Chapter 1

The neon cross behind the altar was buzzing like a trapped fly. That was the only sound in the room besides the wet, heavy thud of my own heart. It smelled like ozone and stale cigarettes in here, a scent that coated the back of my throat and made me want to gag.

"Do you, Sarah," the Officiant droned. I couldn't look at his face. Every time I tried, my vision swam with static, like a detuned television channel. I stared at his shoes instead. They were dusty. "Take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward?"

Beside me, Mark squeezed my hand.

People always told me I was lucky. Mark was tall, American-dream handsome, and he had swept me off my feet in a whirlwind that felt less like a romance and more like an abduction. But I was weak. I’d always been the girl who fainted during gym class, the girl who cried when the waiter got the order wrong. I needed someone strong. I needed someone to hold me up.

But Mark was holding me up too hard. His grip on my fingers wasn't comforting; it was grinding my knuckles together.

"Sarah," Mark whispered. His voice didn't sound right. It sounded like it was coming from inside the walls rather than his throat. "Say it. Look at the clock, baby. We’re running out of time."

I glanced at the digital clock mounted above the exit sign. The red numbers flickered: **3:32 AM**.

Why were we doing this so late? Why was I so cold?

"I..." My voice cracked. A wave of dizziness rolled over me, starting at my knees and shooting up to my scalp.

Mark squeezed harder. I felt a bone pop in my pinky. The pain was sharp, but distant, filtered through the thick cotton wool filling my head. I looked up at him, pleading with my eyes for him to soften, to just give me a second to breathe.

That’s when I saw the seam.

It was right along his jawline. The skin there was too smooth, too waxy, and for a second, I swore it rippled, like something wet was moving underneath it. He smiled at me, an encouraging smile that stretched too wide, revealing too many teeth. They looked like needles. Rows and rows of them, receding back into a dark, wet gullet.

"Say 'I do'," he hissed. The charming veneer was cracking. The air in the chapel grew heavy, pressing down on my shoulders with the weight of deep water. "Say it now."

The Officiant remained frozen, a statue of black cloth and dust. The buzzing of the neon sign grew deafening, screaming in my ears.

* Be a good wife,* I told myself. *Don't ruin this. Don't be weak.*

But my body didn't care about my intentions. My stomach churned, violent and sudden. The smell of the ozone, the pain in my hand, the sheer wrongness of the teeth—it was too much. The pressure in my head peaked.

I opened my mouth to say the words that would seal the deal, to give him permission, but instead, my diaphragm convulsed.

I vomited.

It was projectile, violent, and humiliating. I retched all over Mark’s pristine tuxedo, splashing that waxy, perfect skin. He shrieked—a sound like tearing metal—and recoiled, letting go of my hand.

"You stupid cow!" he screamed, his voice distorted and demonic.

The room spun. The red numbers on the clock clicked over. **3:33 AM**.

"No!" Mark howled. The walls seemed to groan in sympathy.

But I was already gone. The black spots in my vision connected, and I embraced the weakness I had spent my whole life hating. I let my knees buckle. I hit the linoleum floor hard, and the world went mercifully dark.

\---

When I opened my eyes, my cheek was pressed against gritty, cold tile.

I gasped, sitting up too fast, my head spinning.

"Mark?" I croaked.

Silence.

I looked around. The neon sign was off. The digital clock was dead. In fact, the whole place looked different. The pews were covered in a thick layer of grey dust. There were cobwebs stretching between the altar and the ceiling. The air didn't smell like ozone anymore; it just smelled like rot and dry earth.

I stood up, shaking the dust off my wedding dress. There was a stain on the front—my own sick—but Mark was gone. The Officiant was gone.

I walked to the altar. There were no footprints in the dust except for mine. It was as if no one had stood there for twenty years.

Tears pricked my eyes. I had done it again. I had gotten sick, I had fainted, and I had ruined the best thing that ever happened to me. He had left me. He had probably run out the door the moment I collapsed, disgusted by my weakness.

"I'm so stupid," I whispered to the empty, abandoned room.

I turned and walked toward the exit, my heels clicking on the broken tiles. I pushed open the heavy doors and stepped out into the cool desert night. My car was the only one in the lot, sitting under the moonlight.

I fumbled for my keys, found them in my pocket, and got in. As I started the engine and pulled onto the highway, leaving the dark, hollow shell of the Forever Chapel behind, I cried for the husband I had lost.

I didn't know that the hunger in that chapel remained unsatisfied. I didn't know that by failing to speak, by succumbing to my frailty, I had broken the ritual. I drove away thinking I was broken, never realizing that my weakness had just saved my soul.