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Wedding days are joyous occasions — or so he’s heard, anyway. Frankly, all he feels is a dull sort of dread, one that winds its way around his lungs in an attempt to choke him. He’d prefer it if it succeeded, honestly. His mother fixes his suit with firm, unyielding hands. “Don’t ruin this with your petty, ridiculous feelings,” she orders. “It took a lot of time to find a family willing to marry their daughter off to someone who has proven time and time again to be a worthless failure. You, yourself, are nothing. Our fine pedigree is the only thing that saved you.” Volo fights not to snarl. Pedigree. As though he’s nothing more than a show animal.
She pins the boutonnière to his lapel with careful hands, a bright red wound over his long-dead heart. It’s the most care he can ever remember her treating him with. When she’s finally satisfied with his appearance, she takes her leave without any further words of admonishment. He’ll take what he can get at this point. When her footsteps have finally faded away, he heads out to the balcony and pulls out the cigarette and lighter he hid in his hair. His mother would’ve noticed immediately if he’d had them in his pocket, so… some subterfuge had been needed. It was lucky his hair, pulled into a low ponytail for the ceremony, had managed to pass inspection. He didn’t need to hear yet another lecture about his stress-management habits from the person who caused him to pick them up in the first place.
He tosses the lighter into the hedges after the cigarette is lit. Better to be rid of the evidence as soon as possible. Smoke curls into his mouth, thick and scalding, sinking into his lungs to drive the despair away. He exhales it and imagines the smoke to be his dreams — hazy, undefined, uncatchable. The scent clings to him like tar but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about anything these days, wrung out and spat out by the world at large. Wasn’t a university degree supposed to save him from this miserable life? What a fucking joke. All it’s given him is a tangible monetary debt to the person who raised him to be sold to the highest bidder. All it’s done is lead him right back to where he started.
The cigarette burns out faster than he wants it to. He should’ve brought more but it hadn’t been a risk he was willing to take. Now he wishes he had but there’s nothing to be done. No use crying over spilt milk. No use crying over anything. He tosses the smouldering butt into the bushes as well, praying the dying embers will spark into a hungry flame, one that’ll consume the chapel and everyone inside — him, his mother, the fucking harlot he’s being wed to, everyone and anyone party to his misery. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. Nothing’s ever gone his way before. Why would it start to now?
Voices float to him from the distance and he turns away, ghosting back into the waiting room and closing the balcony doors. He doesn’t want to hear it. Eventually his mother comes to collect him. Her nose wrinkles at the stench of smoke and he knows she’ll tear into him for it later, when she can isolate him from the partygoers, but there’s no time for it now. Her grip digs into his arm as she marches him down the aisle, past pews full of strangers with cold, empty eyes, dropping him off in front of the altar like a recalcitrant child being escorted to school. He wants to run. He wishes he could.
The organ plays the wedding march. The audience stands. Volo’s eyes trail towards the church doors and his soon-to-be wife appears, flanked by her father. She’s… pleasant to look at, he’ll give her that. Her wedding gown is slim and fitted, accentuating her hips without toeing the line of promiscuity, lace and satin flowing out into a short train that drags behind her. A necklace and black choker — oh how he wishes he could choke her — stand out against the cream of her neck, pairing with the subtle, dark makeup around her eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a neat bun beneath the veil that sits upon her head like a crown, and her ears are adorned with silver hoop earrings. If he were in the audience, he’d say she was a vision of beauty. As her soon-to-be husband, he hates everything about her on principle.
There’s disgust swirling in her eyes as she inhales the lingering scent of cigarette smoke that clings to his suit, but her only reaction is to tighten her grip on her bouquet. He wishes she’d just storm out and call this whole charade off instead. Vows are said. Volo’s are written by his mother. He recites them with ease even if he’s never seen them before this moment. They say something about husbandly duties, sharing a future together, pledging to remain steadfast and loyal through all of life’s challenges. The biggest challenge he can think of is getting through the day without killing the stupid bitch. Her vows are flowery and vapid, promising all the same things. Neither of them mean the words they’re saying. It’s the only true connection they have with each other.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the priest concludes. “You may now kiss the bride.” Oh, how he wishes he were anywhere else. Still, he dutifully bows his head, pressing his lips against hers in a chaste, unfeeling kiss. The hazy dreams he had for himself as a child slip through his fingers and shatter on the floor. The future seems so bleak, now. His lips come away dry and tacky from her lipstick, chemicals lingering on his mouth. The scent of her bouquet makes him nauseous. The audience claps politely. He tries to smile. As they walk down the aisle to attend the post-wedding photoshoot, Volo dreams of putting a gun to his head and taking the only way out.
