Chapter Three Brielle #2
My father and I position ourselves beyond the double doors of the sanctuary, concealed for now by curtains of wisteria and artfully arranged gossamer.
The interior of the cathedral hums with the dull murmur of guests as the wedding procession forges ahead. I can barely catch glimpses of the altar from where I wait, but the thought of it looming in the distance causes my stomach to give another concerning lurch.
It’s not just the altar that’s making me feel queasy, though.
It’s the creepy ambience.
Months ago, when Dayna had suggested incorporating candlelight into the scenery to make it more romantic, she’d been referring to battery-powered ones. My mother, however, would not hear of such a thing. Nor would Richard’s mother.
It was tacky, they claimed, to have that much plastic and lithium in a cathedral that deserved nothing but authenticity.
And that’s how we ended up with one thousand live candles.
Literally one thousand. I’m sure my mother had the decorators count them multiple times to be sure.
Most of the candles hang from the elegant vintage chandeliers, but there are still hundreds placed along the pews in little glass dishes. Dayna claims they’re safe, explaining that the wick is designed to ensure the flame can’t catch if the candle is upset. Plus, the decor is flame resistant.
The church isn’t, though. Nor are the flowers. The expensive outfits on all the eager guests.
It all sounds like bullshit to me, but what do I know?
The music changes.
My father straightens his spine, which is already akin to an iron rod. I squeeze his arm, but he’s staring straight ahead, not gesturing that his daughter is panicking.
Dayna pulls aside the curtain of wisteria and lace, revealing me to the gathered crowd at the head of the aisle.
I’m only vaguely aware of their collective gasps of appreciation and murmured awe.
I know I look beautiful, but that’s not anything I should be proud of.
I’m beautiful because my parents made me this way.
I’m beautiful because I was poked and prodded and plucked and primped by other hands.
Being beautiful is such a small thing, really. I’d rather be anything else.
But it’s time to meet my fate.
So, I take the first step.
Then another.
Another.
I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on the altar instead of directly on Richard.
Richard, who is about to become a father of someone else’s child.
Richard, who has betrayed me time and time again.
Richard, who cares so little for me that he doesn’t even have the decency to keep his hands to himself on the night before our fucking wedding.
A flicker of anger licks down my spine, so strange and unfamiliar that I nearly stumble.
No, actually, I really do stumble.
Because I’d forgotten what Dayna said earlier about the subtle bump in the long carpet they rolled out down the aisle.
How they had no choice but to run a spare cable underneath it in order for all of the warm, romantic under-lighting to have the desired effect.
How she promised my mother a dozen times that nobody in the pews would even notice the little bump in the road, and as long as the wedding party was aware of it, all would be well.
The pointed toe of my heel catches in the subtle rise, jamming hard against the lump caused by the cable underneath the carpet.
I gasp, leaning into my father, but he’s not expecting the sudden weight. He twists toward me, but I twist away, causing the stiletto heel of my shoe to catch on the bump again. This time, the carpet moves with it.
Just an inch or two, but it’s enough to upset one of the candles resting on the floor.
And it seems that, no, in fact, the candlewicks are not designed to extinguish automatically.
Also, no, the decor is not flame resistant.
Because as my father and I halt halfway down the aisle, with me still leaning awkwardly against him as I try to regain my balance, the flame catches on the carpet, smolders, then alights on a tendril of real ivy dripping down from the nearest pew.
Then comes the snap-hiss noise from the opposite direction.
Someone yelps, everyone’s attention whipping toward the sound. There are so many people here that at least half the crowd might not have even noticed me tripping, and perhaps not yet noticed the smoking pew.
If not for the fact that sparks are now bursting upwards from the dim back corner of the church.
The cord, I think. I must have yanked it free from the ancient outlet in this creepy old building.
In less than a minute, everything turns to chaos.
The fire spreads, causing guests to panic. In their rush to scramble away from the smolder, most candles are toppled. The flames grow before my eyes as I remain frozen, shocked still, in the middle of the aisle. Hungry fire starts gobbling at the glossy oak pews.
Meanwhile, whatever is sparking on the other side of the cavernous space is now hissing menacingly. A rush of people create a current away from it.
My vision blurs. Clear shapes turn into hazy blobs and colors turn into vague approximations of dresses and shoes and suits and ties. Shouts rise up, but they sound muffled, as if coming from a mile away.
