My first wedding.

I remember picturing the whole thing over again in my mind. The long redder than red flowing dress clinging desperately to the tips on my chest, the zipper in the back barely there, it's end just at the small of my back. It was a picture, art calloused with the need to be seen, respected and more so, wanted. He wouldn't know it but the celebration would be mine and mine alone. The first bang to a well done deal, a significant tear against the sheet covering my shame. And so as my bare feet brushed through the dewy dawn grass, my face torn to my ears with painfully drawn smiles, ring slipped into a cold unsettling hand, it would be a war conquered. A worse battle began.