Cynthia smoothed the bridesmaid’s dress front.
Neon orange taffeta with shit brown velvet ribbon sash,
designed to look good on nobody, except the bride,
who wore a dazzling array of crystals and net in
‘hasn’t-been-a-virgin-since-the-ninth-grade’ white.
“I won’t wear it! I won’t!”
Cynthia screamed in the privacy of her own thoughts.
It was the only place
she was going to find decent conversation tonight,
in this cacophony of chavs,
otherwise known as The Bridal Party.
“Thia! This!”
Someone called her in her least favourite nickname.
“Thia! I was just telling Jade that it’s your fifth time.
As they say, Always a Bridesmaid…”
“Never A Bride!”
The others joined in, howls of laughter.
Five tango’d
fake tanned
fake personality
harpies hooting and ganging up.
Holler after shriek, after pointing after snarl.
This was the pinnacle,
Or was she just being cynical?
She had to do it, didn’t she?
They deserved it.
They bullied her.
In fact, it was self-defence.
She couldn’t wear that dress
or put up with them.
She had to do it.
The last words they heard was her call.
She was still telling the police as they led her away
from the bloodbath and carnage of the bridal party.
"My name is Cyn! I’m Cyn!
Do you hear me? I’m Cyn!”
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