Rituals and Rites

I turn, watching the sleek skirts swish smoothly about my legs. “It’s beautiful.” I whisper.

“It suits you.” My soon-to-be mother-in-law says, coming up behind me with a flower wreath in her hands. She settles it into my hair, smoothing the streamers along my back. I fidget with my sleeves.

The door opens behind me, and I hear a sharp gasp. “Oh my god, you look great!” My sisters-in-law crowd into the room.

I turn, feeling my cheeks and ears burn red, but I’m smiling anyway. “I can’t believe we almost skipped all this.”

“You still made it into something uniquely yours.” My mother-in-law says. “That’s what’s important today–the two of you, and your happiness.”

I twist the silver and red ring on my finger. Soon it will have a matching band. Just two more hours.

It honestly takes nearly the whole two hours to get everyone into their dresses, with their hair and makeup done. I’m so glad we chose to have a small wedding, and an even smaller wedding party. I wonder whether the boys are alright, but, honestly, they’re probably already dressed and waiting. Hopefully not having too many shots for their ‘nerves’.

Nerves and excitement feel so much the same. Racing heart, warm skin, maybe a bit of sweat. I check my reflection in the mirror again. No sweating. Yet, at least.

“Are you sure you want to do the rituals?” I hear a hesitant voice ask. My youngest sister-to-be seems torn between nerves and excitement as well.

“I’m sure. I want to honor both of our backgrounds.” I say confidently. “They’re just rituals, after all. It’s not like they’re really magic or anything.” His other sisters break out laughing.

“It’s time.” His mom says, coming up behind me and straightening my skirt. “Do you need help down the stairs?”

“Probably.” I laugh, taking a few small steps towards the door. She helps me out into the hall, and his sisters trail behind us, making some effort to keep their chatter and laughter at low volume. We make our way down the stairs, and the men of the wedding party are already waiting for us. Each sister goes to her partner, and his mom delivers me to my father before giving me a hug and a wave and a whispered “Have fun.” She goes to find her husband in the crowd.

The music starts, a soft melody that begins to rise, stirring a sense of hope, and joy, and the beginning of a promising future. I recognize our cue and straighten up, pulling my flowing sleeves into place as I arrange my bouquet in front of me. I take my father’s arm just before the doors swing open.

I try to stifle my rising scream, but it’s too late, and the sound echoes through the large banquet hall. The guests are strewn about in puddles of dark red. The altar lays askew at the end of a cluttered aisle full of overturned chairs.

My father flinches so hard he nearly pulls me over. The group behind me falls silent, until the best man comes and pushes me behind him. He calls out my fiance’s name, but no one responds. Not a sound comes out of the room except the fading echoes of my scream.

“What the hell happened?” I hear whispers behind me.

“Shush. I don’t know…I…I can’t undo this.” I whisper over my shoulder.

“What happened to Mom?” One of his sisters asks. I think it was the youngest.

“We don’t know that either.” Says the oldest sister.

The best man cautiously approaches the back row, but nothing moves save him and a few fluttering bits of cloth, the remnants of the drapery I had tried so hard to find.

“What kind of fucking rituals were these?” Another whisper from behind.

“Rituals of protection! One from each side of the family.” I hiss.

“Whose ritual did this?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how to fix it either.”

“Call the cops?” One of the groomsmen suggested.

“You are a cop. Why aren’t you out in front?” His wife nudged him, but didn’t let go when he moved to join the best man.

“I don’t think the cops have any idea how to deal with this either.” My father’s voice is as hushed as I can ever remember hearing it.

“Do you think they missed part of it? Or does it need the other ritual to make it right?”

“I don’t think we should do any more rituals.” My vision is blurry, so I can’t see who it is that stands up from beside the tilted altar, but I blink rapidly, desperate to find out. He’s covered in blood, and I don’t know if it’s his or not. I’m already ten steps down the aisle, one of my sleeves ripped and left in my father’s clutching hands. The figure at the altar raises two hands towards me, and I realize too late that they’re raised in warning. My heels slip on the sopping floor, and I recognize the pattern with a wave of dread.