I loved this week’s writing class. I mean, I love every week (sadly, next Wednesday is the last installment) but this week was a bit of a breakthrough. I took a stab at writing dark comedy for the first time. I loved it.

My class is compiled of what, in my opinion, are a unique and diverse group of characters. You can briefly read about them here. Last week, after class, I had tea with the Procrastinator and a new character I’ll affectionately call Cake, because she made positively the best molasses cake in the whole world and brought it to class yesterday. What a sweetheart.

Anyway, back to last night. Our writing has been getting more intense and turning out to be somewhat of a write-therapy for a lot of us. You can read one of the most personal posts I’ve ever written on this blog here, which was born from an assignment in this very class. (Thank you for your continued supportive comments and emails.) My other class assignment, a sweet yet melancholy story about how my own mother learned of her father’s death, is here. She was only 11 when it happened.

This week’s assignment offered to options (400 words):
1. Begin the story with, “I’ve never told anyone this, but I’ll tell you…”
2. Include a burning wedding dress in the story.

I opted for… well, you’ll see below. Here is my debut at dark comedy, I think:

***

Lavender and Cigarettes

By: Sandy Braz

I had spent the night out of the apartment to avoid seeing Michael before the ceremony. “Bad luck” they called it and so I listened.

He decided it would be putting his mother out to have me spend the night at her house, so I gladly checked myself into a luxurious room at the ace hotel. His credit card.

I called Catherine, my best friend and bridesmaid. I secretly hoped she and Michael organized a surprise pre-wedding Girls Night In, to celebrate my last sleep as a single city girl. But no such luck. She never picked up the phone.

I packed one night’s worth of clothes and hailed a cab.

Something about taking my wedding dress to the hotel felt strange. I couldn’t bare the thought of toting it in a cab up Yonge Street. It would make it feel less special somehow. So I left it at home, with Michael.

Looking back, I didn’t even question why he felt I should be the one to leave the apartment that night. I guess I loved him enough not to ask.

After a hot bath in lavender oil and salts, I turned in. It was just after 9:30 p.m. I wanted to look fresh and feel prim for my walk down the aisle – 2 o’clock at St. Michael’s Cathedral. But, some time around 4:30 the morning of my wedding, I woke up in a cold sweat.

I needed the dress. I needed to see it when I woke up. I needed to know I still loved it. And him.

My uneasy heart had me hailing a cab and ten minutes later I was destined for our apartment. I asked the cab driver for a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked in five years. He handed me a Malboro and a pack of matches. “Keep ‘em”, he said. I did.

When I opened the door to our bedroom I expected to see him laying there, but not with her. Suddenly I understood why she hadn’t answered her phone.

My wedding dress hung on a curtain rod above our bedroom window, shading their naked bodies from the rising sun.

I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t breath, let alone speak.

My hand found it’s way into the pocket of my trench coat. It reeked of lavender and cigarettes. My fingers found the matches.

I sparked one. And then another. And another and another. I lit books. I lit newspapers. I lit curtains. I lit lampshades. I lit the bed.

They woke up. Screaming.

And then, I lit the dress.

***

*If you’ve read my archives (may the gods bless you) you know how I feel about wedding dresses. If not, then click here. (and get a move on with those archives, will ‘ya!?)

Join the conversation: If you were the narrator (the betrayed woman) in this story what would you have done? Now, what if you were the fiance (the betrayer)?