(Raven)
After the wedding we drove to his parents’ country house in a horse-drawn carriage. It was right before dawn. The house was built out of white stone and covered in ivy. It was lit up by antique lanterns, reminiscent of lilies of the valley, that gave off a humid, warm glow. The house was surrounded by a lush garden that this late—or this early—was filled with the rustling noises of insects. I had heard there were stained-glass windows in the staircase on the other side of the house, overlooking the pond. In the distance you could hear frogs croaking.
A butler came out to meet us, his feet crunching on the pebbles. He was tall with a long philtrum, an upturned nose and a fluff of hair framing his partial half-moon baldness. He acted all professional but it was obvious he was happy to see Allan—his white-gloved hand trembled when he picked up my new husband’s small suitcase.
Babe? Allan said right behind me as I stood taking it all in, and then he swooped me up, lifted me like a child. I giggled and buried my head in his shoulder and he inhaled loudly with his nose pressed against my hair. You smell fucking delicious, he said and tried to move his hand so that it would land between my legs but there were too many layers of skirts. Had he managed to feel me there, he would’ve said, You’re so wet, whether I was wet or not. He had an obsession with wetness, especially with gussets which he liked to lick and suck before peeling off my panties so that it looked as if I had soaked them through, as if he had such an effect on me.
The butler held the front door and Allan carried me over the threshold. This wasn’t going to be the house where we would live so it didn’t make sense but it was more about the ritual and Allan was romantic and a little corny. I loved the corny side of him, I loved his performances, how he’d lick and blow steam on my gussets instead of doing what he should be doing so that I could wet them on my own.
I’m not sure why I had such vulgar thoughts on a night like this. I suppose I was tired, the wedding party had gone on for hours and I was irritated by my dress that held my redesigned ribcage in a vise of a corset. I had surgery to remove two ribs on each side specifically to be able to fit into the wedding dress. The incisions didn’t quite heal so the dress rubbed against them and threatened to open me up in ways I wasn’t prepared for. Twice during the party, I had to hide in the pantry and tighten the stitches.
Allan’s mother prepared a room for us; it was a large medieval bedroom with a bed the size of a small boat, complete with a heavy red velvet curtain and a roof decorated with panels depicting Allan’s ancestors doing weird Hieronymus Bosch activities: standing on their heads, inserting flowers into their assholes, hammering nails into each others’ noses.
The ensuite bathroom was enormous with a soaking tub, a double sink and a large, brown leather chair where I laid my wedding dress.
I had prepared two different outfits for the night. Two different sets of lace and silk, ribbons that were flat enough to cover up the bandages covering the stitches in my sides.
As I bent down to pick up the garter belt, I saw a strand of hair. It was singular, long and orange. I lifted it up and it danced in the light like the tiniest flame.
*
Later, as we made love, my new husband’s hand cradling my head as he came, I stared at the ceiling and tried to ignore the soft dents my body didn’t quite sink into, the stamp of another woman, her ass like a massive peach, her heels digging into the sides as her ghost opened much wider than I could. I heard her whisper his name, I heard her tiny but distinct moans as he drove into me unaware of her splayed out underneath me. I moved his head to kiss him on the mouth and his eyes were shut, hard like two walnut shells.
Look at me, I whispered, look at me, but he wouldn’t. There was an unmistakable echo of her giggle. I felt her all around us looking and judging, noticing my sharp elbows and knees so different from her vastness.
I was too tired to care. Except that just as I was falling asleep, curled into his elbow, I felt something tug and snap at my other side. Then there was a sharp pull and I felt my stitch unravel, something wet and small falling out of me straight into the black hole of her mouth.
(Fox)
The way I died was dramatic but since there was no one to witness it—was it really dramatic? I went for a walk one morning and got caught in a cloud of madness. I was aware it was always a risk. But it hadn’t happened in so long I no longer even thought about it. The madness showed up as a swarm of tiny black butterflies, just suddenly there as I walked through nearby a meadow. We had only lived in the house by the river for a week by then.