Chapter 1: The Wedding March
1300words
My temples throbbed with the dull pain of last night's hangover. I clutched the white rose bouquet, its thorns pricking my fingers through silk gloves. The lavender bridesmaid dress clung to my body like an elegant prison.
*Why do I always feel like an intruder?*
Even at my sister's wedding, I couldn't shake this sense of not belonging. I've felt it since childhood—Isabella was always the perfect daughter, while I was the one who made everyone uncomfortable.
"Stand up straight," Mother Eleanor whispered, her Chanel No. 5 perfume mingling with some anxious, sour scent. Her hands trembled slightly, which confused me—Eleanor never lost control in public.
When I caught that desperate tension in her eyes, words died in my throat. Eleanor wasn't herself today; she looked like a child terrified of having her secrets exposed.
My gaze drifted to Isabella walking toward the altar. She wore a Paris custom wedding dress worth a hundred thousand dollars, looking every bit the fairy tale princess. But through her veil, I could see her hands trembling—not from excitement, but fear. Her steps were stiff, as if invisible ropes dragged her forward.
*Why did the bride look like she was walking to the gallows?*
Christopher stood at the altar, handsome as ever, his smile perfect. But his eyes were chillingly cold, showing no love for Isabella—only the satisfaction of possession.
Uncle Marcus in the front row checked his watch repeatedly, his usually warm blue eyes now as gloomy as a storm-threatening sky. A noticeable bulge distorted his suit jacket, and his hand occasionally brushed that spot, as if confirming something was still there.
The guests all seemed uneasy. The Harrison family members had an unnatural anticipation in their eyes, and even our friends were unusually tense.
"Now, if anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be joined together, speak now or forever hold your peace." The pastor's voice echoed throughout the church, his hands trembling slightly.
A moment of silence descended. The church grew so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
But in this sacred silence, I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
The pain came so suddenly, so intensely that I didn't even have time to react. Looking down, I saw a silver dagger deeply embedded in my chest, its handle intricately carved with elegant patterns that gleamed in the candlelight. Blood blossomed like a warm flower across the lavender silk, creating an eerie contrast between crimson and purple.
The pain was so real, so intense that I could feel the friction of metal cutting between my ribs. I felt the warmth of blood spreading, smelled its metallic scent, heard my own rapid breathing. This was no dream or hallucination—this was reality unfolding before me.
*How is this possible?* Panic and confusion washed over me as my brain refused to accept this reality. Who would commit murder in a sacred church, in plain view of everyone? Why? Why me?
But my body had already lost control. My legs weakened, and my vision blurred. I collapsed onto the cold marble floor—stones from hundreds of years ago, polished smooth by countless footsteps. Blood spread across the white stone in irregular patterns, like some macabre artwork.
I heard the guests' cries of alarm, felt their panic. Some screamed, some wept, some frantically dialed phones. But these sounds seemed distant and unreal, like echoes from another world.
In my final moment of consciousness, I saw Isabella watching me through her veil. There was no terror in her eyes, no sorrow—only a complex emotion resembling relief. That expression froze my blood, more terrifying than death itself.
*Why wasn't she surprised? Did she know this would happen?*
This thought echoed in my mind like a final judgment. Isabella, my sister, the sister I grew up with—she knew I would die here. She not only knew but felt relief.
Darkness engulfed me like a rising tide, drowning my consciousness. The last sound I heard was the pipe organ, its solemn melody now transformed into a funeral dirge.
—
At two o'clock in the afternoon, the solemn wedding march sounded again inside St. John's Cathedral.
I suddenly awoke, my heart pounding like a drum, as if from a nightmare. Instinctively, I reached for my chest, searching for that fatal wound. No wound, no blood—the lavender dress was intact, without even a wrinkle. My fingers frantically searched the silk for any trace of blood, but found nothing.
Yet that memory of having my heart pierced was so vivid, so real that my fingers could still feel the stickiness of warm blood. I remembered every detail—the weight of the dagger, the temperature of the blood, the coldness of the marble floor. These memories were too clear, too specific to be a dream.
*What kind of place is this?* I looked around, fear trickling down my spine like ice water. Everything around me repeated exactly as before—Eleanor's critical voice, Marcus's anxious expression, Christopher's indifferent posture. Even the angle of sunlight through the stained glass was identical to the millimeter, with red light spots falling in the same positions, blue light illuminating the same altar.
The pipe organ played the same Bach "Minuet in G Major," every note exactly matching my memory. The guests' positions hadn't changed, their expressions hadn't changed, even their breathing rhythms remained identical. This wasn't similarity—this was exact repetition.
*This is not a dream.* The pain of death was too real, so real that my very soul trembled. I felt my heart beating violently, felt blood rushing through my veins, felt fear coursing through my nerves. I was alive, I was awake, but I had also just died.
This contradiction nearly broke my mind. I struggled to understand what had happened, to find a reasonable explanation. Perhaps I'd fainted, perhaps I'd experienced an extremely vivid dream. But my body told me this wasn't a dream—my memory insisted the death was real.
This time, I forced myself to stay calm and observe every detail carefully. I noted the position of Eleanor's handbag, counted how often Marcus checked his watch, studied the coldness in Christopher's eyes. I tried to remember everything, searching desperately for any difference.
But everything was exactly the same. Every movement, every expression, every sound matched perfectly with my memory. This perfect repetition filled me with supernatural dread—fear of some unknown, incomprehensible force.
When the priest asked for objections, my muscles tensed, preparing for that fatal blow. I knew it would come, knew the pain would strike from behind, knew I would die again. But knowing and experiencing are entirely different—when the pain actually came, it still shocked me.
The pain arrived as expected, like an appointment with destiny. But this time, as I fell, I used all my strength to turn around. I had to see who was killing me—I had to know the truth.
The scene before me froze my blood and shattered my world completely.
My mother Eleanor stood behind me, holding the bloody dagger. That silver weapon looked peculiarly out of place in her well-manicured hands, blood dripping along the blade, forming small pools on the marble floor. Her delicate face showed no madness, no anger—only deep sadness and desperation, tears leaving black mascara trails like a broken mask.
"I'm sorry, Sarah," her voice was light as a feather, yet heavy enough to crush my world. "This is the only way."
Those words cut deeper than the dagger. My mother—the woman who raised me, who taught me to speak, to walk, to become a woman—had killed me. And from her expression, this wasn't impulse but a carefully considered decision.
Darkness swallowed me again, but this time I entered death carrying a terrible truth: my mother wanted me dead.
