Quig felt the sting of the woman's manicured nails as she slapped him across the face in front of the fourteen wedding guests left. His dove-sized pixie wings fluttered through slits in his black and gold suit.
"It's your fault my niece didn't show. Were you cheating on her?" Quig's runaway bride's aunt slugged him.
The planned celebration was about to be canceled, for the bride hadn't shown, and the young groom was left abandoned, to take the blame.
Paparazzi bolted from their seats and snapped dozens of photos, and the light stung his eyes.
The room circled Quig; the art on the walls blurred together in abstract nightmares, while the string quartet still played quietly in the background, like a soundtrack to his descent.
His ex's Aunt Lana struck him again, and he crashed into a mural of the forest, hand-painted to disguise the uneven patching.
Quig's wings fluttered and ached, and he floated a foot off the ground to avoid the woman's wrath. Paint and violet-colored feathers dropped onto the polished hardwood floor.
He lit the wedding incense to calm himself and the others still in attendance.
Spicy lemon-scented smoke lingered in the air, and the golden flames dimmed and vanished. Puffs of gray essence lifted to the hand-tiled mosaic ceiling and dissipated in an instant, an ominous sign for a home wedding. The ghosts and spirits of his ancestors cursed the wedding, instead of blessing it.
Garlands of blue carnations dripped down from a photography archway, and Quig flew down to avoid them as he entered the massive dining room. He leaned on a hand-carved table. Each of the four legs was artfully carved to resemble a dragon.
Words finally burst through Quig's lips. "Maybe she was in an accident." He bumped into one of the art chairs that surrounded the table. He gasped for air as the aroma of the peppery incense hit his lungs.
Lana lunged at him again. "I hope she is bleeding in a ditch. It's bad enough you two decided to hold your wedding at a mutual friend's junky art house. The brownstone is almost as tacky as a shack." Lana stomped after him and shoved a cucumber sandwich into her mouth. Food dribbled out of her overly inflated lips. Her mayonnaise-covered hands raised to strike.
Quig's friend, Grew-Ella, shut the sliding door in the dining room to hide rows of empty chairs in the den. She squeezed next to them, and her brass-colored wings fluttered. Her lightly freckled face appeared tired. "Lana, please, calm down. Your niece begged to have her wedding at my parent's brownstone."
"Shut up, Goo-Ella, no one asked you."
"My name is Grew-Ella."
"I'll call you whatever I wish to." Lana cleaned herself and twisted her blue hair behind her elf ears and tight face. She took another cucumber sandwich and tossed it at Grew-Ella.
The sandwich hit a humanoid wolf woman. Dot shifted into an elf and resembled a more muscular version of Quig.
"You struck my sister," he said.
"Who cares?" Lana grabbed another sandwich and flung it.
Dot cleaned herself off with a napkin and approached. "There is nothing wrong with Grew-Ella or her parents' home. Stop whining. Guests keep fleeing because of your tantrums."
"Oh, shut up," Lana said.
Dot kept speaking. "Though if anyone is to blame, it's your niece, the spoiled brat. Quig is at least twenty years younger than her, but he's a responsible adult."
"You're right. She's an entitled jerk." Lana swung around. "Does anyone know why my niece isn't here?"
"She found someone else." Grew-Ella leaned against the table.
Quig waved his hands in a desperate attempt to keep the few remaining guests seated. "The gossip isn't true. She will be here… I hope."
Lana opened her purse, pointed to her laser dagger collection, and spoke to Dot. "My niece better not pick a man lower in status than Quig. Do you know how hard it was for her to find a grand elite?"
Dot nodded in agreement. "He has his own money and genuinely seems to love her. I don't understand some women."
"Neither do I," Quig said.
More paparazzi snapped photos of his humiliation.
Fangs extended in Dot's mouth. "Will you leave my brother alone? I'll answer your questions and will have my brother get back to you."
Quig rushed into the warm garden room. Pots shook when he slammed the door behind him.
