Clockwork

When she first arrived, she was well-loved. Behind the glass wall, flashes of bright, hot light blinded her, adoring fans wanting to capture her likeness to serve as proof when memory failed them. She liked to imagine that these people, so desperate to see her, would flaunt their memories, bragging to each other:

“Have you seen the photo I took of her? Doesn’t she look beautiful!”

“I’ve never seen anything like her!”

“What a star! What a gem!”

And, of course, she would stand quite still, soaking up every minute of it, basking in the light like a tourist crisping under a foreign sun, developing an attractive tan film to mask the tumour growing within. Occasionally, very occasionally, just to tease her flock, her arm would whir with a staccato flourish, ticking and clicking like a pizzicato symphony, rising up and up, up to the clouds of the heavens until it was level with her head; then slowly, very slowly, just to bait her admirers, her hand, delicate and pale, a white rose resting atop the fattened stem of her arm, would twirl left and right, a queen addressing her adoring public, the epitome of regality. They always loved when she did that, loved her all the more in motion than in stasis. She couldn’t hear them, and often she couldn’t see them through the veil of flashing light, but she liked to imagine – she liked to imagine a lot of things – but she liked to imagine she could hear them, oohs and ahs fighting for space in the air on the other side, in the place she had never been to or truly seen before. It was a simple life she led, and she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way – she had rather be simple and loved than complex and shunned. And she was well-loved.

Her neck was very stiff (she assumed she must have been born with some undiagnosed, never-before-seen ailment) and though her head could twist ever so slightly to the sides, her vision remained constricted. But did she care? All she ever wanted to see was right in front of her: her fans, of course, on the other side, but more importantly than that was the glass divide, polished and perfectly reflective, and when the mob had moved on, there in the silvered surface appeared her perfect reflection. She could – and did – stare at herself for hours. Even if there had been other activities to do, or other pastimes, which there weren’t, she would still have been equally as enraptured by her own charm. There was something so alluring about her – perhaps it was her clear, white skin, like fresh-fallen snow, or the intricacy of her hair, woven and plaited, balancing on top of her head, cascading like water in reverse, that really established her as beautiful, the pièce de resistance of her virtue. Her dress (a Bertin, if she wasn’t mistaken), bridal in its satin purity, bunched up in huge whorls of fabric, hugged her slim body, embracing her every ridge, and dripped like melting wax onto the floor behind her in her train. The delicate gauze of her veil rested softly on her shoulders, barely making contact. The curve of her eyebrow was an arc de triomphe, her nose the famous French pont des soupirs, her ears like shells of the finest fruits de la mer. Her cheeks were rouged in precise circles matching the deep, lusty crimson of her lips, curling into a Mona Lisa smile. But, above all of her features, she prized her eyes as her greatest asset: two glossy, shimmering globes of darkest ebony, two drops of liquid obsidian embedded in her ivory visage. Whenever the flashes began, they glinted as if with laughter, though emotion did not expose itself there. Looking into those fathomless depths, the viewer could only spy themselves staring back at them, the wondrous emotion in their eyes filling her own. 

So, the stiffness of her neck was, in more than one way, a blessing. But every once in a while, against her better thought, almost as if she had no control over herself, her head would twitch to look beside her, the rods in her neck grinding against each other in protest, until the shape of her mother would infect her line of sight, like a blot of spilt ink on unblemished paper. Though the two had always coexisted in that room together, it was more than evident that her mother was the older of the two: her skin was sullen and ashy, with deep lines gouged carelessly in its rubbery surface, and her framework, rusting from age, was crooked and misshapen. Her dress, a thick, feathery gown fifty years out of date, choked her, swallowing her whole from head to toe, and the veil over her head, to the daughter’s dismay, did nothing to obscure the wounds inflicted by time itself on her former beauty. The contrast between them – old and young, beautiful and hideous, crone and maiden, bride and widow – was stifling. Depending on the day, her feelings towards her mother shuffled themselves around, a fickle gamble of emotion: sometimes pity overwhelmed her, so that for the rest of the day she found herself floundering in sadness; other times, her mother’s presence outraged her – what a slight to be penned in with one so awful! What an insult! But more frequently, her detest for her mother outshone her other feelings, partly because she was forced to share her adoring flock outside the window with her, and partly because she could quite easily recognise her own features within the fallen grace of the widow.

