Speak Now

The church they chose was a dinky little chapel in some podunk Georgia town. It was one of those neighborhoods that was nothing but churches and trailer parks, so I'm not sure how or why they chose this specific one. Maybe it was because the steeple was shaped an awful lot like the church back home, the one she and I used to smoke cigarettes outside of on Sunday morning, laugh at the people who bowed their heads to a God whose own book branded most of them sinners. Or maybe that's just me, hoping she looks back on "us" with something other than resentment.

To be clear, there isn't a handgun in my pocket because I feel responsible for this in any way.

But sometimes, I feel bad about the time her daddy came home from work early, opened the front door not knowing he was opening the closet door as well. I wasn't supposed to be over; she told me I could never come to her place. But isn't that what star crossed lovers do? Make bold, romantic gestures? Juliet on the balcony, Romeo imploring from below? For us that night, there was no "such sweet sorrow," and perhaps it would have been better that way. Juliet and Juliet, together in a tangle of sheets, doesn't go over too well among Baptists.

She never admitted to it, but I know her daddy hit her once I'd scrambled like a tail-tucked coward out her back door. I'm not proud of that one bit. I always told myself that if I faced off with a homophobe one on one, I'd stand tall and put my chin up and defend my sexuality with the utmost tenacity, until even the most resolute bigot would have to question his prejudices. The reality involved thinking about just how big he was, how his clenched fists made the soft firmness of his voice a threat when he told me to get out, and how at sixteen years old I was still much more a child than I wanted to admit.

Maybe her father smacking her around like that is why she chose this guy as her fiance; electra complex, or whatever Freud called it when he kept his hand out of his pants long enough to jot down a theory. Or maybe she knew she'd have to find a real "manly man" to prove to her parents that she wasn't actually queer. He fit the bill, the epitome of chest thumping masculinity from his bar room brawls to the blows he dealt behind closed doors after staggaring drunkedly home at night.

It wasn't any of my business, but I sat in the pew regardless, fingering the trigger guard and trying to look inconspicuous. It wasn't working; the other women had perms and gowns that suggested they'd traveled all the way from the 50's just to see the wedding. Though I pressed myself into the far corner of the church, my back against the literal and proverbial wall, I caught two women in the row ahead of me flashing glances over their shoulder and whispering. I knew it was about me; people's faces get this very specific, just-smelled-shit look when they're saying the word "faggot."

When she came down the isle, I held my breath for a moment, and was both relieved and not when she didn't see me. Relieved, because if our eyes met I didn't know if I could wait long enough to do what I'd come here to do. Not, because the only reason she didn't was that she kept her eyes on the ground like a kicked dog. I don't think any bride has ever walked down the isle looking that much like she was walking the plank.

I couldn't even focus on the priest's words, too absorbed in the sensation of the metal growing warm under my grasp - a preview, perhaps, of the hot muzzle I hoped to end the day with. Everything was so ritual, so obligatory, so humdrum - the entire speil was like a bad movie, if a bad movie could make you feel like shit about the fact that you'd never get to be cast in it. I almost missed what I'd been waiting to hear, almost forgot to "speak now." I had only a tiny window to present my case; anyone actually standing up and objecting was something reserved for Hollywood romances where the bride is saved at the altar by her One True Love - nothing but applause as he whisks her away in his loving embrace.

No one was going to clap for this one.

"I object," and damnit, my voice wasn't nearly as steady and cold as I'd imagined it the many times I'd played this over in my head. There were also more indignant growling people to clamber past, more legs and feet to stumble over before I began my stride down the isle under the burden of scores of disapproving eyes. As I neared the altar, he turned bristling like a dog and she turned cowering like one. Through the veil, I caught a spark of recognition in her eyes, and something between horror and hope. I fought the urge to utter a reassurance, fixing my gaze on the priest, who was too taken aback to do anything but gape. I imagined in all his many years of performing wedding ceremonies, he'd never encountered anything quite like this.

"I object..." finally, I withdrew the handgun from my pocket, and the immediate chorus of frightened screams and the clammor of frantic bodies attempting to pile out of the pews made me regret it. I discharged a bullet towards the ceiling, enough to quiet the crowd into terrified submission. It was all worthless if they didn't hear this. "I object because no bride should have to wear a veil just to hide the bruises."

I don't remember moving my arm; I just remember that the second gunshot sounded louder than the first, and that I couldn't see cleanly through his skull because there was just so much blood. I knew the bullet had gone through and through, though; the bouquet at his back was painted red and decorated with gelatinous gobs of pale pink. He slumped to the ground, his hands sliding from hers as he went. She stared down in unblinking disbelief, fingertips hovering, white gown freckled with blood. Finally, she raised her eyes to meet mine, and for the first time since her father made it his mission to "beat the gay out of her," I saw something there. Hope.

I slung my arm around her waist and pulled her close, used the still warm barrel of the gun to lift the veil from her face. I planted a soft kiss on her split lip, moved along an angry purple cheek bone, and ended with a swollen eyelid. I couldn't kiss it and make it better, but I could damn well try. As I backed away, a tiny smile tuned the corners of her mouth, and it was more genuine than every fake grin she'd hocked since she was a teenager.

The sound of sirens rose over the din the panicked crowd, and it was my turn to smile. I couldn't think of a finer way to end my freedom than by giving hers back.