He touched his cheek. Red marks formed around the nail mark as he attempted to think about his father's butterscotch cookies. He longed to remember the taste of happiness instead of the lingering bitterness of his ex's betrayal. "The gossip can't be true. She'll show."
His cell phone rang, and he answered with a quivering voice. "Are you hurt?" His desperate eyes fixated on the cluttered party table covered with trays of incense, a vase of carnations, and an uneaten wedding cake. "I... um..." he paused.
"Darling, I hate it when you stammer."
He steadied his voice. "Why aren't you here? Is it because of what happened at our engagement party?"
"Shut up about that!" Quig's ex yelled. "Drop it."
His thoughts never reached his mouth. 'Please, show up and tell me you still love me.' Quig held the phone to his pointed ears as he paced around the room, bumping into a container of roses. Dirt, thorns, and petals crashed to the floor. He spoke again, trying not to stutter. "Tell me the truth!"
"Don't shout; reporters might hear," his ex blurted. "Have I ever actually told you that I love you? You should've listened to Grew-Ella. I've been dating Trent for seven months."
"He's a muscle-bound psychopath." Quig stopped speaking, and he thought to himself. 'When Trent kills me, will you come to my funeral? Would you even miss me?'
The phone dropped, and the cover fell off. He sat on the mismatched tiled floor and leaned against the wall-sized window.
Small Tiger-Ghost moths flew next to the glass. Rare creatures bred for Quig's unfinished celebrity wedding.
Grew-Ella entered the room and swept the wayward dirt into a pile. She snapped his phone together, slipped the silent device into his front pocket, and wiped his dirt-covered hands with a cloth napkin.
Quig gulped the air. "She isn't coming."
"Do you need a friendly hug?" Grew-Ella asked.
'Yes,' he nodded. "When Trent inserts himself into your life, death follows. He has already killed..." Quig paused.
Grew-Ella's wings expanded and wrapped around him as they embraced.
His hand became tangled in the strands of her brown hair, and a nervous laugh escaped their lips.
"If Trent kills me, protect Betsy," he said.
"As your best friend, I have to make sure that doesn't happen."
"Grew-Ella, it's unfair that my engagement fell through, and you're still engaged to a man who humiliates you and cheats on you with your sister."
"I can't talk about my engagement." She pulled away, sliced the wedding cake, and arranged each piece on a plate. "Do you know what the government might do to you if the media reports you as weak? Were you ever allowed to visit a workhouse?"
"No, I've only heard the official government stories."
Grew-Ella sat with him with the plate in her hand. "Whatever you've been told, it's a hundred times worse. Only the work floors are heated or air-conditioned, so you'll choose to work constantly."
"How do you know that? You haven't been going undercover for the Kindness Rebels, have you?"
She started talking again. "The food lacks any real nutrition, and the cheap lighting makes prisoners' skin appear ashen, and those are the lucky ones, not chained into solitary cells or…" Grew-Ella rocked back and forth and hyperventilated.
"They hold mock beauty contests where squad members kill prisoners who fail their work quota."
"Were you there? Is that why you disappeared for weeks on end?" Quig asked.
Her eyes stared at the cheap nuptial bracelet around her wrist. "This isn't about me. Grab a woman off the street and marry her before you lose status."
"Betsy could get hurt if I bring a random woman home." Quig's wings trembled.
She handed him the cake, touching his hand for a moment. "Dot plans to talk to the press, but the prime minister started taxing males with the lowest status levels and is executing wealthy criminals and opposition leaders, which is more likely with Trent involved."
"I'm not a criminal or a known opposition leader," Quig said.
"Trent is the king and doesn't need proof. He can sleep with your ex and lower your status. If you speak out, he'll cancel you, and by cancel; I mean, he'll force you into the workhouse or one of those deranged beauty contests where participants become stabby and murderous." Grew-Ella rocked herself until she calmed down.
Quig hugged her again. "I doubt I'd make it out alive."
She grasped his hand. "If we handle this right, you won't drop a single level."
Obrigado pela leitura!
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