The Dress Was White, The Blood Was Red

My fiancé, Ethan, was everyone's idea of a flawless saint. We had been together for seven years, yet he had postponed our wedding nineteen times. Each delay came with a noble excuse: saving a drowning child, chasing a robber, or rescuing a stray cat. He would return with red eyes, pleading, "Anna, wait for me one more time." Surrounded by the pity or schadenfreude of our guests, I always agreed.

Tonight, drunk in our home, he shattered the illusion. Dressed in my twentieth custom wedding gown, I stood outside the half-closed door. He whispered to the empty air, his voice thick with longing.