The Perils of a Beach Wedding

he girl winced as she saw the scar on her leg become blanketed with fine bony grit. She of all people was adept and escaping her own body and hovering beneath the ocean floor until the hurricane had rocked her body to its heart’s content and it was safe to return. She was expertly adept and evacuating and emptying her soul, all the more, but that was a less transient process and there was point restoring it, so she was just a shell by the sea.

Quite pettily was she comforted by her feet touching the soft sand as if it was a safe space, but nevertheless the scar was laughably a product of her lifelong nemesis: Ugly. She was a firm believer that ugliness was the root of all evil and that under no circumstances should anyone be so brazenly horrid as would reveal their ugliness to the world, especially not a woman. But here she was, an ugly girl in a tea-length plastic bag that God swore up and down that damn beach was in fact made of silk the shade of a buttercup in the sunshine.

Photo by jessie daniella on Unsplash

And there he was, the groom awaiting his own respective fate as the hands of time blazed destiny into history, gazing upon her countenance with an ashen fear that was destined to become vomit on her shoes. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she took another step. And then another and then another like a cheap fool.

She was a clown walking the tightrope and the audience masked their laughter behind polite nods and balls of clouded bubbles. It made no sense to her why the man now a mere eight seconds away from her own life simply insisted upon being of allegedly Greek descent and somehow that connected to her in some way. It occurred to her that it was nowhere near too late to turn about eighty degrees and run into the ocean instead. She stopped, her right foot hanging in midair and her left dangling a hair’s breadth above the plank she walked as the decades sailed by.

Nothing was real anymore, just the idealistic concept of a ceremony to commemorate the utter, unfettered but heavily filtered contempt that everyone there just gleefully harbored like hidden treasure, the wickedly lustrous pearl of the gloomy cave’s oyster, for everyone else there. She laughed like a donkey keeling straight into quicksand, and how she must have looked like one if you were to dare imagine the eye of the monster who cannot help but devour you as he sucks the breath from your lungs and catches the blood that pools from your heart!

Why simply nothing else would make any sense. Six seconds until there was to be nothing left of her. She wore a necklace of seashells and, off cackling in another dimension, she had already choked on them. Anything to escape, just anything at all to do anything at all and to be anywhere at all that wasn’t here and now with the groom; she’d go anywhere but really she was going nowhere anyway and so there was no point hiding in the depths of that treacherous, bittersweet cavern.

Photo by Fancycrave on Unsplash

Two seconds left. This isn’t over. Just another thrust and, simply toss meaning to the winds, hurl it all to the devil, and by God throw in a parry for good measure. It was all so violently delicate. She turned her shoulder back to where her pet ghost stood; he saluted her. His blessing of Holy Matrimony, his farewell to the comrade he watched fall before his eyes. She was an ugly girl and he a hateful boy, but she was a hateful girl and he an ugly boy.

He knew a perfect match would clash and how they would crash if you just gave them time and space, but the loathing would seal them together as only love, hate, war, and hope can transcend the dimensions of an earthly existence or even two such nightmares should they rise from the flaming seas in a pair so perfectly entwined you could paint some white chocolate on the bottom and glue them to the pinnacle of a pastry chef’s sleepless night.

But loathing is so impregnable it shares the weakness of its comrades in this battle against humanity finding some semblance of peace- it transcends to be sure, but only when it really has to stay in its own lane. Another second passes. Only when it needs to. And- deep breath now, merely one last breath as a parting gift to what was real before- just like that, a girl in a white silk dress has walked all over a white silk flag. Now it is time for my love to be married at last, and at last, here we go.

I write poetry, prose, and personal pieces. All images are mine unless indicated otherwise. Feel free to leave feedback on my work anytime; I hope you enjoy.

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