The Black Wedding: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a girl, known as a Beautiful One, grapples with the horrors of her circumstance
Please be aware that this story contains scenes of self-harm
They once called me a Beautiful One.
Now I hang my head in shame.
It isn’t hard for me to do so, considering all that has happened. With rotten fruit on my feet and vegetable stains on my dress, it’s impossible for me to face a crowd who once adored me, let alone the man who is now my husband.
Let me explain:
My name is Emily, and I was chosen by a Gentlewoman of the State, from the many girls of the small settlement of Gladberry, to become a Beautiful One: a girl whose place within the Glittering City is judged not by the people, but the country. Our great Countess, Aa’eesha Dane, created this Process in order to sustain the gene pool of the Great South, and create her vision of a beautiful, perfect race.
The only problem with this? Her plans for me backfired—and it was all because of one man who became obsessed with me.
I can see him now, even from behind the curtain that is shielding me from an angry crowd. The corner of his lip is raised in a smirk, and his eyes are sparkling with delight over the chaos that his words have sewn.
He is a journalist—a man who, with pen and paper, can make or break a girl.
Just like he has done to me.
A sigh escapes my lips as the gravity of the situation begins to take hold. Defeated, now, more than ever, I slump my shoulders—and try, with little success, to keep from crying.
“Emily?” my advisor, a Gentlewoman by the name of Revered Mother Terra, asks. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” I reply. “At least, I think I will.”
She stares out the gap in the curtain at the man I am staring at and says, “He will be punished.”
But how, I wonder? Is free speech not a right the photojournalists enjoy? And if that’s the case, then just how will he be punished, especially given that he did not directly tell the people to do what they did?
I frown as I feel a hand upon my shoulder, and immediately tense as I sense the man who is now my husband draw forward. “Emily,” Arthur says.
“Yes?” I reply.
“It’s all right. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry? I think.
I can’t help but laugh.
How can I not worry when the whole world now seems to be against me?
Rather than think about it, I turn; and with sadness born of a time that should have been marvelous, follow my husband and Revered Mother Terra away from the scene.
While we are flanked by members of the Southern Alliance of Dames—female soldiers who stand at the ready to protect us should anything go wrong—I can’t help but wonder if there is a gun trained on me in the distance, and one madman or even woman waiting to fire.
Should I die, I think, on this day, let it be known that I tried to be good.
I close my eyes.
Arthur sets a hand on my back and begins to knead the tense muscles with his gentle fingers.
This should have been perfect. This should have been wonderful. This should have been a fairytale come to life.
But it wasn’t.
No.
This day—this day of reckoning—has been unlike any I have ever experienced.
And I am now seen as a disgrace.
As we pile into the vehicle that will take us back to the Countess’ Spire, where all Beautiful Ones of my position are meant to live and wait, I wonder, just briefly, if everything will be all right.
Then I realize that will not likely be the case.
Our arrival is met with even more photojournalists, even more cameras, even more disgrace. The SADs are the first to exit; and though their shields are drawn, we can still be seen through the glass insets that allow the Dames to look out at their potential aggressors.
“Whore!” I hear one cry.
“Wretch!” another calls.
“Witch!”
“Cretin!”
I keep my eyes lowered, and my gaze set toward the ground, as we advance up the short walkway that leads to the Spire’s glass doors. Here, the SADs guarding the doors part; and here, we enter, only to be escorted through the sparkling front lobby and toward the elevators that await us at the opposite side of it.
“We’re almost done,” Revered Mother Terra says. “Then we won’t have to worry about a thing.”
Will we, though? Will we really? The truth of the matter is that she will not be burdened with this colossal guilt, this immense shame, for it was not her that the man wrote about, that he lied about. No. To think that this will be over anytime soon is madness; and in that sense, completely and utterly insane.
Though it seems to take ages to make our way across the lobby, we are soon entering through the elevator, and then rising up the Spire’s immense heights to a place where I am meant to live with my husband for the next indeterminable while.
Many would have expected me to cry, I think—to break down in sobs over what most would have considered the greatest shame. However, resilience born of a life of poverty before my grandiose rise has granted me a stone exterior, a carapace of hard flesh underneath.
A sigh escapes me as the elevator begins to move.
Arthur asks, “Are you all right?”
And I, who can say little in light of everything that has happened, merely say, “Yes. I’m fine.”
Callous as it is, the lie serves me well, and is enough to put Arthur at peace, at least for the time being. Who knows what he’ll say come time we reach my room.
My room.
I shiver as I consider the implications of what it will mean.
Will he want to consummate the marriage? Will he leave me be?
I don’t know; and that’s what unsettles me.
I know I can’t think about it, though, and for that reason, keep my eyes lowered and my gaze set toward the ground.
