The wedding night

Violet

I sit on the foot of the bed for a flat two hours, anxious, swaying in a whirlwind of thoughts—thoughts centered on escaping whatever plans Ethan has for us tonight. With clammy hands, I fidget with the robe I have on.

I've concocted plans, which include asking the lady for a bottle of Tylenol while pretending I have a headache.

Six pills of Tylenol will take me straight to the hospital, changing our wedding night to a harrowing caregiving vigil at the hospital. I'll rather be in the hospital than be sexually assaulted.

The knife is my last-ditch effort to escape the night, when everything else fails. I'm only hoping I don't get pushed to use it.

When the doorknob turns, I jerk up and hustle to the door to collect the pills from the lady, but who comes standing in the doorway when the door opens makes me halt halfway.

I shudder with a gasp, recoiling quickly, my heart beating in a rapid cadence as I gaze at Ethan.

The fearsome man who hates me and is now my fake but lawfully real husband is bearing down on me. His eyes, blazing with fury, lock onto mine, and I seldom breathe.

Are those bloodstains on his white shirt? Who did he get into a fight? Ethan usually has a fiery temper, but it seems to have become downright explosive now.

“Not who you're expecting?” His low, rough-hewn voice rumbles with suppressed rage.

I don't say a word.

His eyes narrow, and his nose flares, the veins in his forehead protruding. He looks like he'll lunge at me any moment. “Who’s he?”

Confused, my brows furrow. I try to get my head around the meaning of the question.

“Where’s he? Where did you fucking hide him?” he snarls. Ethan has formed the habit of accusing me, believing I'm a whore because of what happened between Nate and I.

“Why would I bring a man into a house I don't own?”

“Because I don't trust you. You're a bloody slut. Where is he?”

“There's only two of us in the room. Maybe in this entire house,” I protest in indignation and hurt. Tears tighten my throat and I swallow, beating back the tears that flood my vision. His idea of me hurts so badly.

His expression morphs into a cool one. Yet, I not only see the iridescence of malice and lust in his eyes, but I also feel it rolling off him, so intense I can taste it.

“Just the two of us.” A cutting hunger and virulence etch his now lewd inflection. A sultry smile spreads across his face.

“You realize how hard saying that gets me, don't you?” A pause. “Of course, you do. Sluts are expert dirty-talkers. Now quit playing dumb, be a good whore, get undressed, and strike your best pose on the bed for me.”

I'm no slut. Can he quit saying those degrading things to my face?

“Our marriage is fake and there's no way we're consummating it,” I all but panic, my pulse pounding in my neck.

“Call it whatever you want, we're lawfully wed. We've been upholding marriage traditions, and that won't change tonight.”

“I'm not interested,” I yell tearfully, my breath trembling as I exhale, making efforts to stifle my tears.

He holds up the bottle of pills for me to see. My heart gallops and I freeze. However, his bruised knuckles catch my attention and heighten my curiosity. Ethan really got into a fight, or… he beat up someone.

“Who cares if you're interested or not? Is that why you asked for this?” The rage in his eyes resurfaces and his countenance darkens. “You still do this shit? Huh!”

He throws the bottle at me and I dodge.

“Did you, for once, think of what to say to everyone when people start talking about how you overdosed on Tylenol on your wedding night?” he growls. It's all about his reputation. “Since you must be told what to do…”

He walks to the sitting area to pour himself a glass of champagne. “There's a phone in the second drawer. Take it.”

His intention has me hesitating for a while, but I reluctantly do as he bids, walking to the pitch-black nightstand to fetch the phone.

“Take amazing photos and post them on your social media channels with captivating captions. Start with the bed.”

I begrudgingly do so. He also tells me to snap the coffee table on which there are expensive drinks and snacks, and I do so. While I sit on the bed, captioning the posts on my social media channels, my peripheral vision catches him staring at me with an unmistakable leer, his flute poised at his lips.

I don't dare meet his gaze.

“Get on the bed.” His voice, low, rumbles with crushed hunger.

I glance at him, spotting the unsettling seriousness in his eyes. Even though I don't trust him, I do as he says.

“Take selfies of yourself.”

I'm about to do that before I spot him setting his flute down on the coffee table and getting up from the black tufted velvet sofa to stalk toward me.

A tough conundrum sets in, my attention splitting between his and doing his bidding, and I persistently alternate my glance between him and the phone, confused about whether to run or focus.

His tie goes off at one glance. Fear courses through me, stirring an adrenaline rush, but I still try to focus on the caption I'm writing. At another glance, he's already drawn near the foot of the bed.

Instinct takes over, and the second I attempt to scramble out of the bed, his strong hand wraps around my ankle and I'm pulled to the foot of the bed. A blood-curdling scream tears from my throat, shattering the quiet.

His fingers sink into my hair, and he yanks me to my feet, pulls me to his body, and turns me so that I'm facing sideways, then he bends me backward by my hair. It feels like my spine is shattering. All I can do is cry out in agony.

He grabs my face with his other hand. “I don't recall asking you to run, you deviant slut. You're in trouble now.”

His mouth crashes against mine and he takes my mouth in a brutal, aggressive kiss, ignoring my boundaries. I claw at his hands, screaming against his mouth. The second he gets his hands off me, I edge away from him until I meet the built-in headboard attached to the vinyl wall.

“Don’t come any closer,” I panic, my chest heaving with every pant.

“Who the fuck are you playing fucking dumb with? Isn't this what you wanted, off the bat?” he growls, the veins in his neck protruding and the look in his eyes, bloodcurdling.

I jet open the drawer and retrieve the knife, pointing it at him. My hands are violently shivering, effectively making the knife shake. The fear he'll violate me if I do nothing.

“Stay where you are,” I pant.

The plan is to scare him away with the knife, but things seem to be spinning out of control.

He goes off the deep end, rage transforming his countenance.

“Is this how it's going to be? Is this what you want? Fine, stab me.” He keeps bearing down on me, one slow step at a time.

“Stay back, Ethan, please,” I sob. Why can't he just listen and back the fuck off?

“Fucking do it, slut, take the stab. Drive the damn thing through the heart you broke,” he raves uncontrollably, spittle spraying from his lips.

“Don’t make me do this, Ethan.”

“Fucking stab me, Violet!”

A second thought comes to mind and I take the blade of the knife to my wrist, hoping it works. “One more step and I'll slit my wrist.”

He still doesn't stop. Rather, the rage in his eyes burns brighter, though tangling with a hint of fear. “You crazy slut, put the knife away.”

“Then back off or I'll cut myself,” I yell through tears, panicking.

“Put the fucking thing away. I'll fucking kill you myself once I get to you.”

At the last drop of his word, he lunges at me at a breakneck speed, so fast I don't register his movement until he's up close.

Blood splatters on our bodies, its metallic smell percolating the air in the bedroom.