Wicked One By Marie Mannino

It’s too late; you heard it. You lay in bed and pretend that you had not, but the voice gets louder and louder with every minute you wait.  Today your sister is getting married. She is getting married, not you, but your mother insists on appointing you default Maid of Merda since your sister’s Butana of a friend insists on sleeping with all of the groomsmen instead of helping. Figures. This whole thing has made you wish that no man would ever get on his knees in front of you, unless he’s between your legs and isn’t holding a ring. Mauricio was good at that—very good.

For a moment longer you sit in bed relishing in the memory, but again the piercing caw of your mother’s voice bellows from below. Get down here there are too many things to do. Don’t be selfish. You roll out of bed and stare into the full-length mirror your mother insisted on nailing to the wall. A lady must always look her best. The only women in history known for staring into mirrors were witches. Mirror, mirror on the wall.

You find your way sleepily down the marbled winding staircase to the foyer where your cousin Andrea fixes his tie and does the sign of the cross when you’ve mother appears in the hallways, blood on her lips. She means business. She says, Help your sister get ready and for God’s sake do your hair. Your sister looks beautiful, as usual, she’s compensating for the lack of thought. For as beautiful and naïve as she is, you don’t pity her. She kisses your cheek and says today is the best day of her life. You pull her hair into a chignon too hard. The doorbell rings. He’s here she says, Don’t let him see me, it’s bad luck. Mauricio.