[Rhush]

BLACK WEDDING

Only one person in the world knew what I had done, and I intended to keep it that way. And she never spoke a word, suffering her silent vow, just as she had promised.

“And we kept our holy secret, didn’t we Sweetheart?” Horace whispered with a loving smile, looking up from his journal to cast a warm gaze over his blushing bride who lay dead on the table. The decayed woman, who existed more as a waxy shell of bones with soulless, blank glass eyes, laid without reply on the same bed of dead roses that Horace had positioned her on over five years before. She was always silent to the ear’s of the others. Those who would venture out to the homestead to offer the young widower a day of company. He never let them in. He had all the companionship he needed. The whispers of his bride soothed his ears daily. They had ever since that black day in 1863.

Years of wedded bliss have passed and I realize that when I am done the people of Plemons Town will be fretful. Many of you will not understand. Most of you will not. Some may say I’ve preformed an abomination under the eyes of God. So in my last entry of this journal, I wish to explain the undying love I carry for Stella, so that those who do not understand a love so profound, may experience the opening of their hearts.

April 13, 1863

The spring wedding flaunted a sunny afternoon, ripe with the fragrance of plump Gardenias as they dotted the lush meadow in full bloom. Warm breezes tickled through the tangle of Baby’s Breath in Stella’s dark curls as she stood hand in hand with Horace, promising to always love, honor, and cherish. The beloved couple stood nervous before the preacher and his Plemons congregation, with the feel of green grass soft beneath their shoes.

Horace was a successful mortician of twenty-five and Stella a bashful bride of only seventeen. The vows were given and the cake cut, and as laughter brimmed the grove Horace knew he had never been so happy.

That evening, he swept Stella up in his arms, whisking her over the thresh-hold. The newlyweds sped through a candlelit dinner, anxious to taste the once forbidden fruits discovered on the night of a honeymoon. After sharing her most precious of gifts with her husband, Stella pulled from his tender embrace, wrapping her nude body in the warmth of a white shawl.

“I’ve got one last surprise for you.” Stella cooed.

“Don’t be long, my love.” Horace smiled, leaning back into the pillow. “I think I can abide no more than a few minutes without my new bride.” Stella’s blue eyes danced as she giggled.

“And I can not bear to be without my new husband.” With that, she stepped out, her girlish giggles following her into the hallway.

And then came a shrieked clatter. A loud and terrible noise that shook shivers through Horace’s very soul. Like lightning, he jolted from the bed, scampering into the hallway. Clasping the banister, he glanced down.

“Oh God, no!” He gasped, his fearful lips trembling. Racing down the stairs and nearly slipping in the smeared blood, he rushed to Stella’s side. Dropping to his knees, he swooped her up into his arms. At the touch of her, his stomach dropped like a stone plunging a deep pond. She felt as lifeless as a tattered doll.

“Stella!” He bounced her about, desperate for her blue eyes to spark back to life. “Sweetheart!” He shook her again, this time jiggling her head to the side. What stared up at him in that moment shattered his heart into a thousand sharp and screaming pieces. Blood stained over the mesh of her shawl, tainting the white with a bright red that throttled his breath. A neck bone jutted up, protruding her throat under a flow of warm, pulsing blood. Shaking, Horace fumbled his fingers over the bone, making a desperate attempt to somehow pop it back into her flesh. But he knew, and knowing, he dropped his head to her, sobbing warm tears into her lifeless chest.

After spending the rest of his honeymoon night naked on the drafty floor with his bride, a knock at the door lifted Horace‘s swollen eyes.



Looking back, I can’t remember much. Just a blur of my mother hastening through the door, screaming, trying to pull me away from Stella. What I remember vividly, is the night after my blushing bride was laid to rest. I couldn’t bare to think of her in that cemetery. Buried. In the pitiless earth. How could she breathe? Wouldn’t she get cold? And her pristine, white wedding dress… it would get dirty, and I knew she wouldn’t want that. She had taken so much concern to be certain it was perfect. Mostly, I knew she would be missing me. Wondering where I was. I couldn’t carry on without her either. We were too young for such a fate. We needed more time! So I made her a promise….

April 15, 1863

The night air perfumed with the heady scent of approaching rain as Horace crept through the house blowing out lantern flames. Opening the front door, he peered out into the dark trees that surrounded his lonely homestead. A cool breeze hissed through the sea of leaves like a whisper. Satisfied, he pulled the door shut and crept across the porch in route to the shed. Grabbing his shovel, he began the hour long track out to get his wife. Ushered in by a clap of thunder, cold raindrops began to streak down over his sweaty brow, but his hurried pace never slowed.

Arriving at the cemetery, he went to the fresh mound of dirt, looking down through a blur of rain.

“Stella!” He whispered over the howl of wind, sinking his shovel deep. “It’s Horace! Hang on, Sweetheart! I’m get you out of there!” He dug and dug as the rain poured down, flooding the cemetery in a wash of gritty mud beneath his boots. Thunder boomed, lighting up the night sky like a bruise, exposing the clutter of gravestones crowding in on him.

Gritting his teeth, Horace burned his muscles into his work, grunting with the feel of splinters itching into his palms. But through the sting of down-pouring rain, he paused, certain he heard something. Standing as still as a statue in the dark cemetery, he listened. The muffled shrieks of his bride were misting up through the mud.

Charging back into his work, he stabbed the shovel deep, feeling the hard thump of metal against pine. His eyes went wide, dropping him to his knees in a frantic plunge to scoop handfuls of mud off of the coffin. Once the wood came into view, Horace dug angry fingers around the side, prying and splintering the boards up.

April 15, 1868

Ever since that night, I’ve shared my life with Stella. Certainly we’ve had our problems, as couples do. Like in the days following when her skin began to stink and eat away. Keeping the maggots from her required the vigilant attention of a dedicated husband, indeed! I would wake up next to her in the middle of the night with the little varmints trying to squiggle up my nose! We lived and we learned and finally I figured out to coat her in the wax. I didn’t replace her eyes until they themselves had finally rotted hollow, being certain I couldn’t live without her blue and loving gaze. But I did as I could with the glass eyes when the time came. I promised to love and cherish, and a vow is a vow. So now this night of our five year wedding anniversary, I am going to surprise her with one last wedding gift.

Putting down his quill, Horace traced a thumb and forefinger down the course, handlebar mustache lining his lip. Taking a deep breath, he slid up from his chair, and went to Stella. She waited for him on the table, still wearing her pristine, white wedding dress. The dry rose petals crackled beneath his palms, fuming up the spoiled scent of long-dead flowers as he leaned down to offer her his kiss. Pulling back, he directed his gaze to the rope hanging from the rafters. Dusting off the sleeves of his wedding day suit, he straightened his crisp collar and smeared a palm over the grease slicking back his hair. Sliding his chair across the floor in a squeal, he stepped up. As he slipped the noose around his throat, he cast a devoted gaze back to his wife.

“In honor of the surprise you were never able to give me our honeymoon night.” At the end of his words, he kicked the chair out from under his feet, all the while listening to the sweet voice of his young bride inviting him into death.