“Family, friends, and dearly beloved, we are joined here today to witness the union of Nikola Therese Lowell and…”
Nikola flinched as a sharp buzz pierced through her head, like TV static on steroids. As it passed, the vicar kept speaking.
“Who gives this woman to this man?” The vicar asked the man who was arm-in-arm with her.
“I do.” He replied. There was another sharp buzz as the vicar turned to the groom and began speaking to him. Time seemed to have passed as the pain surmounted, and suddenly their vows had been said. The groom was slipping the ring onto Nikola’s finger, and she stared at it.
It wasn’t gold or silver, perhaps closer to iron or steel. Nikola’s strength laid in botany, not metallurgy. It sent a bolt of electricity down her spine, and it almost hurt to wear. Nikola did the same to the groom, trying not to look him in the eye because of the shiver that ran through her every time she did, and not the good kind either.
“You are now legally wedded! You may now kill the bride!” The vicar announced, handing the groom a knife.
The church erupted in cheers but Nikola’s mouth gaped open, and the groom was leaning into her, she thought they were going to kiss, surely she’d misheard the vicar, and suddenly…
The groom stabbed her.
She stared down at her stomach, the ivory front of her dress pooling with crimson blood, and the pain hadn’t registered yet between the clapping and the leaning and the shock and you may kill the bride, but it was hitting her now. Piercing pain, blinding and hot, and her knees buckled, feeling a wave of dizziness hit her. Why did he stab her? It seemed… counterproductive, in the least, if she was getting married, but why was everyone else so calm? Didn’t they realize she was dying?
Killed at my own wedding.
The knife was admittedly beautiful, she thought to herself as she hit the ground, reeling from the blood loss and shock. Her vision was fading. The man who walked her down the aisle was kneeling beside her, but he didn’t seemed shocked in the slightest. He dislodged the knife and pain shot through her system, blood gushing out of the wound and staining her dress even more.
“She’s all yours,” Someone said, distantly, like she was in water and they were on the shore, letting her slip into the abyss.
And then Nikola woke up in her bed, covered by a cold sweat, and screaming while clutching her stomach. Her brother, Noah, burst into her room.
“Nikola, are you okay?” He rushed over. “What happened?”
She choked out a sob, staring down at her trembling hand, and she could still feel that pain in her belly, hot and sticky blood.
She looked up at Noah, feeling hollow and terrified. “I died.”
