The Wedding

I stood beside my best friend Caleb, the groom and highlight of the day. Everyone cheered and laughed around me, holding drinks, celebrating, and eating cake. It was funny how, despite so many people being there, they didn’t notice the bride. Shouldn’t she have been in the limelight, wearing a gorgeous white dress that needed to outshine every single person in the room?

Well, it wasn't entirely white anymore.

If you looked back at her gown, you’d see a huge machete lodged behind her back, and Caleb, ever the romantic fool, hadn’t noticed. She was soaked in blood, but with her back to the plain horizon, no one questioned it. No one noticed the lifeless eyes or the pale, sickly complexion spreading across her once warm skin.

And I knew the truth. I knew the killer.

She sat with the other bridesmaids, laughing carefree and shining without a care. Did she really think no one saw her? Or did she know I was too cowardly—and too in love with her—to snitch? The guests laughed mirthfully, toasting the bride who should have been in a morgue by then.

Caleb toasted with us groomsmen, and they congratulated him. I didn’t join in. Congratulating his dead marriage felt like mockery. Instead, I passed a hollow smile, because what else could I have done?

Though I hadn’t murdered anyone, I still felt like I had blood on my hands. I could feel it trickling down my fingers. I could almost feel the bride’s eyes on me, looking with shame and hate, and I despised it all. I felt everyone chanting "murderer," "killer," "suspect…."

One look at my murderess made me forget it all. She smiled at me with such innocent grace that I thought I was just brooding about the bride’s death. I was sick, but my heart had leapt with her smile. I could have killed for her.

With a lingering look at the lifeless bride, who now had flies around her, I turned to Caleb, laughing with my best friend. He placed a hand on my shoulder with such gratefulness and closeness that I felt guilty for not returning it.

“Dominic,” he said, “I’m so fortunate to have a best friend like you, and now a wife who shares your genes.”

I laughed, though it sounded forced. “Oh, I bet I’m the best. Be sure to take care of Alessandra. She’s my favorite sister out of the four,” I said jokingly.

“Oh, I promise your sister is in perfect hands. I’ll never burden my wife—”

A shriek escaped from the cameraman, startling everyone. It seemed he had tried to shake Alessandra for the photoshoot, and she had toppled over. Her back was finally on display, an ugly shade of blood blooming everywhere on her bridal dress. She looked straight out of a horror movie: a sharp, small machete embedded in her back, the black hilt contrasting with her white gown.

Screams erupted, and my sisters and parents rushed to Alessandra, freaked out. I swear I practically heard Caleb’s heart drop from its place. I, however, found myself looking for my killer.

Melissa always played the perfect act, crying and horrified at her best friend's demise, which she had carried out. She clutched her chest dramatically, her emerald eyes holding such terror that it probably mirrored Alessandra’s when she was stabbed. I rushed to her, but she was already walking over to Caleb, clinging to him as if mourning and terrified.

But I knew she just wanted him for herself. That’s why she killed my sister in the first place: no bride, no marriage.

And I realized I could never have her for myself. She was willing to die and kill for my best friend, while I was buried in my delusions, ready to kill for her too. I lost four people that day: my sister, my best friend, my Melissa, and a part of myself.

But I was willing to get one back. If Melissa had tried to get her Caleb, then she had better be ready to have him dead on her wedding.