Forever Hold Your Peace

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the phrase echoes from the mouth of the minister through the sanctuary and pins off of Jean’s ears. The common words sit on top of the audience like fishing lewer upon the water, waiting for someone to reveal the inevitable flaw of the union-to-be. A small seemed to notice the red flag and see it clearly, but the girl stayed silent. She watched as the vows were spoken in cheer, and several audience members' faces grew grim.

[...]

Early before the service, Jean paced through the back hallway of the church, in search of the bride so she can properly do her job. It’s a small methodist church, with elaborate architecture and a contrasting green carpet. It smells like a mixture of wood and aged parchment. Outside the open church door sits a small, almost unnoticeable, black cat. He observes the back heads of the guest, his gold eyes move in tandem like her camera. The photographer makes her way back to the bride, hoping to get some pictures of her and the family in the precious moments before the wedding. The small cat follows Jean like a shadow, his feet pad the ground in distant proximity while staying on the same path. When she arrives at a door she is about to knock but then listens to the bride whisper to her mother. 

“I’m still not a fan of him,” the mother says sternly in the silence of the dressing room. A small echo climaxes into small patterns in the reverb. It was not filled with vitriol but concern and a need to curb her daughter’s behavior. Jean’s heart beats as she wonders if she should be hearing this.

“Mother, he will change in time. Marriage isn’t a band-aid but it changes you,” Jean could only wonder what the groom would be changing from. What did the mother know that prompted this discussion right before the wedding? They were almost at the altar, why not attempt to put a fork in it earlier?

“I know you’re saying that with your mouth, but I doubt you truly understand the meaning of it.”

“Mom!”

A deafening silence consumes the two after the previous comment. Jean’s eyes open wide as she processes the implications of what is being said. It terrifies her for the young woman and elicits empathy for the mother having to say this.

“Listen, I can’t make decisions for you but I would advise you to run,” there is no anger in the older woman's voice, but rather pity. No condemnation but instead love. A concerned mother, unsure of what to say to the young girl she once held in her arms.

“I’m not asking you to,” the girl pauses and sighs.” I’m happy with him.”

The mother stops and turns, her eyes looking upon her daughter, Jean hears the silence from outside the door, wondering what is happening. The mother puts her hand softly on her daughter’s face. Their eyes meet. For once, the young bride looks fearful, it was a far cry from the rambunctious girl she had once been. The mother would cradle her, one last time, once more, if it meant protection from this desolate future. The mourning and farewell is more akin to a funeral than a marriage.

“I hope.”

The bride can be heard walking across the room, Jean holds her fist hesitantly and then knocks on the door, trying to pretend she didn’t hear the conversation. All her life she had loved weddings and looked forward to her own. This one was different though. More alarming and terrifying than what she was used to having experienced.  

A doe-eyed redhead opens the door when the door. Jean is tall and the other girl only reaches her chin. The photographer would be surprised if she even reached five feet. There was something childish about the girl, something that should exclude her from being married at this point in time. Whether her appearance was deceiving or she was as youthful as she came off was a concern all on its own.

“Hi miss, are you the photographer?” The girl stares, her demeanor like a small newborn fawn. She sounded calmer than she did several minutes ago.

“Yes, I am. Your fiance said he wanted pictures of you both before the wedding.”

“Oh, please, come in!”

Jean had mainly spoken to the groom in the meetings about her job. The bride had seemingly evaded her up until now. The image would be permanently seared into Jean’s mind, a girl appeared in her twenties who looked like a porcelain doll. One painted and made of glass, fragile and ornate, marrying a man who had an almost predatory air to him.

In the documentary of Jean’s mind, she would recall pictures of these meetings in the future. Months ago, a man sat across from her, not more than twenty-five, with dark-set eyes. His jawline was sharp and gave off an air of a greek statue. He had indeed won the genetic lottery but something was off, in those eyes was not warmth but some unknown thing. A creature in an abyss unidentified to the people around him.

While the mother seemed to have spotted the creature and thought it best to turn around while still possible, the young bride thought otherwise. Choosing to either bravely see the good or ignore the blood on the walls. Surely, the tension here would tell some story in the photographs when looked at at a later time.

Jean walked over to the bride, straightening out her veil as the mother stood in toe and held a separate part of the dress. The shot was picturesque and natural. As more photographs were taken though, the elation on the bride's face sank into a stringent concern. One less solemn than her mothers, and more anxious in nature. A scared little girl over a wise, prudent, older woman. 

Other things seemed to occur in those conversations Jean had with the groom. He mentioned the sexual history of his soon-to-be wife very frequently. His own purity was brought up with great prowess that in other cultural circles may be regarded as a weakness. They were the perfect photograph, the perfect love story, with what had a foreseeable gulag of an ending for the young woman. 

Jean would remember this in the aftermath, wishing she had spoken up. A fate awaited the bride that no one could have thought of.