Pocket Pickers #projectwomanup

The Runaway Bride

I think I was suppose to flee then. I tried, I really did. But I was paralyzed; my feet were glued to the ground. The only thing I could do was turn my head and watch Henry stumble out of the crowd of people.

His tie and shirt were rumpled, which was crazy considering this was Henry. Sweet, ironed-shirt, cleanly shaven Henry.

"Remi Greggs!" Henry toppled on an indignant man. "I don't think you want to do this!"

I gulped.

"Do you even love this man?" He sneered. My mind was trying to figure out what was going on. What was he doing?

"Have I not been enough?" His voice broke on the last word. "Has the time we spent together meant anything to you?"

Sinking. My guts were tying themselves into tight, tight knots.

"Why him? Remi, I'm in love with you. Why are you doing this to me?"

My feet unfroze.

With an unladylike heave, I lifted my skirt above my ankle and started to sprint, ignoring the indignant yells and commotion behind me.

. . . . .

God, Remi, I'm in love with you.

My mind swirled.

Sadly, I do love you...

I've known you for seven years, and you're marrying a man you've known for, two days?

All the signs. He was telling me all along and I had no idea.

Tell me, do even know his favorite color?

I'm telling you, Remi this is all a mistake.

My arms burned from extensively holding my gargantum dress in my hands as I ran. And even more annoying, the pesty question was not leaving my heavy head.

Was this all a mistake?

It did seem like a mistake during the moment. I was decked out in expensive clothing, I had a heavy veil on my head, and a wilting bouquet of white roses in my hand. So I couldn't help but wonder if I had really lost my head this time.

Apparently I wasn't allowed to choose when I was going to have my existential crisis.

With a defeated sigh, I sank to the floor. I was sitting in front of a pizzeria, Romano's Bake, and the cheesy aroma was making me sick. Heaving, I flicked off the heavy heels on my feet, relishing how they tumbled on the road, like tumble weeds. Going on and on forever.

A car zoomed through the road, crushing them.

I winced. Or not. Shrugging, I threw the bouquet in the trash outside. The flowers were getting brown.

I was doing a good job at ignoring the fact that I was wearing a inhumane dress that was taking more volume than an aquarium, but the stares and whispers were getting to me.

Soon, panic was gnawing at me uncontrollably.

What have I done?

I knew that I fucked up a lot. Yes, I did have a mean way of coping. Yes, I did have anger issues (sometimes). Yes, I usually don't think things through. But I didn't expect all of my shortcomings to come crashing on me in one, big, slice of failure.

I buried my hands in my face, feeling like Anne Hathaway in the Runaway Bride. And then, I started to giggle.

I am the runaway bride. In flesh.

I was soon full out guffawing, attracting even more attention that before, which was crazy because I was already getting too much attention from the start.

"God, you are pathetic."

The familiar accented voice rose from behind me, snapping me out of my indignant state. I turned around to find Teresa Turner standing above me, condescending in her regal pose.

She did not look drunk.

She sighed, eyeing me distatefully. "You're coming with me. Unless you want to go back and clean up the mess you just made."

. . . . .

hahaha