For most of her existence, however, her mother was merely an afterthought, like an embarrassing memory which resurfaces every once in a while following an unexpected trigger, like déjà vu. She kept her priorities straight: herself, and the flashing lights, above all else, and with these as her foundations, she dwelled in bliss. Temporary bliss, but bliss all the same, for every day, almost to the second, her life was plunged into bleak tenebrosity, wrapping her up in thick velvet night, as if the fabric binding her mother was already beginning to constrict her, taking away the sliver of sight she possessed from her. After the initial shock, her composure returned to her, but her reflection did not reappear in the darkness. That first night, when the light had been snubbed out for the first time, she was shocked to her very core, having become so quickly accustomed to the flashing lights, so that fear clapped her in chains throughout the night. Now, they hung loose about her limbs, but her blindness was no less worrying; for when night reigned, so did the demons of her mind. It was all well and good with the light to dazzle and distract her, but when they vanished, questions took their place. 

There was a small plaque erected in front of her, fringed in a halo of golden light whenever there were visitors, balanced on a thin pole extending from the ground. While her reflection reassured her, it also frustrated her with each passing hour, for there at her feet were the details of her life, written in smaller print than her beady eyes could interpret – though the thought never occurred to her that reading was not a skill she possessed – so that the truth about her life was just, just, out of reach. These were the thoughts that swilled through her mind in the small hours like sour wine: who was she? What was her name? She knew she was a bride, destined to marry a man whom she loved, her groom, her husband-to-be – but would she ever meet him? Who was he?

That was perhaps the worst of all. It was true, she was well-loved by strangers, but did she love them in the same way? The membrane that divided them prevented any sort of deeper connection, as if she had been severed from the rest of the body by the guillotine of glass before her. She was an executed woman, lingering on the cusp of life for as long as she dared. And though she thought of her life more as idolisation than as imprisonment, something still snagged at the back of her mind. She thought she was well-loved, and she probably was, but did she love anyone?

The question that terrified her the most: what is love?

*****

“Incredible!”

“One of a kind!”

“A work of genius!”

The bride’s mechanisms groaned. The imagined voices now seemed to taunt her more than praise her. At least these people had a world of beauty to compare her to; all she had was her failing mother, grinding slowly towards the end of her life, to reassure her that she was in fact still attractive. The people still came in droves, at least, which was a comfort (though she tended to ignore the smears of disappointment on their faces, their scowls and frowns, not to mention the fact that the flashing lights, once a remarkable firework display, now flickered sporadically like embers of a dwindling fire) so that she could, for once, observe the room beyond the pane – she liked to ignore a lot of things these days – so she must still be appealing, mustn’t she? As long as those lights flashed, her hopes lived on.

This particular day was trapped in a period of quiet – it happened every year, around the same time; if she really had the patience, she could have figured out the pattern – so she resolved as she always did to study her reflection’s face and features. Her beauty was undeniable still even after all these years, but somehow dulled, blunted like the edge of a blade well-used. Time is a fickle thing, and memory is often unreliable as a result. Was that wrinkle always there? Her beauty was like a church window of the Madonna – once possessing the clarity of clear glass, now obscured by coloured pigments. Was my hair always so limp? No less beautiful in and of herself, but a different kind of beautiful – to some (including herself), a better kind. Was my skin always so sullen? Yes, she told herself.

The reflection of her mother, perennially morbid in appearance, haunted her periphery. Had she been moved? Pushed closer towards her? Sometimes, suitors would rush in (though never for her, a fact she ignored) with tools long and hard in their hands with which they tried to entice the widow. They always left somewhat rebuffed, and none ever stayed, so they must not have been successful, but every time the bride could swear that the crow-like form of her mother encroached more and more upon her field of vision. Aside from when she absolutely had to, she did not even dignify her with a glance. But there she was, her mother – black like death. She loathed her, and she definitely did not envy her.

On that particular day, she was staring with heated scrutiny at her reflection (and, more importantly, at the text inscribed backwards in the glass; she hoped her mother didn’t notice her attempts), so much so that she didn’t notice the newcomers who had arrived until they were starting to move away. But that was all that it took – love, like hate, swelled fast before she even knew the reasons why. 

