A Very Fine Engagement

When she was young, she dreamt of a family of her own. She would place costume jewelry on her ring finger and pretend to be a bride. She would hold out her hand and watch the faux stone twinkle. To be a wife was to be good. To be a wife was to be loved. To be a wife was to be happy.

The girl matured into a woman. She attended university in Boston and educated herself in biology. No longer did she desire to be a wife. To be a wife was to be possessed. But nothing lasts forever. Her peers began to couple; wedding and engagement invitations flooded her apartment's corroded mailbox.

You are cordially invited—

We are pleased to invite you—

Join us in celebrating the union of—

When she met him for the first time, it was a frigid night in January. Darkness shrouded the streets. A dusting of snow began to build in the cracks between the cobblestones.  He was in one of her laboratory courses and happened to stay late that same evening. After a bit of small talk, she learned he was to be a doctor.

Her mother always told her to marry a doctor or a lawyer. She would tell the girl that she was just joking, but she knew her mother was serious to some degree. She wanted nothing more than to make her mother proud.

“I just love to help people,” he said. Charisma bled from him. His smile an invitation to perhaps, just one dinner…

Months passed. Seasons came and went. The streets of Boston bustled with students enjoying the summer. Trees and flowers bloomed in small patches of grass that peppered the New England city. The girl received her degree and, on the same day, a ring. From the middle of a box of chocolates, the ring gazed at her, pleadingly; a large sapphire stone, set among diamonds on a gold band—it seemed luxurious. It was his grandmother's; he told her proudly. She slipped the ring on her finger, and it slid down as if it were coated in honey. He smiled, and she sensed the stress behind his wavering grin.

“It's very old,” he said, hubris detected in his voice. She wanted to feel as proud as he did. Hell, maybe she could enjoy being a wife.

Every day she showed the ring to someone new, because that is what fiancés are to do.

“Oh, it’s just gorgeous!” they would shriek in delight.

“And it fits so perfectly,” she would say.

The ring became an object of comfort for her. In moments of stress, she would fiddle with it, rotating it in circles and holding her hand out to gaze upon the beautiful manifestation of his love.

In the months they were betrothed, he showered her with gifts and affection. She never had to work again, he’d say. “You deserve a break.”

 She had been hired shortly after graduating; a job at the school she had attended, a job she quite liked. She had been making a steady income. But maybe she did deserve a break, just like he suggested. She twisted the ring on her finger as she contemplated; it hugged a bit tighter.

Staying home now, she cleaned, painted, and read. Soon, roses and jewelry turned to heaps of sweat-stained laundry and dirty dishes. Would she clean his suit? Of course, she doesn't mind. Would she host his boss for dinner? He knew how much she’d love to host, although she had never done it in her life. But she would learn for him.

He was a decent husband; he voiced concern over her health often. He suggested that just ten pounds lost would do her good.

“You'll feel so much better!” he said, flashing his toothy grin. Though she did not recall mentioning feeling unwell, she was sure he just wanted what was best. She found herself jogging until she felt sick and tired, but healthier, prettier. He provided a lovely life for her; it was the least she could do. He suggested eating less meat, for her heart. He was so educated, he was going to be a doctor, and she should listen.

One evening the girl made him a special dinner of steak, potatoes, and asparagus. He had been placed in a residency program and came home thrilled. He called her early in the day to tell her the news and she was elated. She spent the day baking and cooking for him. When he waltzed through the door of their cramped apartment, he picked her up and spun her. His smile dissolved as he dropped her to the floor, the girl barely catching her balance before tumbling to the ground.

“Have you been keeping up with your diet?” he said, a shadow cast over his demeanor. He took a seat at the table and watched her move around the kitchen disapprovingly. She served him his dinner. And for her, some asparagus. When he retired for the night, she snuck a piece of steak that her fiancé hadn't finished. A vile smell shrouded the forkful of flesh. It tasted rotten She felt the sinew grind between her teeth and gagged, dropping the chewed cow from her mouth into the sink. It fell with a wet plop, and she grimaced. It was better that way: less meat, less weight.

She sat back down and began to fidget with her ring, this time, it would not budge. She squinted at her hand and saw the meat of her finger subtly bulging around the band, skin squeezed like a vice. No more meat, she told herself.

Though she found ways around her new restrictions, eventually everything tasted of earth and decay. She would pick like a bird, understanding that food was necessary to survive, but at least she no longer felt like a glutton. She grew tired and frail. But he told her how beautiful she was every day.

