She was a doll bride: dressed in glimmer and showered in sparkles that hid shackles underneath. There were fresh new welts beneath old scars finally blended into skin - but, of course, the world was blind. They wouldn't have seen those scars even if she wasn't all dressed up.
She wished she could call it a funeral dress, but those lacked glitter and a spotlight over her head. That was for dolls and, for the moment, she was in a glass box on the stage to be admired. Her body ached but the shallow gazes upon her kept her prisoner. Those eyes blinded by glitter and not looking below, at the scars and fresh welts that painted her.
Then they were gone and she alone – a breath before new shackles would rise up, from their consummation: a ritual she could no less avoid than this, than the marriage, than the duty decided by a piece of paper her father had signed for her. A doll child she'd been, playing house and now a bride, dolled up but underneath, joints stiffly bound.
The dress would come off and her new husband would ignore the welts he'd caused, and the scars already there before. And the glittering dress would attract no-one, those gazes already gone. She still wore the dress, but not for long. It would soon come off. The sparkle was still there, and this time for her eyes alone.
No gaze bound her now. She picked them off, bit by bit, and dusted the bed she sat upon. Perhaps that glitter would blind her like it had bound the guests…at least for a little while.
11 September 2015