105 The Marriage Proposal

I was dreaming. My hands and feet were in thick, heavy shackles as I clutched a bouquet of black roses to my chest, my nails into the knuckles of my hands with uncontainable nerves. My eyes were glued to the front of the chapel where my husband-to-be stood in a tux, watching me like a predator. I blinked, trying to get a good look at him. He was tall and broad, built like a fighter but I couldn't see his features. His face and hair were a blur of grey to me, making it indistinguishable and therefore keeping him anonymous.

My bare feet trudged through the thick sludge of blood and the liquid dripped from my tainted hands, drops falling from my fingers to my pristine white wedding dress. Blood coated the shards of diamonds bedazzling the fabric like rain, creating polka dots where the fabric wasn't coated I from the blood on the floor. Bodies piled up on either side of the isle—our spectators. Our witnesses.