Time went on and the couple were planning their nuptials. She had wanted a large wedding with all her family and friends in attendance.

“We must be practical,” he said. “How about a small ceremony? My family's church would love to have us.” Although the girl was not religious, she agreed. A church could be beautiful, and who needed a tremendous wedding? She considered a smaller wedding would be better; he was right.

In the months leading to the wedding, the girl had her dress altered three times. The tailor would marvel.

“I wish I could drop the pounds like you!” and the girl would force a laugh. Her mirror image had become a stranger. The girl she had once known was buried inside her. She shed a tear—what a fetching bride she would make for him.

Despite the physical change, the ring still clutched her finger tight. She found that when she tried to slide it off, it caused intense pain. She would feel nauseous and dizzy when catching a glimpse of the damage the band was causing her skin. When able to move it by millimeters, she could see the skin under the band was flaky and raw. When exposed to the fresh air, the inflamed skin would sting, and she would slip the ring back down. It felt as though the ring was shrinking with her. She would shake away such a silly thought each time it attached to her.  It’s not like I’m taking it off any time soon anyway.

As the wedding approached, he adopted an impatient demeanor. One morning, she decided to surprise him with breakfast. She slaved away, mixing pancake batter and heating pads of butter in cast iron pans. The smell of bacon enveloped the room, and she hummed a tune. As she plucked and cracked an egg on the rim of the bowl, a scream gargled from her throat. Blood oozed from the yolk, and a chunk of what was to become a chick swirled in the yellow-red mix. The iron odor assaulted her nostrils. She gagged and screamed again.

“Jesus! What could it be now!?” He lumbered into the kitchen. She shrank under his arm, which was ultimately reaching for the bowl of carnage on the counter behind her. He grimaced at the contents, whispered something under his breath, and threw the entire bowl in the trash.

“Just throw it all away. I'm not hungry anyhow,” he spat, vacating the kitchen as rapidly as he entered. After he had left, she scrambled to the sink to clean the bit of blood clinging to her hand. Scrubbing between her fingers, she felt a searing pain under her ring. She probed at the band with her thumb, hands shaking. In times like this, the ring felt no different than handcuffs. She felt as though it was becoming one with her body, fusing to the skin despite her silent protest. She cried for the bird, thinking that somewhere that chick's mother sat, on a farm, most likely in someone's stomach. It must have died wondering the fate of the eggs that were robbed from her. She leaned over the sink and vomited.

She did not hide her pregnancy for long, not even a day. Even taking the pregnancy tests without his knowledge felt deceitful. She would not admit to herself that somewhere, deep down, she found the feeling exciting. Taking test after test, positive result after positive result, she could not escape telling him. Since the early days of their relationship, he had always said he wanted children. They had been on a picnic in a park outside the university. He often shared his lunch breaks with her, something he hadn’t done in ages.

Nervously she asked: “Do you want children?”

“I do,” He had looked her in the eyes. “I would love to have a family with you.”

Maybe he would be thrilled, and if he was, she might be too. Her hands trembled as she held the positive test. A nauseous wave struck her body as she recalled the day in the park. It felt a million miles away. But he still provided for her. And yes, she’d hoped he still loved her. This could help. She nodded to herself and jabbed her thumb at the engagement ring. Unimaginable pain struck her, bringing her to her knees. Groaning, she tried to see the wound under the band. She pushed the ring up as much as possible. Holding her quivering finger close to her face, she examined the damage. Pus mixed with traces of blood oozed from pin-sized wounds that dotted the skin in the shape of the ring. She squinted harder, now examining the underside of the band. Small thorn-like protrusions sat like stalactites covered in a layer of red; traces of her. She cried and tried to pry the ring from her finger, but it bled and swelled. She pulled her knees to her chest and let the needles on the inside of the band slowly reinsert themselves into the loosened flesh. She picked up the pregnancy test from the floor, her thumb leaving a bloody swirled fingerprint on the handle.

When he arrived home, she broke the news to him.

“Aren't you thrilled?” she said, placing a hand on her stomach. He stood, dumbfounded, glaring at the test on the table.

“And you're sure?” he said, devoid of emotion.

“Yes. Um, I took a few tests.”

Silence filled the room, threatening to choke her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for a response, waiting for anything. He stood tall and silent, his gaze looking past her. Anxiety surged within her. He took a deep breath, squeezed her shoulder just a bit too hard, and walked out the front door.