Come time the elevator door opens, it feels like we’ve been traveling forever.
“Come,” Revered Mother Terra says. “This way.”
I follow her slowly, glad for the distraction and even more thankful for her presence. It is the one thing I know is distracting Arthur from saying more. From asking me if I’m all right. From him telling me everything will be okay.
I know it won’t. I know this for a fact. And yet, I know he would try to assure me with false platitudes, if only because of everything that has occurred on this horrible day.
I can’t think on it for long.
Soon, we are drawing up to my apartment door, and Revered Mother Terra is drawing a keycard from her pocket.
“Revered Mother,” I say as she swipes the card to unlock the door.
“Yes?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“About what, dear?”
“About… this.” I gesture to the stains on my dress, my person, my being.
“The dress can be cleaned, dear.”
“That’s… not what I mean.”
She considers me for several long moments before she finally says, “Please, come inside.”
We enter—the Revered Mother first, me second, my husband third.
When it comes time for the door to be closed, Revered Mother Terra turns to face me and says, “You mean to inquire about your public persona.”
“I—” I start, then pause before swallowing and saying, “Yes. I… I do.”
“The Gentlewomen of the Glittering City will do everything in their power to ensure that this… matter of utmost importance… is handled. Until then, I would highly suggest you refrain from stepping out of this room.”
“But—my Purpose—”
“Can wait to be declared,” she says. She clears her throat and turns her attention to my husband. “What I need for you to do is control the damage as much as possible.”
“Me?” Arthur asks. “Why? I’m not the one who wrote those things.”
“But you are the one the people are looking toward to prove or disprove these malicious statements.” She turns her attention back to me. “Will you do as I ask? Will you remain here and avoid the scrutiny of the public?”
“Yes, Revered Mother. I will.”
“Good.” She turns toward the doorway. “Until then.”
She departs without another word, leaving me to consider everything that has occurred—from the words, to the wedding, to the aftermath of it all.
Arthur sighs and sets his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s get you out of this dress,” he says.
“Can you…” I swallow and lower my eyes.
“Can I… what?” he asks.
“Wait here. While I clean up?”
“Of course. Anything to make you more comfortable.”
With a nod, I go about gathering my clothes from my dresser—first a simple shirt, then underwear, then finally a simple pair of pants. My husband watches my every move, his eyes cautious, his gaze alert. It’s as if he’s waiting for me to crumble, for me to shake. Sweeping in, at this point, would make him seem heroic—or, at the very least, like the man I want him to be.
But I know he can’t be that man.
No.
For him to be the man I want him to be, he would have to be able to take all this pain, all this misery, all this suffering, away.
And only the Great God has that power, I think.
Sighing, I remove my shoes, then slip into the washroom and close the door behind me.
It is only when I am naked and beneath the spouting faucet that I feel any sort of emotion.
Within moments, it all comes rushing forth.
The agony—
The pain—
The cruelty of this game—
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, then begin to sob.
This day was supposed to be perfect.
Now, I know, it was never meant to be.
Arthur is gone by the time I exit the washroom. Where he’s disappeared to I cannot be for certain, but truth be told, I am thankful for his absence. It will allow me the peace of mind necessary to process everything that has happened, and what may occur now that the wedding is over.
The wedding.
I shiver as I consider its implications, as I think on what the events that transpired could cause. Regional news will be made, if it hasn’t already been broadcast. People will form their opinions, if what they’ve read from the journalists hasn’t already. And me…
Me…
I will sit and toil, for in this horrible yet monumental moment, I will either rise like the phoenix reborn, or dwell in the mud as if I am some lowly swamp creature.
Frowning, I wrap my arms around myself and slowly make my way toward the window at the edge of the apartment.
From this vantage point, so high within the sky, I can see all the way across the city—from the heights of the nearby hills, to the sloping lowlands that brush alongside the city before the metropolis rises like jagged needles from cold asphalt. It is a stupendous view—has been since I’ve first arrived—and yet, a part of me feels like I do not belong.
But is it because of you, my conscience offers, or him?
Him.
The man with the pen. Who wrote such horrible things.
A shiver crosses my body as I consider everything that has been said, everything that could be said. That will be said.
All those names, all those declarations—
And from my own people, no less.
The people who once loved and adored me.
Who lifted you up, I think, and then tore you down.
I turn my head to view my reflection in the nearby mirror, only to find that my normally-bright exterior has been tainted by the events of the day. My black hair is lackluster, my bright eyes are dull. Even my face—which I was careful to wash with the hottest of waters—resembles something completely unlike me.
“I’m not myself,” I whisper, in a voice so slow that I can barely hear it. “In body, voice, or mind.”
A knock comes at the door.
I turn.
A voice asks, “Mrs. London?”
