Page 102 of Deliria

Alexander

The windows are grimy. Smeared. You’d think they’d do a better job of cleaning this place considering it needs to be sanitary.

I make a mental note to chastise the nurse next time she comes in. It’s not like we’re not paying enough for them to afford an army of cleaners.

And yet, as I stand by the hospital bed, all I can think is how inconvenient this is.

It’s not as though I pictured this day to be… perfect, exactly. I mean, let’s be honest—I’m hardly a lovesick fool.Sentimentality isn’t a factor that comes into my decisions. But still, one would hope for some refinement. Some class.

Instead, I’m faced with this; a woman too drug-addled to string a single coherent sentence together, her leg encased in plaster and propped on an elevated cushion, the scent of antiseptic clinging thick to the already stuffy hospital air.

Her head lolls to the side, her jaw slack, her lips parted slightly in a way that might’ve been appealing—if not for the drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.

She looks so far removed from what my bride-to-be should look like.

I straighten my tie, smoothing a hand over the charcoal grey fabric of my suit, feeling the distinct tightness in my shoulder blades as I shift. There’s no point in dressing up too much—I’m not standing in a church before a crowd of adoring, tear-eyed witnesses. This is just a formality. A necessity.

I glance toward the chaplain. A man well into his fifties, balding with sweat beading along his waxy forehead. He avoids looking down at Scarlett when he speaks, his voice dry and rushed, as though he’s in a hurry to be anywhere but here. I’ve already slipped a sufficient envelope into his hands for the church roof fund to ensure his silence and cooperation. It’s amazing how principles go out the window when enough money is on the table.

Turning back to Scarlett, I can’t help but frown as I regard the sad state she’s in. Her hospital gown is wrinkled against her skin, giving the faintest hint of her collarbone through the wide-cut neck. For the briefest second, and I mean truly the briefest, I wonder how she’d look in a proper dress—something chic but understated. Something that befits a Forster wife, but that thought slips past as quickly as it comes; there’s no point dressing up a scene like this. It’s a means to an end, nothing more.

I approach the bed, looking down at her with a mixture of disdain and detached curiosity.

It’s almost an insult, isn’t it? That I, a Forster, am reduced to this. I could have had any woman. Any woman. But here I am, about to marry her, a Heath.

I sniff lightly, wrinkling my nose as if to clear away the irritating thought.

This will be worth it though. This insult now will prove to be my fortune.

The chaplain clears his throat, momentarily pulling me from the incessant ticking of my own judgment.

“Shall we begin, Mr. Forster?” His voice shakes just slightly, and with one look, I see his knuckles have whitened from gripping his notepad a bit too tightly. Pathetic.

“Yes, let’s get this over with.”

He mutters a brief, perhaps obligatory, prayer—his words slurring together as though muttered by rote rather than conviction. My eyes never leave Scarlett’s face, though.

For a second I wonder if there’s anything behind those dull, half-lidded eyes, anything resembling thought or awareness. Wouldn’t it be amusing if she was aware, if she knew exactly what was happening and yet was helpless to do anything.

My lips curl at the notion. She’d deserve that torture and more for the merry dance she’s put me through.

When he gets to the vows, I shift my weight slightly, bracing myself for the ridiculousness of it all.

“Do you, Alexander Forster, take Scarlett Heath…” The chaplain’s words start to blend into the background noise, like the constant hum of the machines around us. Honestly, this whole sacrament is lost on me. What sanctity is there in this room, anyway? What mutual devotion? It’s all arbitrary—just paperwork dressed up with pretty biblical etiquette. I catchmyself holding back a laugh at the absurdity of it, not that it would really matter if I did.

“Yes,” I respond, loud enough for him to move on but without any real inflection. It’s not like I have to mean it.

The chaplain glances at Scarlett, and for the briefest moment, it seems as though he hesitates. Perhaps he’s considering addressing her. The fool seems confused by her lack of response, or perhaps he’s mulling over some ethical dilemma I couldn’t care less about.

His eyes drift to me, questioning silently. When I don’t give him an ounce of recognition, he adjusts his collar awkwardly and continues.

“Scarlett...” He barely even gives her name any weight, as if that’s enough to fulfil his vague sense of obligation. “Scarlett, do you… take Alexander… as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Her head lolls again. The drug-induced haze has anchored her firmly between consciousness and oblivion. She offers no response, but then why would she? It’s not like she has the capacity to say anything of merit. The chaplain waits for a beat, eyes darting between her pale face, still marred by the aftermath of her recent accident, and my impassive gaze.

I raise an eyebrow, and with that unspoken command, he mutters, “right, right,” quickly moving on, glossing over the words that were meant to be hers.

It doesn’t matter whether she says anything.

---