There were two of them standing there, two men of equal stature and build, equal in many respects in fact – mousy brown hair, strong jaw, golden skin, sun-kissed, one could say. The one on the left was dressed smartly, a simple blue suit with a stark red tie, a white shirt beneath, and shoes. She was familiar with this man – she had learnt to recognise a handful of familiar faces, all dressed in similar attire, who came with particularly large groups to, as she liked to imagine, sing her praises. Yes, she had known him for some years; his face bored her now. This stranger, on the other hand – well, he was something else. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was about him – perhaps it was his sense of style, smart yet casual, or his posture. Or his eyes – large and dark like hers, so that she could almost see herself in them. For the first time in her life, she truly felt seen – he wasn't viewing her through a lens, or looking at her because everyone else was, but rather, in her humble opinion, because he wanted to. Something stirred within her; the metronome of her heart skipped a beat. Here was Love. Here was Youth and Beauty. How could two men so similar be worlds apart? In that brief, fleeting instance, all her waiting had been worth it. He was beautiful.

Then he was gone. And, soon after, so were the lights. Darkness bubbled at her lips as it coated her throat and lungs, viscous black poison dripping into her cavities, soaking her through. Where had he gone? Would she ever see him again? Questions, like vultures, circled her mind once more. Surely he must come back? She couldn’t be left all alone, again. No, no, he'd come back: he looked kind, he was too kind to leave her, and anyway, the way he had looked at her, that mixture of awe and... could it be longing? There was no possible explanation for that look, other than that he felt the same as she did. Her heart, now fluttering in a waltz, could not control itself. Love – love! Everything inside her was working on overdrive, the cogs and gears and wheels spinning faster and faster and faster with every second. He would come back, and when he did, she would show him that she was, indeed, his bride, and he her groom. Husband and wife. Together forever.

The night no longer held power over her. It was as if she herself were glowing from within, her metal heart radiating the rays of heaven itself, fighting back the demons of the darkness. The night could stay if it wished, but she knew that the day would come, and with it, Love.

*****

Day came, but Love did not. She did not dismay, however, her faith in him was so strong. Every day, with queenly composure, she waved her choreographed wave, over and over and over, hoping that somewhere in the sea of faces, his would appear. The flashes of light, once a blessing, now became a curse – what if one flash blinded her from seeing him? What if there were too many people swarming her, so he decided to leave her be, too preoccupied with her subjects? The thought made her brim with dread. But she kept up her sculpted smile, waved her hand, the white rose of her hope, her dainty fingers crimping like wilting petals, as she waited for her prince to return. 

Her desire was whittling away her patience, and her nerves were wire-thin with strain. Such focus on anything but herself was draining. One time when she thought he had appeared, her excitement inflated to such an extent she thought her chest might burst, simply pop like a carnival balloon, but as her eyes adjusted, she realised it was the other man, his almost doppelganger. It felt as if her bodice had somehow tightened even more as disappointment weighed her down. It was truly remarkable how similar the two men looked – almost uncanny. But this was not him, and she did not feel Love. Later, a gaggle of young girls, younger than she, lither and suppler, appeared. For the first time, she found herself staring at the faces beyond the surface of the glass, comparing and contrasting with the figure she had long grown tired of in the glass. They were beautiful, truly beautiful; she possessed her own beauty, certainly, which could outshine any other, of course, but was she beautiful? Would her future husband prefer a selection from this brothel’s cohort? 

A clamour beside her woke her from her reverie. Her mother, again. How selfish of her, to bring the attention back to her! She'd been getting worse and worse in recent years, screaming involuntarily, always trying to steal her limelight – the cheek! The urge to look came over her, and as always she could do nothing to resist it. The feathers on her mother's dress were beginning to coat the panels at her feet, revealing the cold flesh beneath, looking like raw, plucked chicken. Her face was sinking, as if the structure beneath was slowly eroding with the passage of time. The thought suddenly occurred to the soon-to-be bride – how could she possibly live in peace with her husband with her mother hanging over them? Or, even worse, what if she tried to take him from her, the widow's jealousy and contempt driving her to do the unspeakable? Or she might scare him off, like a dove startled by a hideous scarecrow. Fury writhed in her forged soul. She would have hit her, if she could.

