The Bride Who Died Twice

I had died twice. First, terrorized by David's brutal hands. Then, heartbroken and broke, betrayed by Mark. But I woke up, heart pounding, in a dusty community hall, my white wedding dress for Mark hanging on the door. Tomorrow.

Panic seized me. "No. Not again." Beside me, my daughter, Chloe, looking twelve and solid, pleaded, "Mom, you *have* to marry Mark. It's the only way to avoid David."

My heart sank. Chloe, from a terrifying future, didn't know Mark was poisoned, too. I overheard him plotting, revealing his ex, Jessica, was pregnant with his *second* child. He saw me as a stepping stone. Jessica then publicly exposed his lies, heavily pregnant, to the entire town.

The pain of betrayal burned anew, igniting a cold rage. How could I have been so blind, twice? My own future daughter was unknowingly pushing me towards another abyss.

My resolve hardened. This time, I'd save us both. No more Davids, no more Marks; this life would be mine. I'd give him a performance he'd never forget. Then, at the peak of his public humiliation, my first abuser, David, appeared, marriage certificate in hand, declaring I was *already* his wife.

My first life ended with David.

He was a construction worker, strong hands.

Those hands weren't always gentle.

He hit me. He took my money.

Chloe, our daughter, saw it all.

Her eyes were old before she was ten.

That life was a dark room with no windows.

Then Chloe came back.

A miracle, a ghost from a future I hadn't lived in right.

She told me, "Mom, don't marry David. Marry Mark."

Mark. The musician from high school. The one with the easy smile.

I listened. I married Mark.

Chloe vanished then, thinking her job was done.

Years passed. Mark got his music career, a small record deal.

He used my father, Pastor Thompson, his good name in our town.

Then the truth.

Mark had a son with Jessica, his old girlfriend.

He'd been sending them our money. Our savings. Gone.

My heart gave out. A doctor said, "Stress-induced."

I died in a hospital bed, alone and broke.

Now, I was awake.

My eyes snapped open.

The cheap paneling of the community hall's back room.

My wedding dress, white and hopeful, hung on the door.

Mark's wedding. Tomorrow.

Panic seized me, cold and sharp.

"No. Not again."

A small hand touched mine.

Chloe.

She looked solid, real, about twelve years old.

Her eyes, those same old eyes, pleaded with me.

"Mom, you have to. You have to marry Mark. Please."

Her voice was thin, scared.

"It's the only way to avoid David. You can't marry David."

I stared at her, my daughter, my ghost, my guide.

This was real. Another chance.

But Chloe didn't know.

Mark was poisoned, too, just a different kind.

My resolve hardened.

This time, I would save us both.

No more Davids. No more Marks.

This life would be mine.

"Chloe, honey, it's okay," I said, my voice hoarse.

She looked up, hope flickering in her eyes.

"You'll marry him? Mark?"

I couldn't tell her the truth about Mark, not yet.

She was already so fragile, tied to my choices in ways I barely understood.

"We need to be smart, Chloe. Very smart."

Mark. He wanted this wedding badly.

The church-sponsored music festival was next month.

A talent scout was coming.

He needed to be "Mark Thompson, settled family man, son-in-law of Pastor Thompson."

My father's endorsement was his golden ticket.

Chloe was still watching me, her brow furrowed.

"What do you mean, Mom?"

"I mean," I said, sitting up, "I have a bit of a headache. Maybe we push the wedding license trip to the afternoon?"

Mark was supposed to pick me up in an hour to go to the county courthouse.

He wouldn't like a delay.

He was already outside, I could hear his beat-up truck rumbling.

Chloe chewed her lip. "But... you have to marry him. Before you meet David."

Her fear of David was a raw, open wound.

I knew that fear. I'd lived it.

"I won't meet David," I promised, though I had no idea how to ensure that yet.

Mark knocked, a quick, impatient rap. "Sarah? You ready, sweetheart?"

His voice, so charming, so fake. It made my skin crawl.

I took a deep breath. "Just a minute, Mark!"

I looked at Chloe. "Stay here. Stay quiet."

She nodded, her eyes wide.

I opened the door. Mark stood there, all smiles and cheap cologne.

"Hey there, beautiful bride-to-be." He leaned in for a kiss.

I turned my head slightly, so it landed on my cheek.

"Mark, I woke up with a terrible headache. Can we go for the license a little later? I just need some aspirin and a bit of quiet."

His smile tightened. Just a fraction, but I saw it.

"Oh. Uh, sure, Sarah. You okay? You look a little pale."

"Just tired. Wedding jitters, I guess."

"Right, right." He tried to look sympathetic. "Well, I got that meeting with Pastor Thompson this morning about the festival. Guess I can do that first. You rest up. I need my bride looking her best."

He needed my father's connections, more like.

"Thanks, Mark. I'll be fine."

He left. I closed the door, leaning against it.

Chloe was right. Mark was the immediate problem.

He was pushing hard.

Pastor Thompson, my own father, was unknowingly helping him.

He thought Mark was a good Christian boy, a talented musician who loved his daughter.

If only he knew.