I feel strange, almost like I’m floating above it all. Like I’ve left my body and can only hover over this bizarre scene and observe from a distance.
But then my father tugs on my arm.
“Emergency exit,” he grunts, pulling me toward the altar.
That’s where everyone else seems to be going, too. One dizzy glance in that direction confirms that the entire wedding party, including my fiancé has now hurried out of the emergency exit door that leads to a brick alleyway at the back of the building.
But I don’t want to go that way.
I don’t want to go to the altar.
I resist my father’s tugging.
“What are you—Brielle!” he growls.
But the rush of people desperate to get away from the flames, which are now cutting a maze-like path throughout the sanctuary like they’re following a trail of gasoline, causes me to separate from my father.
I remain where I am, the forgotten bride standing still in a river of fish flowing upstream.
Now is my chance.
It’s an insane thought. A stupid one. Reckless. Nonsensical.
But this has to mean something.
The firefighters from last night. This fire now. This disaster and chaos, signaling that something isn’t right.
That I shouldn’t go through with this.
Someone shoves against my shoulder in their panic, and doesn’t pause to apologize. Another person, a guest I don’t even recognize, attempts to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me along with them toward safety, but I whirl away before I can stumble another step alongside them.
I blink through the thickening smoke. I think I hear sirens. Has it been one minute or two? Ten seconds or ten years? I feel so detached from reality that I’m driven by pure instinct.
And what that instinct tells me to do is run for the side door.
I can barely make it out through the smoke — partially hidden behind one of the carved wooden columns, about two-thirds of the way down the nave. It's not the altar. It's not the direction everyone else is stampeding toward. Through the haze, it looks like the closest way out.
It doesn't occur to me that it might not lead anywhere.
I hoist my skirts and shove against the onslaught of people, ducking into an emptied-out pew in order to cut across the space toward it.
I’m coughing on the smoke as I leap over a smoldering patch of carpet, but I don’t even care.
I slam into the door, not even bothering to glance back as I shove it open and stumble out into a dark hallway.
Pausing for a moment, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the opposite wall.
I’m alone.
Behind me, I can feel a wave of heat coursing throughout the space. Stained-glass windows overhead throw strange patterns of orange-pink light.
I frown up at the windows, wondering why they would be overlooking a random hallway.
Emotionally and physically numb, I remain standing there for what feels like ages. I think I’m trying to catch my breath, but I’m barely even aware of the rattle of my inhales and exhales.
The hem of my dress is burning lazily, nothing but smoke and slowly forming ash. I don’t even bother trying to put it out.
I’m still looking up at the windows.
Did they build an addition onto the cathedral and wanted to preserve them even if they would no longer be facing the sun?
Does it matter?
Why the fuck am I thinking about windows?
I’m pretty sure I’m having a panic attack.
I need to go back. Need to find out how to loop back around to an exit. Need to find my parents and Richard and…
No.
I don’t want to.
I don’t want to do that.
I want to run away.
The sirens I thought I heard before are louder now. More organized shouts join the fray within the sanctuary. Smoke billows out from the half-open doorway toward me.
It’s bad. Really, horribly bad.
Now barefoot, I pick up my gown again and rush down the hall.
A bellowing groan echoes throughout the bones of the sanctuary. Someone screams at the same time an inhuman shriek pierces my ears. I clap my hands over them and instinctively duck… just as one of those stained glass windows bursts outwards from the force of the heat within.
Like a scene in a terrible action movie, a shard of glass lands point-first in the carpet right by my feet, pinning the hem of my gown to the floor like a knife.
I yank myself away, ignoring the sickening sound of the ripping satin. Glass rains down on me. I think I might be screaming, or maybe I’m sobbing. I can’t make sense of this nightmare, even as I can’t help thinking of it as a dream come true.
Running now, I manage to dodge more shattered glass as it sprinkles itself onto the shadowed carpet before me, but then the tattered tulle of my skirts gets tangled around my legs and I’m going down…
My head smacks against the wall. Stars burst across my vision as a swell of white-hot pain flares outward from my temple. I stagger for a moment, arms trembling as I try to cling to the wall and stay upright.
The smoke has found me again, coiling into my nostrils.
I wheeze out a pathetic, “Help!”
But, again, I am alone out here.
I slump to the floor, wincing as a piece of glass cuts into my palm.
My head swims, the pain turning oddly cold all of a sudden. Weakness overtakes me.
Then, everything goes dark.