As her head wound its way back into position, her fury simmered and dissipated. There, standing so close to her, his breath fogging her view of his face, was her Love. He looked just as he had the last time, albeit wearing different clothes – the navy of his suit suited him perfectly, and the pop of crimson silk running down his front caught the eye at once, like a slit from the nave to the chops, with his heart so close to the surface she could almost grab it, and keep it. The crisp white shirt beneath made his leathery skin all the more tanned. He was Adonis and she Venus; perhaps she too could capture him and keep him in her garden with her. Or was she Dido and he Aeneas? Would their love destroy her, for him to only forget her afterwards? Only time would tell.

But for this one moment, they were there together. They were one, flowing into each other across the glass barrier. His smile warmed her cockles, filling her up entirely with joy. It was their little eternity, shared between them alone. 

She could tell from his smile that he was a kind man, a family man, he'd make a great father; he had a good relationship with his mother, which was more than could be said for her, but she'd make the perfect daughter-in-law; he could cook fairly well, his specialty being red meats, a real manly man; he could grow a beard, but chose to stay clean-shaven, just how she liked it, because otherwise his kiss would be too abrasive, like sandpaper. Their future swirled with the dust motes lingering in the air in front of her, so real it was tangible. All this from his smile alone.

Gradually, very gradually, just to tease him, her arm whirred in a staccato flourish, just as it always did, but this time the audience listening to her pizzicato symphony was deserving of her artistry; it rose until it was level with her head; then slowly, very slowly, just to bait him, her delicate, pale, white rose hand twirled left and right, a royal princess courting the noble knight. His lips parted like a blossoming lily, and (she didn’t think she could take anymore) he grinned. His perfectly white teeth were a mark of his quality, she valued him for his teeth. They were the teeth of a gentleman. The soft edges of his lips eased the unease that had been dwelling at her core, disrupting her mechanisms. Then, coyly, very coyly, his arm too began to raise; she could picture the joint twisting deep in its socket as it did so, covered in sinewy muscle and sweating, hairy flesh – how she longed for it all; his hand, broad and strong, calloused at the base of the fingers from labouring, waved back and forth like a white flag, a declaration of peace: you are on that side, and I am on this side, and it's okay because I Love you.

When the lights were extinguished that night, she hardly noticed. For the first time in her short life, the bride felt no pressure from questions or demons – his Love had freed her from such terrors. She was a changed woman now, and Love could keep her strong, no matter what. So, instead, she waited patiently, with her vain, jealous mother beside her, for her true Love to return.

*****

Life, like a shadowed flower brought into the light, revitalised. Her days were filled with the optimism of the infatuated, her nights with endless wonders. He came every day now, often several times, flaunting her to the crowd which tailed him (which meant he must be important – she was marrying a celebrity!) The eloquence with which he spoke to them would have brought a tear to her eye: poetry rolled from his sultry tongue like untold secrets, rich like cream, praising the minutiae of her virtues, an epithalamion to rival the greatest:

“My bride, everyone! Isn't she remarkable! A true specimen of womankind! Note her rich upholstery, the piste of her jaw, the fine pinky finger! How lucky am I?”

Her snowy face grew warm with pride and Love, and the music of her joints grew in a crescendo, like the love songs of crickets. Whenever he appeared, time seemed to stand still, as if he had the power to bend the course of the current. How strong, how powerful he was, and all hers. 

Her waving ritual developed a deeper grace now someone reciprocated it. His visits always instilled in her the passion to move, to greet him, reach out to him in any way she could. When she waved, he waved back; when he waved he smiled; when he smiled, she soared. And so what had once ground her away now elevated her above all others, above everyone else, alone on her own little pedestal. And what a pedestal it was – marble, no doubt, beautifully engraved, only the best for the best. She loved him well.

Time flitted along, carefree in its luxurious journey. Day after day after day after day he appeared, until the days flowed into weeks, which bled into months. Her other half was the one constant in her life now, but even then he could surprise her. One time, a bouquet of delicate lilies grew from his grasp, and fell lightly against the glass wall. She expected no less – he was a romantic after all – but the offering pleased her to no end. Their fragrance permeated through the barrier, sickly-sweet in their perfume. How did he know they’re my favourites? Another time, he was running late, which sometimes happened (though she chose to ignore this when it did), and rushed in with such haste she thought he might faint. The wave he gave her then was coupled with the most endearing smile, apologies spilling from his lips, the soft curve of his lips reassuring her. How did I never notice his dimples? She loved them, now she could see them, as if she had always known they were there.