“Yes?” I ask, but blink as the reality of the new name begins to set in.
“There’s been a package sent for you. Would you like me to—”
A package? I think. From who? Where?
I am at the door almost instantly, and opening it before I can process what it could mean fully.
The man outside—dressed in a simple red-and-black butler outfit—holds in his hands a simple brown envelope.
I lift my eyes. Swallow. Stare.
“Mrs. London?” he asks. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I lie, taking hold of the package. “Thank you.”
“The Revered Mother has advised—”
I close the door before he can finish.
In my haste to face the sudden interruption, I do not bother to recognize what could be an unfortunate truth.
The package is opened before I can stop myself.
I regret it almost instantly.
Plastered on the front page of the newspaper is a picture of me—aghast, bewildered, and covered in rotten food. The words London wedding in shambles! rest directly above the image…
Below which is a note.
Just deserts, it says. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.
I drop the package.
It falls to the floor.
I cry out. Feel tears bud at my eyes.
Why? I think. Why are you doing this to me?
But I already know why.
It’s because I didn’t choose him.
Him.
A person who was never a part of the Process to begin with.
It’s almost impossible to believe that he would have been so brazen enough to send this to me. But Marcus Wright is obsessed with me, and he’ll do anything in his power to make sure that I suffer.
Anything, I think.
I try not to think about what else could be in the package—that could be waiting to haunt me—but realize that, if I leave it here, and if Arthur comes back—
A frown crosses my lips.
No.
Arthur can’t come back. Not to this—this thing, this menace.
After crouching down and taking the contents into my hands, I stuff the note back into the package, then carry it into the kitchen, where I stuff it into a plastic bag and ferry it into the trash chute underneath the sink.
I listen to it bounce down the tunnel until I can hear it no more.
Then, slowly, I try to piece together what it is I will do.
He’s already ruined me.
What more can he do?
I realize, soon after, that he will do whatever it takes to get my attention.
Even if it means sending more packages.
I am lying in bed the following day when a knock comes at the door—and Arthur, who still hasn’t left for his work in the business offices downtown, answers the door. A brief exchange with the butler is all it takes for him to accept whatever it is the man has.
As he closes the door, he says, “Emily. A package has come for you.”
“Don’t open it,” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“I said: don’t open it.”
“Don’t you want to see what it is?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Why are you—”
I roll over to face him and say, “Do. Not. Open. It.”
He considers me for several long moments, obviously unsure of my proclamation, of my command.
Then, a moment later, he rips the top of the package open.
“I said—”
“Someone took the time to send it,” he replies. “We should at least take a moment to see what it—”
He stops before he can finish.
I lift my eyes.
He lowers the package.
I ask, “What?”
And he says, “It’s from… him.”
“Throw it away. I don’t want to see it.”
“Emily—”
“Arthur, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll throw the damn package away.”
“We should report this to the authorities.”
“I don’t want to see it!” I say, my voice bordering on a scream. “Throw it away!”
All he can do is stare.
“Arthur,” I say, throwing my legs over the side of the bed. “Do as I say.”
“Em—”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. But this… this is…”
I reach forward and rip the package from his hand, then turn and begin to stomp into the kitchen, fully intent on doing the one thing my husband refuses to do.
Halfway there, the package rips open—
And deposits its contents onto the floor.
Whether or not it was designed to break open or it did so simply because of flimsy paper I cannot be sure. Regardless, my eyes are immediately drawn to everything—from one paper, to the next, to the one afterward, to the one after that.
I can’t close my eyes fast enough.
I see the images for what they truly are.
You’re fat, one says.
You’re horrible, another intones.
Why did they choose such an ugly girl? a third asks.
Her nose is too big.
Her lips are swollen.
Her eyes look like saucers.
And the worst—the one that I don’t want to remember, but as seared itself into my brain like a brand on a cattle’s backside—is the one that haunts me.
It states, very clearly, Kill yourself.
I let out a long, low sob, then sway and collapse against the nearby wall.
Arthur is the one who steps forward and says, “Why is he—”
“I TOLD YOU!” I scream. “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LOOK AT IT!”
“Em—”
“WHY DIDN’T YOU LISTEN TO ME?”
“I thought—I thought that he—”
“You thought what?” I ask. “That he’d leave me alone? That he’d stop this whole ordeal?” I shake my head. “No, Arthur. He won’t stop. He can’t stop.”
“But why?”
“Because he hates that I didn’t choose him.”
Arthur can only stare.
I shake my head as he considers me for the next several moments, then ask, “What?”
“He… wasn’t even part of the Process. Surely he can’t be that delusional.”
“There’s something wrong with him,” I say. “Something horribly, horribly wrong with him.”
“We need to turn this into the authorities, Em.”
