No woman had ever looked as beautiful as Genevieve Gordon did on her wedding day.

Everything was white lace and smooth silk as she stood in front of church door, taking in one deep breath after another. Her hands were hidden, white-knuckled as they clenched the stems of a magnificent bouquet. Roses would have paled next to the exotic flowers which made up the arrangements, species which grew only on inaccessible mountainsides and deep within rain forests. Some of them didn't exist at all, but they smiled up at her with their cheery Alice In Wonderland faces as though they very much belonged in her world.

Jenny didn't notice them, even as they leaned in towards one another and whispered in soft voices.

“Isn't she stunning,” the lily said, its petals curling back away from its cheery expression, “The very definition of beauty.”

“A perfect woman,” the peonies sighed in response. Their petals blushed a shade of pink to match Jenny's cheeks, and they withdrew to hide behind the wide, white blossom of a giggly hydrangea.

“Everything is perfect,” her mother said as she fluffed the veil, her wrinkled face pulled up into a smile that creased the corners of her pale blue eyes. At fifty-two, Lucille Prideux was the spitting image of her daughter. Magenta hair was piled on top of her head in loose curls, flagged with grey at the temples. She had gained weight over the years, and her plump frame fit snugly into her off-white Mother of the Bride's dress. It was a conservative thing, resemblant of the knee-length dress and jacket that Genevieve could just vaguely remember wearing in her days at Sovereign Heights.

It seemed so long ago that she had graduated, grown into a woman, become the first female president and penned her best selling romance series, and yet she could still remember the words to the recommendation letter that Ray had written her.

It is my absolute honor to recommend Genevieve Prideux, the most amazing, talented, prettiest, most wonderful student I have ever had the pleasure of teaching to Sovereign Heights.

There was so much more to remember, paragraph after paragraph of compliments and praise, but Jenny's thoughts were cut short as the organ broke the silence. It was a rusty instrument, and the chords echoed as though composed of screaming. Nevertheless, the wedding march played, and before she could even wipe the daydreamy smile from her face, the door before her swung silently open. The light that flooded the church through the stained glass was blinding, and Genevieve held her breath and waited for her eyes to adjust. She could see shafts of sunset red filtering down through the air, motes of dust dancing on every breath. She strained to peer through the light, to see the smiling faces of friends and family. To see that wide, perfect smile at the end of the aisle, waiting to take her hand and make all of her dreams come true.

Never again would Jenny find herself stuffed into a locker. Nobody would look down on her with disdain and call her “kid”. Nobody would put her head in a toilet or laugh when the hem of her skirt got caught in her tights. Never again would she be called “Baby” in class, laughed at, ridiculed, made fun of for her Care Bear collections and her locker full of Zac Efron and Vampire Diaries. From that day forward, Jenny would never need the sultry glances or womanly wiles that she lacked. From that day forward, she would have Ray to protect her. Her knights. Her prince! Her fairytale ending, all waiting for her the moment she could see beyond that blinding light.

That blinding red light that seemed to grow warmer as the door opened.

That blinding red light that crawled along the walls and ate at the tapestries. It wilted the flowers and chewed away at the pews. Familiar faces had been erased, replaced by smooth stretches of pale white skin coating figures as stiff and posed as mannequins. They craned their necks with their bodies still, looking back at impossible angles as the fire licked away at their arms and legs. It seemed to melt away their plastic skin, leaving charred bodies of bone and a thick, choking black smoke. Jenny's mind reeled, and she stumbled back into her mothers open arms.

“Sweetie,” her mother said, and those wide blue eyes were gone, replaced by pits in which a dozen maggots squirmed. Genevieve could see them squirming under her skin, falling from her flared nostrils and latching onto her lip to crawl back inside. When she set her hands on Genevieve's shoulders, they were little more than melted bone and dripping flesh. From her fingertips the maggots crawled out over Genevieve's bare shoulders, and she could feel the sharp sting as they began burrowing in. With a hard shove she forced her mother away, pushing herself back towards the fire as she slapped at her shoulders and chest, struggling to remove the creatures that seemed impervious to her touch.

She was screaming as she stumbled back towards the fiery altar, past rows of blind, melting faces. The heat was nearly unbearable, the smoke choking and thick with the scent of burnt flesh and hair. Her mother was lurching forward from the open doorway, beyond which lay only an utter emptiness, black as night. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run but back towards the altar. Perhaps there was another door. Her mother seemed to know what she was thinking, and waggled a finger back and forth. Her head tilted to one side, kept on tilting, twisted with the sound of snapping bone and popping vertebrae until her mouth dripped spittle and bile down onto her eyelids.

“Jenny,” came his voice, soft and sweet from the altar. She could feel pain in her chest where the bug were burrowing, feel them crawling between the layer of skin and muscle. Her skin felt like a label being peeled back from the bottle. Even as she slapped at the insects on her skin, more seemed to be crawling up her legs. Into her shoes. Into her stockings. The face around her were melting into puddles of bubbling goo, every bubble giving birth to a new swarm of pale, crawling larvae. Genevieve was running down the aisle, seeking him out through smoke that nearly blinded her.

“Jenny, I'm here,” he said again, closer now. The aisle was impossibly long, and transitioned from the smooth carpet to a sea of faces. Her heels sank into mouths and nostrils, and when she tripped she caught herself with fingers that sank into eyes with a soft pop and barely escaped mouths that snapped at her fingertips. Her voice was gone now, choked off by screaming and smoke. Behind her, she could hear her mother giggling wildly. In front of her, she could see only a faint silhouette in a white tuxedo.

Each labored step brought her closer, he was every bit as handsome as she had remembered. His face was perfect, his attire pristine. The ash and blood that had destroyed her dress seemed to shy away from him, as though he radiated some kind of power that kept all the evils at bay. Ray, her knight. Her prince. Her soon-to-be husband, who held his hand out to the mess of a girl.

“Take my hand,” he said, and his tone was that of someone who had no doubt that she would.

“Ray!” Screaming still, “I don't understand-” Tears streamed down her cheeks. There was no order, no reason, no up or down to the world around her, “Ray, what is-”

“Take my hand.” He said again, this time more urgent, “And you will have everything.”

Jenny stopped, and for a brief moment she forgot about everything. The faceless bodies were lost in the smoke, the fire that fingered the hem of her dress, even the maggots that wormed their way into her veins. She forgot all of these things just to be lost in those perfect blue eyes. From the smoke, Charys Murphy's voice was warning her away, but she could not catch sight of that fading blue hair. There was only the frantic screaming, the sound of footsteps running towards her as her fingertips hovered above Ray's palm.

“It's a trick!” Charys shouted, and for a moment, Jenny paused.

Not soon enough.

With a smile that would have chilled the blood of the most courageous man, Ray Gordon closed his fingers around Genevieve's hand with a crushing grip. There was a laugh, otherworldly and maniacal, as he pulled her in. So many times she had dreamed of being so close to him, but she could her her ribs cracking as he hugged her tightly to him. His fingertips pressed into her shoulderblades, and she could feel blood blossoming beneath his nails. His grip was freezing, his embrace crushing the life out of her as he whispered, “You're mine.”

When Genevieve awoke, her mother was already gripping her shoulders, trying to rouse her. The screaming went on for what seemed an eternity, and only when she was wrapped safe and sound in her mother's arms, her face pressed against one shoulder, did it finally give way to the soft, gentle sobbing that would carry her through til morning.