He did not come back that night, two nights before they were to wed. The girl assumed he must've celebrated with his friends, lost track of time. Never knowing his schedule, she often found herself weaving works of fiction to ease her mind about his whereabouts. Hours passed. At 8 p.m., the night before the wedding, she heard his key probe the doorknob. She sat stiffly in her chair, praying to someone, anyone, that he would return in a lighter mood.

Instead, he barged through the door. The acrid odor of liquor and vomit radiated from him. The front door sat open, and she noticed the funniest thought pass through her brain. Run. But she couldn’t. He hustled towards her, and she shrank under his shadow. Before she could say anything, a sharp sting erupted on her cheek. She brought her hand to her face and gasped. They stared at each other, the air sucked from her lungs as she held back tears. She felt betrayed.

“Never surprise me like that again,” he said with eerie calm tone. The staring lasted longer than she could fathom, and she became suddenly aware of her standing in their relationship. An ant under his magnifying glass, slowly burning, dying. That night, afraid to be next to her groom-to-be, she slumbered on the couch, knife in hand, underneath the cushion.

The next morning, she got ready by herself. He had left her a note, an apology for his actions, asking that she be at the chapel at noon.

She walked into their bedroom. The dress was on a velvet hanger across the room. She approached and reached out to feel the delicate lace between her fingers.

She began to dress herself, stopping to gaze in the mirror for a moment. The girl looked sickly, her ribs protruded, her stomach was flat and hard. Placing a hand on her midsection, she cried. She cried for her baby. And she cried for the pain in her hand. The ring was making her bleed. Crimson streaks of blood etched on her skin as she cradled herself. No more could she tolerate this. No more could she tolerate him. She felt a strong drive to protect her unborn child from the cruelty of its father.

She slipped her dress on, the blood from her finger seeping through the lace as a drop of oil infects water. Before she left for the chapel, she retrieved the knife from the couch. She slipped it between the skin of her thigh and her garter. Time to go to a wedding, she thought and laughed.

She arrived at the chapel and entered through the side door. Stained glass cast a red glow in the room where she sat waiting for the maid of honor to retrieve her. Her finger ached, her pulse pounding around the wound. Adrenaline rushed through her as she paced the room, tracing the knife's handle under her dress. This cannot go on. She breathed deeply before pulling her skirt up and removing the knife, cutting her garter in the process. It dropped to the floor without a sound. As her hand sweated and shook, she held the knife like her life depended on it. She spotted a box of chocolate on the piano in the corner. Approaching it hesitantly, several emotions rushed to her. “Just Married!” read the top of the heart-shaped box. The girl laughed, and her stomach heaved. She slammed her hand on the lid of the piano and cackled more, a cacophonous swarm echoing through the room.

She took the knife and placed the fine blade between her knuckle and the ring. Letting a moan escape, she pushed, and blood swelled around the blade. She sawed through layers of infected skin. Once, twice. Again. When she saw bone, her laughter ceased. She focused on the bloodbath in front of her, the flowers, the chocolates, the pain. And as her eyes fluttered shut, she used her right hand to pound the blade down. The knife, now caught in the wood of the piano, sat raised like a flag of surrender. The girl, now woman, now mother, ripped the sleeve from her dress and wrapped it around her bleeding hand, now free from what horrors awaited her and her child. She picked up her finger and examined it; it didn’t feel as though it was hers. Lifting the lid of the box of chocolates, she placed her finger amongst the treats, once a symbol of their love. Her blood soaked the fabric as she admired her work. A knock at the door tore her focus from the gift she left him.

“Coming!” She shouted and hurried towards the door to the chapel, not before swiping the chocolates from the piano. She opened the door hastily. The few guests who stood nearby gasped. Her dress was now speckled with blood, a smile fixed upon her face. Attendees whispered, buzzing at each other as she swayed her way down the aisle. The pianist looked terribly confused.

“Joanna, what the hell are you doing!?” her fiancé hissed as she approached him.

“Leaving.” she spat, as she thrust the box of candy at him. Immediately turning on her heel, she walked back down the aisle. Her train flowed effortlessly, a wedding march to the sound of her ex's screams echoing behind her.

Willow Nichols-Capra is a New England based author of Gothic horror. She finds much of her inspiration through admiring winter on Cape Cod, where she grew up, and her experiences as a BIPOC, queer woman. Nichols-Capra currently serves as an assistant editor at The Drabblecast, and a first reader at Moonday Mag. You can find her work in Blood+Honey Lit, Flash Phantoms, and multiple anthologies. Her upcoming publications will be featured in the High Stakes, Bloody Business anthology, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. You can keep up with her work at novellamenagerie.com