Chapter 1: Persephone

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end”- Seneca

I'm standing at the altar in a fuchsia-colored bridesmaid dress. Fuchsia might make most people think of the ugly duckling of bridesmaid dresses, but my dress was the white swan of the bridesmaid dresses. My mother had it custom-designed with me in mind. It was tailored to fit my every curve. A simple yet fashionable summer dress with a neckline that was cut into a gentle V, showing just a small delicate taste of my creamy cleavage. The dress hugged my stomach like a second skin, traveling down to my waist, where it flowed out into a billowy skirt that stopped just below my ankle. The designer smiled and laughed at one of my fittings, where she jokingly told me that she'd added a thigh-high slit in the dress so it wouldn't hinder my dancing.

Unbeknownst to the seamstress, I could dance in anything, even a skin-tight mermaid dress, like the dress my mother was currently walking down the aisle in. Dancing was my solace. It was my escape from reality. Only when I've lost myself to the beat of the music and the flow of my body, each carefully calculated choreographed move, do I find a sense of euphoria, the blissfulness of the serotonin releasing itself into my bloodstream. Only when dancing, can I hide from the darkness that lies inside of me.

Mom looks gorgeous in her ivory-colored mermaid-style wedding dress. The chapel is silent except for the soft instrumental version of Celine Dion's "Falling in Love Again," the click-clack of mom's heels against the ceramic tiles, and the soft, gentle sway of her dress as it moves as one with her body. My mother portrays the definition of a woman in love as she walks toward her new husband. Her smile is bright enough to light up the chapel itself. Her eyes are focused solely on her man like he is the only other person here; her heart beats for him; her lungs breathe for him and him alone. He, the man standing across the altar from me, is her new beginning.

I should be happy for Mom. I should be thankful that when the door closed on her first happily ever after, a new door opened, giving her another chance. I should be sharing in her joy on her wedding day, but instead, my vision keeps fading in and out. One moment, I'm standing at the altar watching as my mom walks down the aisle, and the next, I'm sitting in front of a closed casket, the sound of rain pounding furiously on the mahogany wood, washing out the sound of the widows' cries.

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It's here. The day that we've all been dreading, the day that will officially mark this nightmare as the tragedy that it is. It's the day of the funeral, and I'm standing in my room in front of a full-length mirror, looking over my appearance one more time before we leave. I'm wearing a black lace dress that stops at my knees, a pair of thick black tights, and a pair of black satin heels. My unruly blond curls are pinned back with my signature plastic headband, and I have on a pearl necklace with matching earrings. I take in my appearance, reach over to my nightstand, and grab the sheer black veil sitting on it. I quickly tie it to my headband and move it to flow freely in front of my face.

Many people wear mourning veils to hide their suffering faces; their bloodshot eyes from crying so hard they burst a vessel; their cheeks raw from all the tears they've shed, and their lips cut and bruised from biting down so hard on them as they try to will the pain and tears away, but not me. I wear my veil to hide my grief. I wear my veil to keep my secrets hidden.

There's a light knock on my bedroom door before my aunt opens it.

"Are you ready, dearest?" She asks, her voice still hoarse from her grief.

I inhale deeply before letting the air out slowly, "As ready as I'll ever be." I reply as I walk toward her, ignoring the frantic beating of my chest.

My aunt opens her arms and entraps me in a warm embrace. Her lips gently touched the top of my head.

"You don't have to be brave, sweetheart. It's okay to cry. "She murmurs against my head.

I wish my lack of tears were because I felt like I had to be strong. I wish it were because I was holding them back, afraid that they'd finally flow throughout my body once I let them go, and I'd finally feel something, anything besides this numbness inside of me.

My aunt pulls away and gently clasps her hand in mine as we descend into the tears. We walk past Mom's room, and I expect to hear the now all-too-familiar sounds of her wails, but instead, we're greeted with silence as we walk by.

"Where's mom?" I ask my aunt, turning my attention to her, cringing at how unaffected my voice sounds.

"She's downstairs with Teddy." My aunt replies with a soft smile, her eyes laced with concern as she watches me closely.

Teddy. Theodore Brutte. My father's old boss

"What is he doing here?" I asked Aunty, confusion evident on my face.

"He's come to...." Aunty cuts her reply short as the foyer comes into our line of sight.

There in the foyer are Mom and Teddy. His mom is clinging to him like he is her lifeline. And Teddy is holding her tightly against him, one hand rubbing gentle circles across her back while the other holds her head to his chest. He's whispering something to her. I can't hear what he's saying, but I can see his lips moving right above her head. If I didn't know how much my mother loved my father, I would have assumed I'd stumbled upon a lover's embrace, but now. This was just Mr. Brutt comforting a grieving woman.

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"Do you, Theodore Kyle Brutt, take Mary Rose Gildehart to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

The minister's voice draws me back to the present. This is my life now. I am Theodore Brutt's stepdaughter.