“What good will it do?” I reply. “The damage has already been done.”
“I… you… we…”
Arthur pauses before he can say anything more.
I look at him. He looks at me.
But rather than speak, or try and say anything further, he gathers the papers from the floor, taking extra care to turn them upside down so I cannot see the ugly words written upon their faces.
Then he rises and exits the room, all without saying goodbye.
All I can do is cry.
“There is something I’d like to discuss with you,” Revered Mother Terra says.
I lift my eyes to face the woman and consider her for everything she is worth. Her bright blue eyes. Her pure white dress. The blood red fabric that lines its underside. She is a woman of the state, and to know that she has a reason for being here is enough to make me feel small.
Not once since I’ve arrived in the Glittering City have I felt so hopeless.
Now, I realize, there is nothing I can do but wait.
Standing here, before the Gentlewoman, I offer a small nod and take a short breath before saying, “Yes, Revered Mother. I’m listening.”
“It has come to my attention that the journalist Marcus Wright has been working to both demonize and terrorize you.”
“How do you—”
She lifts a hand to stop me. “I know,” she continues, “based on documents that have been submitted, that he has worked to undermine everything the Process has done for you—and, I’m sad to say, that it is working.”
“What’re you—” I start.
The Revered Mother sighs, then, and turns her head to the nearby window. She then says, in a short and declarative tone: “The people are beginning to turn against you. Marcus Wright’s words have sewn discord between you and the people of the Glittering City. They believe many things, Emily—things that I would never in my life ever say of another woman without ample cause or reason—and they believe these things all because of the stories he has fabricated.”
“Why are they so gullible?” I ask. “How could they believe without proof?”
“You have not been allowed to view the papers because of the so-called ‘proof’ that has been doctored.”
“What do you—”
The Revered Mother lifts a hand to stop me once more. “There are ways they can fake pictures in this day and age, Mrs. London. Some would call them artists. Me? I call them charlatans. Regardless, they have been able to place your face on pictures of women in scandalous situations, and therefor, have made it appear that these rumors are true.”
“How—why—”
“This is what I am here to discuss with you.”
“Wait. What?”
Sighing, the Revered Mother closes her eyes, then opens them again to look at me. “Never have we in the Glittering City faced this sort of predicament. Sadly, there is little we can do to course correct. Which is why I must inform you of the next steps we are going to take.”
I wait in silent apprehension for her to continue.
With a short nod, Revered Mother Terra clears her throat and says, “Effective tomorrow, we will disbar you from your position as a Beautiful One of the Glittering City. You will be offered a divorce, a small sum of currency, and provisions for you and your family before you are sent back to Gladberry.”
What?
I think I speak the word, but I realize, soon after, that I haven’t. My mouth is open, my heart is broken, my lungs are empty. I gasp—foolishly at that—and feel the disbelief course through me like a wicked illness meant only to infect those who have done wrong.
Me? Leave the Glittering City? After everything that has happened? After how far I’ve come? After all these years of waiting, of longing, of finally being?
I try not to cry. I really do. And yet, I can’t help but do so. The tears, as they come spilling from my eyes, resemble waves, and over my face they cascade until finally they fall to the dress I am wearing.
The Revered Mother sighs and says, “I’m sorry.”
“But—my Purpose—”
“Will be terminated as we speak.”
“And... my family. Do… do they—”
“Know?” she asks. “No. They don’t.”
“I… I—”
I cannot speak any more.
Instead, a darkness consumes my heart, my mind, my body.
Surely I cannot go home, not after everything I have been through.
“There’s really nothing you can do,” I say, “is there?”
“Unfortunately, the damage has already been done. I’m sorry, Miss Perkins. I wish I could say more.”
The Revered Mother turns and makes her way to the door.
In moments, she is letting herself out into the hall.
And I, left to my own devices, can only think of one thing.
There is only thing I can do now that I will face the inevitable.
As I wander through the apartment, gathering the things I know will carry me through the next few moments of my life, I consider all the shame I will bring to my family if I return—and realize, wholeheartedly, that I cannot go any further.
No.
I must take matters into my own hands.
It is a course of action that I know will be painful, if only for a moment. But the release—it will take me from the hands of evil, and deliver me into the arms of mercy.
In moments, I begin my plan.
The fan is turned off.
The chair is arranged.
The rope is tightened around the stalk just above the ceiling fan’s blades.
Then, it is ready.
In less than a moment, I slip the noose over my neck with care I knew I would not have in a previous life, then prepare myself for what is to come.
For everything I have wanted—
For everything I have gained—
For everything I once had and wish I could have once more—
“Great God,” I whisper, in as quiet a voice as possible. “Please, hear my plea: keep me steady, and make it swift.”
Then, with one last breath, I step off the chair.
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