I knew a woman who never took off her wedding dress

Knew a woman who never took off her wedding dress. Her husband died two days before their wedding. She wore the dress to his funeral. She wore the dress to the wake. And she still insisted on getting married. She married a photo of her, superimposed next to her husband-to-be, his smile digitally removed. She had a friend pretend to be the minister. She said her vows, the ring put on the photo, and then she danced around the room, trying on a smile that never fit quite right. She was a weird girl. We all liked her, sure, but she had a way of changing the room. She could tell jokes that would make you laugh, sure, but they’d all have a bit of bite to them. A bit of sour. When she wore her wedding dress, it looked like a hand-me-down, like it had been around for decades. It was white and it was beautiful, hung on her slender *frame* like it was made for her and only her. Yet when she walked in, it felt like a funeral had arrived. She was a weird girl. And we all liked her. We *loved* her. But when she put on that dress, she’d stop being our friend. She’d just kind of sit in the corner, staring around the room. I still don’t think she realizes this, but I was at her wedding. And it wasn’t weird, no, not *that* weird. Just a bit. I’d known her since middle school, and we’d always been close. We were the outcasts. We were the misfits. I was gay, and my school didn’t take too kindly to that, back in the day. She was quiet and awkward, and she had a habit of making people cry. Like I said, she’d tell jokes. But she’d always go a bit too far, poking fun at the wrong thing. Like how you walk into a bar, it’s funny, until you point out how sad it is, how lonely. She’d always push things a bit too far. And people would just stop inviting her out. I’d invite her out. I’d invite her out all the time. We’d just go to my place, watch TV, and pretend it was okay. We were both outcasts, sure, but at least we had each other. When she texted me about the wedding, I didn’t think much of it. I thought it was a joke. Then she sent another one, and I realized she wasn’t kidding. So I went. I felt a little bad, but I figured she’d understand. After all, her husband-to-be had died. It wasn’t like he was gonna be there. I remember that day. I remember the dress, how beautiful she looked in it. It was yellowed at the edges, like it’d been sitting around for a very long time, accumulating dust. Yet when she put it on, it stuck to her perfectly. She was a weird girl. We all liked her, sure. But when she came down in that dress, she stopped being our friend. She stopped being *real.* There was something about her, something about the way she moved, something that was just… off. I stayed a while. Long enough for the pretend minister to get bored and leave. Long enough for her to realize that nobody was there. Nobody was there, that is, except me, her husband, and her wedding dress. I felt bad. I was gonna leave. I didn’t wanna hurt her. I was about to walk away when she talked to me. It was the first time she’d noticed me there. “Oh,” she said. “You stayed.” “Yeah,” I said. “I just thought it’d be nice.” “It was,” she said. “Thank you.” She talked a bit, then. I don’t really remember what she said. It wasn’t anything about her husband. It wasn’t anything about him, or what had happened to him, or anything. It was all about the dress. She said it was a very, very special dress, and that she had it made just for her. I’d heard otherwise, of course. I’d heard it was a used dress, something from her husband’s side of the family. She’d heard the rumors too. She denied them with a smile. “Who owns a used wedding dress?” she asked me. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Guess I do.” She laughed. She was a weird girl. But she was our weird girl. We talked for a while. Then I left. She kept wearing the dress, after that. She wore it to the mall. She wore it to the park. She even wore it to the gym. She’d exercise in that dress. And she’d just sit around in it. Waiting. Waiting for someone. Waiting for something to happen. One of our friends, Nancy, said it was a cry for help. She said it was our duty to help her, to be there for her, to tell her it was okay, that she could take the dress off. I don’t know if it was a cry for help. I just know that she looked beautiful in that dress. I went to her house one day, and I found it. I found the wedding dress. I found it in the hamper. I found it in the laundry, hiding at the bottom. It had been a long time since I’d seen her wear it. Weeks. Months. Years. I wasn’t really keeping track. I picked it up, and I held it. And I remembered that night, the wedding. I put it on. I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t recognize the person looking back at me. It was her. It was the weird girl. She was a weird girl. She was a weird girl, sure, but she was our friend. I looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I looked like someone else. I looked like someone I knew. It was her. It was the weird girl. I was the weird, weird girl. Edit: I don't know how I got it, but thanks for the gold :)

I knew a woman who never took off her wedding dress

Comments (14) 23913 👁️