Their sessions were always brief, which she did not necessarily mind a great deal – resentment was certainly the wrong word for it. But she wished he could stay just a fraction longer; every time he left, her spirit sagged, as if he had rent an integral part of her away with him. She longed to hear his voice, to be held in his strong hands, for his soft, soft lips to kiss hers. He would smudge her maquillage, but she didn’t care, his Love would be worth the sacrifice. 

The darkness of night, once greatly feared, now became a source of comfort. Her questions now were drowned by other thoughts and plans, her partner frightened away the demons. Her every waking moment now was devoted to solving the greatest problem she had ever faced – how she could break through the barrier to him. She had found her Love for sure, but she wanted more: contact, for one, flesh on flesh. She wanted to know the texture of his skin, how it felt against her. So her nights centred around him – she imagined his presence, his pressure, his flesh, and ignored the fact that he was false.

*****

The next day, the sight of him, the real him, leashed her Machiavellian mind. Whenever he appeared before her, her plots halted abruptly, but did not recede; like broiling lava they churned, brewing and smouldering in her igneous mind. He held her in a state of suspense, on the cusp of eruption. But still, he calmed her like nothing else ever had, and his appearance settled her vacant stomach. A large collection of children swarmed him, battling each other for a better view of her; her aging heart creaked with maternal longing. One step at a time. She was Juno in glass cage, idle and restless. She and her Love greeted each other as they always did, and all was well.

Cacophony creaked to her left all of a sudden – it was her mother, shrieking as if recalling the loss which had left her a widow all those years ago, the grief compounding over time until it escaped audibly from the gaps in her joints. Contained in such a small enclosure, her screeches became roars, her solitary cries mutated into a baying wolf pack, amplifying and rebounding from wall to wall with force enough to smash the glass partition, almost. If the bride had had a working circulatory system, her face would have flushed an embarrassed crimson, but as it was she remained resolutely pallid. Glancing at the reflection of the figure beside her, now closer than ever before so that even the black mourning fabric was visible without turning her head, she observed her mother in her pitiful state. Her skeleton had seemingly collapsed she was now so crooked, like a hunchbacked nightmare. The musical clicks normally emitting from her were replaced by something inhumane, a howl more than anything else. Her skin was so sickly it was almost transparent – the turning of gears beneath it created undulations like the ripples of still water following a plunging stone. Convulsions gripped and shook her with the force of earthquakes, throwing her around like a ragdoll, a puppet dancing on invisible strings. And still she screamed; she screamed like her throat was attempting to tear itself out. Something rose within the bride – not pity, as she had first thought, but nausea. Her mother sickened her.

Something was clearly wrong. The widow had never acted like this before, for attention or otherwise. The bride felt like an awkward child, forced to witness something she knew she shouldn’t, something private and personal that did not belong to her. This moment belonged to her mother, and being present made her an intruder, a cowardly spy, a pervert. Why is she doing this to me? Sickness and fear and guilt threatened to overwhelm her careful programming.

A door slammed, footsteps resounded, and the now familiar shape of her mother disappeared from her limited field of view. The fact that her neck was stiff was, in more ways than one, a blessing, but now she resented her flawed construction; now, when she wanted to see her mother most, her body resisted her with ease. All she could comprehend was the noise – her screams, piercing like rending metal, were cut off at once; her voice, her one utility, her power, was snatched away. Even the reflection in the glass was ambiguous, a shifting mass of shape and colour, indistinguishable in detail, a kaleidoscope of sublime proportion. Terror filtered into the tumult of her insides, pinching her very core, swirling with queasiness like a storm-ravaged sea, so that as much as she wanted to see her mother – as much as she knew she should, that it was her responsibility and duty to see, to know what befell her – she could not. Chaos broke loose beside her; the subject cowered in her sheltered home as the Queen Mother fell.

It passed quickly, like plague. The storm dissipated, and the gentle breeze of calmness blew away both fear and memory. The widow was quiet, tranquil, and it made the bride pleased to see it. In the reflection, shapes once converged peeled apart; and there, in the glossy glass, materialised the face, reddened and puffy, of her Lover, cradling her mother in his hateful arms. The girl reeled. For one brief, painful moment, her vision bleared, her senses distorted; the floor seemed to rush towards and away from her, one second miles away, the next within reach. Her Love had betrayed her, rushing to her mother’s aid over her. Did he Love her more? There was no way he could prefer her, no way, no, no… everything she had worked for disintegrated, falling between her fingers like grains of sand. Her mouth grew oily with bile.

