Box Bride
By Jeniya Mard
She came out of a box.
She came out of a box and squeezed his hand as he helped her step over the edge and plant her feet on the hardwood floor. Her hair was straight against her head, just barely grazing her shoulders as she turned to face him, his features were nothing but a blur behind the glass of her eyes. She stood at his shoulders, his hands on her sides as he rubbed her hips, the white dress spiraling at his fingertips.
He offered to help her bathe, sympathizing with the long journey she had taken, how rough it must’ve been, he cooed as the hard water smacked the porcelain bottom of the bathtub, his eyes tracing her outline in a towel. The water was warm, and her eyes stared up at the ceiling as her skin crawled and heart swelled in her throat as his hands ran up and down her; the water that dripped from his palms against her chest left her breathless.
You must eat something, he gestured a plate decorated with greens towards her, the ceramic rattling the aged glass of the small, circular table as his fingers pushed against it. Her feet dangled above the floor, lips idle as the water in her glass, void of ripples. His arm pushed past the cup, and her eyes remained on the table, nails digging into her thighs as his hand fell to her shoulder.
Are you comfortable? He asked as her head sank between the silk of a pillow, her eyes moving from his chest to neck in a slow, sluggish manner. His arms were thick and caused her jaw to clench as his hand, rough and calloused in its bend, held her cheek. And through her unsteady breath and fingers between her lips, he hushed her body’s cries; the trembling only coming to a stop once the shadow of his body was gone from above her.
Stay where I can see you, he’d call from the porch when he’d take her outside, his hands, arthritic and stiff too busy trying to light a cigar to bother noticing her steps.
She walked to the creek behind the house, her feet bare, twigs and rocks threatening to pierce the soft skin of her soles as she stepped to the water's edge. She slid her dress down to her feet, her naked body released hot air from her skin; the hair on the back of her neck stood upright and steam rose from every pore and crevasse as she stepped into the water.
The stream nestled her ankles, the water kissing her calves and embracing her thighs as she went deeper. Her eyes strung upward to the sky as she lowered herself, her back to the surface of the water as she began to float, her hair sprawling atop the surface.
The trees canopying above the creek left fragments of sunlight against her skin as she stared up to the morning star, water brushing against her ears as fish kissed at her neck, sucking until their small lips left entrances to her soul where bruises sat, moving from her neck to the inward of her thighs and hips.
The air was sweet, and her eyes fluttered closed as the stream cradled her. Her heart hung low in her chest, beating a silent, steady hum to the faint song of birds and the croon of the wind.
But once her body had grown still and all was alright, the sun aged weakly and the water uneasy as drops of rain began to sneak between the openings in the canopy. The fish pushed off her skin and swam beneath rocks to hide as a shadow of smoke rolled above her as the water began to burn, began to ripple.
And as she looked at the man standing above her with a face full of ire, full of fire, she remained departed in her words, but her eyes horribly alive.
THE END
Author Bio: Jeniya Mard is a writer from Metro-Detroit and believes in the good in everyone and everything. She believes that the darkest writing can shine the brightest lights on issues the world needs to see, to hear. Her writing has appeared in Mistake House Magazine, Marrow Magazine, Sky Island Journal, and others.