Beautiful, Bridal, Alive

Content warning: Blood, gore.

 As I pull the sleeves of my wedding dress over my shoulders, I feel a dead woman squirm.

 She’s uncomfortable in this dress, she tells me. The sleeves choke her upper arms, the boning of the bodice pushing itself into her stomach. She wishes to tear it off and throw it in the fireplace, watching the pure white lace fall over the dirty, aromatic logs.

 But she is dead. I pull her from my skin and push her down my throat. She settles in my belly, reminding myself that it is me in this dress, not the dead woman. I can bear the constricting nature of the gown, the itchy tulle brushing against my calves. I force my stomach fat into the crevices between my ribs, begging it to stay in place. Exhaled breath swells to fill the empty room as I stare into the polished mirror. I am beautiful, bridal, alive. I am the bride I have designed myself to be.

 The dead woman howls from her new abode. She pulls out her hair, letting dead strands line my inner organs. She staples her wrists to my stomach lining, coercing blood to fall from her veins into her lap. Through her torment, she begs me to do away with the dress—to abandon the bridal facade and confront my naked existence.

 Still, I have no desire to conform to her wishes. I will not deconstruct the woman I have created, the meticulous architecture of my hips and tone. I will not regurgitate the grievances with the world I have swallowed; instead, I will whisper them to the water and, when the tide echoes my words, I will command the waves to drown them out. She is ugly, unbridal, dead. I have designed myself to juxtapose her.

 Her cries are not quelled by my persistence; the dead woman is as obstinate as I. She whines like a child, she pleads like a mother. From her shackles, through her bruised and deformed mouth, she prays for my surrender.

 I must get rid of her.

 Reaching for the fabric around my stomach, I rip the middle seams of the dress apart. My belly releases, and I let the skin expand into my shaking hands, giving it a moment to relax before I assault it again with my fingernails, digging into it until skin peels away like wrapping paper. I reach for my stomach, forcefully tear it from my body, and clench it in my fists. I drop it on the floor.

 The dead woman makes her last plea, but I do not listen. I turn my back to her instead, blood discoloring my virgin dress, and turn to head down the aisle.