Tonight Is Scripted
1485 Words
Alexandria POV
The aroma of fries and pies from the restaurant rolls off the San Francisco Bay, thick and sweet, yet suffocating. It mirrors the rare dread that settles into my marrow. I stand at the front of the building, my breath hitching in the frigid night air.
It is almost 9 PM. My life as I know it has evaporated in less than twenty-four hours, replaced by a surreal, waking nightmare orchestrated by a man whose name was whispered to me in a hushed, terrified tone just last night. I didn’t hear the name, but I heard the attached order: “You're a debt that's due. Tomorrow we'll come to clear it,” the frontman informed me.
I have never felt this alone before; it is like I am not even alive anymore. Maybe it is all a dream, and I will wake up from it someday. To have been thrown out of my apartment just a day after I paid my rent is ridiculous.
My landlord smiled at me all yesterday, saying I was like a daughter to him. He even teased me by recommending me to his rich son. Now, he says he doesn't want to see me around his house ever again. When I protest, he laughs.
“Yes, tell the police, bring your lawyers, but Belcher is their employer,” he challenged me with a deathly grin. The old devil.
The wind bites at my exposed skin as I stand on the sidewalk, my entire life packed into a flimsy leather box and two oversized bags.
The streetlights flicker overhead, casting long, jittery shadows that seem to dance toward me. Every passing car sounds like a threat; every distant siren, a precursor to my end. I feel like a zombie with no mind of its own, watching the city go on with its business while my world has been completely repackaged without my consent.
The order from the men who came by yesterday is that I wait at the front of the restaurant by 9 PM.
“Otherwise, if we have to find you ourselves, it will be in a body bag,” the frontman had warned.
It is 9 PM. A black Escalade parks in front of me. The driver steps out and rushes toward me, clasping his gloved hands together.
“Miss Alex, let me help you with those.”
He pulls my leather box and the two large bags into the trunk. I stand speechless, and once he is done, he opens the back door for me like a gentleman. With a bow, I slowly climb into the SUV.
This is… well, this is a luxury many could only dream of. Although I don't look impressed, as soon as he closes the door, I start begging,
“Sir, please, can you help me? Who am I a debt to?” I plead, but he seems completely deaf to my words. He begins to drive.
My nose is filled with the smell of expensive leather and something addictive, perhaps a cologne that feels too sharp, too cold. As we glide through the streets, I watch the blur of San Francisco’s skyline. The world I have lived in and loved seems but a vanishing shadow.
I wonder if I am already dead and this is just the commute to the afterlife. The driver’s silence is absolute, a void that refuses to be filled by my desperate questions.
We arrive in front of a large gate. A lady walks toward the vehicle, all smiles, and she joins the driver in the front.
“Vontril Alexandria, my name is Jina. Welcome to the estate,” she greets me.
“Thank you,” I reply, shaking.
“Oh, my dear, it's your happy day. Rest assured, the entire house can't wait to meet you. So, kindly change into this dress, please,” she says as she stretches a large leather bag toward me.
“I should change, like, right now?” I ask with tear-filled eyes and a hard swallow.
“Yes, honey,” she replies with the jovial voice of an Elizabethan maiden from a soap opera.
I begin to open the bag to reveal a silver and blue gown covered in stones around the neck, a truly expensive dress. Inside the bag is also a white veil, shaped like a crown.
As the driving progresses, I quickly change. I press my black t-shirt and jeans into the bag just as we stop in front of the castle.
Yes, this is not a regular duplex; the architecture is immense. The stone walls project like a fortress, ancient and impenetrable, draped in climbing ivy that looks more like barbed wire in the nightlight.
My fingers tremble as I zip the gown, the fabric cool against my skin, transforming me into someone I don’t recognize.
As we step into the garden, there is wild applause. I look around, my expression one of the greatest surprises I have ever experienced. All my family is there in the hall.
“What the f**k is going on?” I shout as I feel the familiar air of their glittery laughter. I catch the eyes of Jina as she points to my dad, mum, and brother. Are they all pranking me?
Their faces are a blur of forced smiles and glassy eyes, none of them meeting my gaze with true clarity. It is a bizarre, hollow celebration. A stage play where I am the only one who hasn't read the script. I want to scream, to shake them, to demand to know why they are standing in a room owned by a man who has effectively destroyed my life less than twenty-four hours ago.
No one seems to understand what I am going through. Then, I walk past a mirror draped in balloons and plastic flowers. I see myself clearly: I am dressed in a bridal gown, and it looks like a royal wedding reception.
“And who's getting married?”
I ask passionately to my usher, Jina. She just laughs fearfully. The laughter isn't genuine; it is a rhythmic, rehearsed sound meant to mask the crushing weight of the room. It is then I realize the silence of my family isn't peace; rather, it is surrender.
My dad walks toward me with his usual steeze as the applause begins to dwindle.
“Your Highness,” he bows, gesturing with his right arm for me to put my arm through his. Raising his shoulder proudly, he begins to walk. Wait, are we walking down the aisle?
The carpet beneath my feet feels like velvet, muffling the sound of my heartbeat, which echoes in my ears like a drum. Every step feels like walking toward a guillotine, yet my legs move with a mechanical grace I don't know I possess. The chandeliers overhead cast a golden, oppressive light, making the room feel smaller, more intimate, and significantly more depressing.
The entire scenario is getting clearer, but there is no time to ask questions, because standing in front of me is a man whom I have never met before, but could swear I have seen in my dreams a thousand times.
His tailored black suit fits his athletic posture so well I can tell he has not six, but eight-pack abs. With blue eyes that ooze a seductive aura, he seems to possess the power to wield emotions without saying a word. Damn. He is beautiful.
He stands there like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike, his stillness more intimidating than any violence.
A priest walks into our midst. “Do you, Belcher Kushner, take Alexandria Vontril as your lawful wedded wife…” My ears seem to hit a siren sound; I can’t even fathom hearing the end of the speech.
“I do.” Belcher’s voice vibrates through the floorboards, deep and resonant, and my eyes widen.
Now the priest turns to me to say the exact words I have heard in all those weddings.
“I do,” I say quickly, swallowing indistinctly.
“You may kiss the bride,” the priest directs.
This is a dream, I assure myself as my heart starts beating loudly, making my face flush in fear that he might hear the thumping. The air in the room feels heavy, charged with energy that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up.
His face draws close to mine, and he places the lightest kiss on my f*****g lips. I feel like I am going to die, but no, I just kissed this godlike dude.
As he pulls back, he doesn't smile, and in that moment, I realize the nightmare is only just beginning.
- Writer
