I’d sooner every flower that fills this hateful sanctuary be one upon my coffin. They are pale pink, oozing perfume that fills my nose and throat, gagging me--or is that my own heart on which I am choking? The march would seem to my ears a dirge, were they not full of my own racing pulse. I imagine even now the sickly sweet cake that will soon hit my tongue, with a loathing so deep that it may as well be poison that fills my mouth. A garter chafes as it forms a lacy ball and chain. When I try to take a breath, my lungs refuse to expand--whether due to the hundred cinching pearl buttons or the icy terror I’ll not begin to guess. I wear a lovely straitjacket, resplendent and gleaming, lined with satin that whispers against my skin that I look beautiful, and I do. Beautiful like a dove with taffeta plumage, hopelessly trapped in a cage of stained glass. I’ve a tulle hood on my head, Queen Anne once again led to her sympathetic executioner. Children go before me, scattering rose petals like droplets of blood, and their laughter is mocking, their smiles are jeers. The long walk is lined with family and friends that must truly have turned against me, so eagerly they wait to burn me with their gazes. A masculine arm traps mine in an iron grip, propelling me down the aisle--slowly, but not slowly enough--toward the altar where waits my permanent jailer