Ken and Barbie

This is a different story, one not told before because the old ones sounded too clean. They named them Ken and Barbie to keep the edges smooth. Names are good at that.

Ken dissolved into liquor, his voice losing proportion. Time bent when he entered the room and filled with a certain fear only he could provide.

"Whore" was a common phrase.

The bells rang without a church, metal calling to metal- a sound meant only for her.

Her body learned new weather, how to survive. Bruises bloomed out of season, catalogued, covered and displayed nowhere.

She was beautiful. This was repeated like a rule as if beauty could stand guard. Rooms watched and mirror declined participation. The world would stay appropriately impressed.

Love moved through her like a myth overheard, familiar but incorrect, already ending. Somewhere, outside the telling, a doll kept smiling- its eyes open, its hands clean.

In the final telling, no veil, no witness, no altar left intact.

She was a runaway bride.