Writing Exercise: Wedding Pictures

Annabelle stood rigidly next to the man who was to be her husband. The wedding gown her mother had chosen felt stiff and constricting, and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to rip it away from her body and flee, screaming, from the church. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. This had been planned for over a year; relatives and friends had come from all over the world to witness the ceremony, and Annabelle was certain that she was feeling what all other brides felt on their most special day, so there was no reason to allow herself to be upset. She stole a sideways glance at her groom, and her stomach did a little flip-flop as she felt that now all-too familiar wave of panic. As soon as it came over her, she scolded herself inwardly for the betrayal. Henry was a good man, her parents had said as much, and he admired Annabelle and wanted to make her his wife. She should be grateful. She should be happy.

Henry stood beside her, their arms nearly touching, and seemed to be listening to the priest with rapt attention. Annabelle looked him over, slowly, realizing with a bit of a start that this was her first opportunity to do so without his knowledge. He was a stout man, only slightly taller than she, which put him somewhere around 5'6 or so. His hair, so dark it was almost jet black, was parted as always, on the left and neatly slicked back. His rather extravagant moustache was impeccably groomed, right down to the precise swirls at the very ends, and through her now reflexive disgust, Annabelle suddenly remembered the quarrel they had had some months before, about that same moustache. Henry had spent no less than thirty minutes grooming the offending patch of hair, and Annabelle had teased him about it good-humouredly. Until that moment, she hadn't minded the moustache, but he had kept her waiting in the sitting room for almost an hour while he readied himself for their monthly night out, and she knew that most of that time had likely been devoted to the grooming of his facial hair. She had felt suddenly resentful and when he had come downstairs, finally ready to leave, she had made some sort of witty remark. She had thought it witty, at least, until she felt the sting of his backhand across her face.  He had asked -- no, ordered -- her to never poke fun at him again, unless she enjoyed the slap. She had said nothing.

Now, standing next to him at the altar, her mind suddenly flashed on what her life with him was apt to be like, and her breath caught in her throat as she felt complete despair wash over her. How could she marry this oaf? Why should she? Annabelle looked away from Henry and scanned the front-most pews for her mother's face. Blissfully happy, off course, and so much so that she couldn't have noticed the tears streaming down Annabelle's face, or the desperate, pleading look in her eyes. Then, suddenly, her mother looked directly at Annabelle and with a simple, almost imperceptible shake of the head, admonished her daughter for her disloyalty to the man who would be her life mate.

And so, Annabelle got married.