The Wedding

Crimson streamers hang like lengths of small intestines. Long tables wear white shrouds and centerpieces of red roses, fresh hearts left jagged around the edges. The bride smiles baring rows of sharp, wet teeth.

She used to be my sister. Now she’s some new breed of monster. “Vampire” is too good for her. She leaves her prey alive, but hollowed out. She offers nothing in return.

The chairs are full of zombies who never died, stabbing at their bloody prime rib, their beaten cordon bleu. The ones who say anything speak in inanities, recorded messages: “Beautiful ceremony,” even though the officiate had to hold her nose in disgust. “Lovely couple,” when the groom’s liver-spotted skin could slide off his bones at any moment.

Six seats down from the she-devil—after her row of clones: the maid of honor and bridesmaids with their hooker-painted faces, their pushed-up tits, and their spike-heeled shoes; half way down the table, enough distance to not be in the radius, the splatter pattern of gore that spews out of the witch, the demon, the bride—way down there sits our mom.

She is pristine. Her dress is tailored and tasteful. Her hair is perfect. She is the impeccable image of the mother-of-the-bride. But her eyes are weary and red with grief. Her lips downturned, pulled at the corners by a heavy wet woolen sense of failure.

She feels it, like I do. We are at the funeral of our family.

Edvard_Munch_-_Vampire_(1895)_-_Google_Art_Project

Vampire, Edvard Munch (1895)

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