She was enmeshed in a froth of white lace. A bird in a net, ripe for the eating. The bodice was laced up so tight she could only breathe in shallow gasps. Sitting down could not even be considered. She stood alone before the priest, holding her red bouquet like a shield. The minutes stretched and twisted.

He wasn’t coming.

When the realisation hit her, she collapsed in a faint. Everyone in the church assumed it was the shock and the shame of being left at the altar, but it was the relief which floored her. A tidal wave of relief, submerging and overwhelming her until she fled into unconsciousness. She was comatose for less than a minute, but it felt like much longer. Infinities idled away as she dove and twisted and leapt through an alternate space of green leaves and birdsong.

She woke to noise. Constriction. Bustle. Interrogation. She tried closing her eyes and pretending to faint again, but the noise increased and she was subjected to rough hands grasping her shoulders and attempting to shake her back into the world.

She opened her eyes. A half memory of dappled sunlight flickered in her mind, but fled before the onslaught of chattering voices.

She found herself in the wholly unfamiliar position of being in charge. The guests milled around the church in aimless fashion, like sheep. No, not sheep. That would imply some kind of herd behaviour. Like… clouds? No. Clouds move with the wind, all in the same direction. She gave up trying to find a metaphor and suggested quietly to one of the ushers that perhaps everyone should go on to the reception, as it would be a shame to waste all that food. Given a purpose the crowd dispersed rapidly in car-sized groups, until the only people left were herself and the vicar. He attempted to console her. She cut him short, asking if he might give her a moment alone. He left without protest, his relief evident.

She loosened her dress and lay down by the altar. The stained glass windows were illuminated by the afternoon sun. There were people in them. She had no idea who they were supposed to be, so as she lay there she made up names and stories for them, until she became too cold to stay any longer.

The wedding that never was had finished. All the people had gone home and still there was no sign of him. She went back to the house, stripped off the voluminous confinement of the dress, and then she sat on the window seat, watching the road. Waiting. Dusk came and still there was no sign.

How had she arrived at this moment? She couldn’t remember saying yes to a proposal of any sort. Perhaps he hadn’t needed her to say yes. Perhaps he had assumed her compliance, as he did with everything else.

That morning she had looked at the dress laid out on the chair in the bedroom. She remembered wishing she could turn away, run away into the woods, but she didn’t dare. Not after the last time. She winced, phantom bruises twinging at the recollection. Stumbling, dragged, weeping, face caked with blood and snot and tears, finally collapsing on the floor of the kitchen. His voice, beating at her like swan’s wings.

Nightfall. His house was the last one before the woods began. It was far enough from the town that there were no streetlights. She couldn’t see the road anymore. The fear was diluted by a tiny drop of hope. Perhaps he was never coming back.

Eventually she slept and dreamed she was in the woods again, running, path moss-soft under my feet, and I don’t know if I’m running towards something or away from it. I slow to a walk. There are larch needles in my hair. Orange and spiky, hundreds of slender rusty pins, in my clothes too, scratching and prickling like mouse claws. I pick them out and let them fall, one by one by one.

Dawn came with a blood-orange sunrise, fit to terrify sailors, or shepherds, or whichever proverbial people are supposed to fear a red morning. She couldn’t remember. It wasn’t important.

She must have fallen asleep in her chair. Could he have returned while she was sleeping? Surely he would have woken her. It was his habit to wake her whenever he was up, as if sleeping constituted a dereliction of her duty.

The house felt empty. She crept upstairs, avoiding all the creaks and squeaks of the floorboards, the habit of silence ingrained long ago.

No-one. No thing. She came back down and stood by the door to the outside. She placed one tentative finger on the latch. Waited. Nothing happened. No deep voice curled out like a whip. Slowly, experimenting, she eased open the door, half expecting him to be on the other side, ready to catch her in an act of disobedience.

The only thing that came in was the sound of the dawn chorus, and shafts of light, morning-gold and warm on her bare toes. In a bound like a deer taking flight she leapt over the threshold and out, down the path, full tilt and aiming for the woods.

There are no paths in this part of the woods. Only the dark spaces between the trees permit passage, if you can ease your way through the barbed curls of bramble and the litter of hardened twigs that turn under your feet and thrust into your calves and ankles.

Where he lay was a clearing, of sorts. Larch needles were his bed, pin-prickling the back of his head and his arms. Bare black branches criss-crossed a bleached sky.

Time passed. He watched the sky through the tree lattice as it turned to grey, purple, indigo, navy. Perfect shades of bruise.

Around his head was a halo where the cosy orange of the fallen needles deepened to red.

***

Rosy Adams lives in West Wales. She mostly writes short stories but is working on her first novel. Her stories have been published by Writing Magazine and Muswell Press, and her poetry has appeared in The Lampeter Review. She can be found on Twitter @rosycadams