Withering the Daisy

"Heavenly Father, thank you for all the blessing you have bestowed me. All my life. I have strived the most faithful servant in your house. I have surrended to your will without question. But just this once, I come before you with trembling hands, humbly pleasing-please, rewrite the prophecy…in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen. I murmured these words as I knelt in my daisy white dress, the fabric brushing against the cold floor. A cold voice broke the silence, my mother calling me. -“We don’t have the whole day! Hurry up a bit, will ya?” I glanced back into my room, eyes scanning every corner, as if I could catch a final glimpse of the girl I used to be. The laughter, the secrets, the restless dreams—all of it was slipping into dust. I got down-stairs and blankly stared into my mother’s eyes. As I looked at my mother’s eyes I couldn’t help but catch hints of the woman I am led into growing old. She insistently avoided my eyes and held my hands on our way to the car. I sat down and I felt my father’s eyes on me, his eyes were cold but burning through me. His eyes resembled of how every member of my family saw me as piece of meat waiting to be given away. I looked down at my hands that were sitting on my lap and simply waiting there to be handcuffed by a humble wedding ring that everyone awed at. The car ride was mostly uncomfortably quiet other than my father’s repetitive lectures for how to be a “good” wife for my “beloved” husband. As he kept speaking, all of his words passed over my head. He only stopped his lecture when he shut down the car engine. The sky outside had turned a pale gray, the kind of color that neither promised sunshine nor dared to rain—just a heavy, uncertain stillness, as if even the heavens were unsure of this day. I pressed my forehead lightly against the window, hoping the glass would somehow absorb the heat that rose in my chest, a quiet rebellion I could not name. We arrived at the church. Its tall spires clawed at the sky, stern and unmoving, like the expectations waiting behind its doors. My mother adjusted my veil, her fingers cold against my cheeks. "You look beautiful," she whispered, but her voice cracked, and I couldn’t tell if it was pride or guilt. I stood at the entrance, the heavy wooden doors looming before me. Every instinct screamed for me to run—to tear off the lace, the silk, the weight of duty stitched into every thread. But my legs didn’t move. I had been trained too well. A lifetime of “be good,” “be quiet,” “be obedient” had carved me into a statue, ready to be placed at the altar. The music began. A soft, haunting melody that should have sounded sacred but instead felt like the ticking of a clock counting down the last seconds of freedom. My father extended his arm, and I took it, because that’s what daughters do. The rustle of his two piece that is way too ironed suppressed the music. My eyes drifted toward the stained glass windows, painted with saints and sinners, salvation and sacrifice. Their vibrant colors danced in the sunlight, but all I saw was red. The doors opened with a groan, as if even the church itself resented what was about to unfold within its weary walls. My steps echoed over the stone floor, each one a soft betrayal. Guests turned their heads, their faces a blur of polite smiles and stiff approval. No one saw the girl beneath the veil—only the role I had come to perform. At the altar stood a man who could have been my grandfather. His back slightly hunched beneath a tailored suit, skin sagging with time’s heavy hand, and a smile that did not reach his eyes. He looked at me not with love, but with satisfaction—the kind of gaze one wears when admiring a prize finally delivered. His hands trembled slightly as he straightened his cuffs, but his confidence never wavered. This was a transaction to him, not a union. My heart beat so loudly I feared it would drown out the vows. Behind him stood the pastor, a man of God, reading holy words from a book that once brought me comfort. Now, each verse felt like another stone laid atop my chest. The ceremony began, but my mind drifted. I wondered what color my soul had turned—was it still the daisy-white of my dress, or had it faded into the gray of the sky outside? I tried to anchor myself, to feel something—anything—but all I could imagine was the weight of the ring, waiting to be placed on my finger like a shackle. My gaze slipped to the crowd. My mother dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief, not out of sorrow, but relief—perhaps even triumph. My father stood tall, arms crossed, like a merchant admiring the final sale of a fine commodity. When the pastor asked if I would take this man to be my lawfully wedded husband, time slowed. I felt the silence stretch, taut and breathless, like a string about to snap. But I nodded. I said the words. Because I had been taught to say yes. The ring was cold when he slid it on my finger, a quiet hiss of metal against skin. He whispered something I didn’t catch—perhaps a promise, perhaps a warning. And then it was done. They said I was now a wife. But as the church bells rang in celebration, I realized: I had been buried before I was ever wed. The applause had faded, replaced by the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The air inside the reception hall felt stifling, as if the walls themselves leaned inward. Smiles surrounded me—forced, hollow. I excused myself without a word, my footsteps light but hurried, slipping past silk gowns and champagne flutes until I found the side door and pushed it open. The garden greeted me like an old friend—quiet, indifferent, and blissfully empty. I stepped onto the damp grass, the hem of my dress dragging behind me like a shadow I couldn’t shake. Above me, the sky had begun to shift, the gray bruised now with hints of dusk. I exhaled slowly, unsure whether I was letting go of air or something deeper. A click behind me broke the silence. I turned. He was leaning against the old stone wall that bordered the garden, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette, its ember glowing faintly in the falling light. His suit jacket was slung lazily over his shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to suggest rebellion. He didn’t move when our eyes met—just raised an eyebrow and offered the cigarette towards me. "Thought brides weren’t supposed to look that miserable," he said, voice low, dry. Not mocking. Just… observant. I hesitated, then stepped forward. “I suppose you haven’t met many brides.” He smirked and lit another cigarette for himself. “Touché.” He took a drag, then added, “Joseph.” I blinked. The name clicked a second too late. “You’re his son.” “Unfortunately,” he replied without flinching. “And you’re his… new legacy?” I took the cigarette. My fingers brushed his as I did, a fleeting contact that startled me more than the smoke itself. I brought it to my lips. It tasted like defiance. And something else—freedom, maybe, even if borrowed. “I’m Iris,” I said, exhaling and coughing slightly. “Yeah,” he said, eyes studying me like he was trying to figure out which part of me was still alive. “I figured.” We stood in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that felt like a pact. Inside, music began to swell again—something classical and grand and unbearably cheerful. But out here, with a stranger who wasn’t quite a stranger, everything felt more real. The smoke curled between us like an unspoken truth.