But the breeze of calmness blew on, and her heart slowed to the lilting pace of the rhumba. Her fiancé released her, glaring at her with a look of disdain. She and he were not in any danger; her plans were still intact, despite it all. They were both victims, she realised, caught in the web of another’s malignance. Of course her mother had tried to drive a wedge between them – jealousy, like a parasite of the brain, drives people to extremes for their own selfish measures. She merely wanted her husband for herself, the bitch, and so had taken matters into her own crumbling hands. Well, look how well it had turned out for her! Silenced in the corner, rejected, spurned like a boastful, lying whore. Sure, she had tried to ensnare him, but her wiles and desperation for a suitor were beneath her fiancé – he would never descend to such vile depths. She loved him all the more for it.

He began to move away to the door again, and the bride suddenly realised their close proximity, their isolation now that her mother was dealt with, her desire. This was the closest they had ever been to each other. The air was crackling with electric Love. And yet, her body once again froze – his masculine presence made her nervous like a giggling girl, unable to even make eye contact in the glass. Footsteps retreated, a door slammed – she had missed her chance. Frustration dug into her like hammered nails.

And yet, her mind continued to tick over. As much as she loathed her mother, she had been right in one aspect – she knew how to garner attention. Inspired, the girl tried to relax, wincing in the stupefying glare of the flashing lights once more, a sudden bout after an extended spell of visibility. If she had come that close to her Love when her mother was trying to tear them apart, how close would they come when she took matters into her own hands? When the lights flicked off that night, contented ticking filled the case, almost as if she were humming to herself.

*****

Serenity coated her innards, lubricating her very being, as the morning dawned. The day slipped by like flowing water; the flashing of cameras twinkled like starlight, like the candles lit in the crypts of Verona. She filled her time with thoughts of him, of what might follow if her seduction succeeded. He was her sun and moon now, her mechanical bones, her water of life; with him in her mind, she experienced rebirth with every passing moment. Patience, which had before perpetually eluded her, now held her hand throughout her purgatory. He would come, as he always did, and she would finally, after years of imprisonment, know how freedom tasted. 

The moment arrived unceremoniously. The room was almost empty; patrons had been infrequent that day, so she had been able to scan the faces with ease. He entered the room from a door at the back, stepping into her world from another alien land. Strange – the suit was absent, replaced with casual, loose-fitting clothes, bright and colourful. Of course he never looked more dashing than when he dressed to the nines, but he was still beautiful, absolutely, still a sight to behold, only now he possessed a more rugged, aloof beauty, if anything he was more handsome now than he had been before. The white rose of her hand began to ascend to the sky as it always did when he appeared, a symbol of her pure love. But as it rose, it jarred, the wheels in her arm spinning fruitlessly in an attempt to move her.

Wrapped around his waist was a woman. She was tall and thin. She had short, bobbed, black hair. It looked artificial – perhaps she had stained it for attention? Her skin was darker than the bride's, but not the same delicious caramel of her husband's. They are not related. She was dressed in basic clothing, skin exposed all over her body. Her cleavage dipped scandalously, dangerously low, so that her breasts were spilled out. They were a statement, those breasts – 'I am a whore', they said, 'I am a harlot and I love to hurt Lovers’. Her eyes sparkled as they approached, glittering with glee like a dog's at a bone. They challenged her, those eyes, they confronted her, slapped her across the cheek and tore her silks. And his hand around her waist as well, perilously close to those enormous globes, tracing circles in the fabric, the fingers which should be caressing her with such tenderness now debasing themselves by finding shelter from the world, stormy and depressing, in this prostitute's gaping cave. How could he?

She couldn’t move. She couldn’t see. Was she even ticking any longer? She couldn’t hear anything. It was if someone had simply snipped her mortal coil, and now she was forced to endure this torture. The judgemental silence of her mother taunted her, nipping at her heels like starving hounds. Her stupid, lame hand hung in suspended animation in the air, her fingers curling like putrefying petals. She was embarrassing herself in front of her greatest Love and her greatest threat, and still she could do nothing to save herself. 

But his face – that was what broke her heart. The intimacy of their connection must have alerted him to the fracture inside her. His face, angelic in perfection, creased in concern, his eyebrows sloping empathetically, and his soft lips puckered in confusion, almost as if blowing her a kiss. The haze surrounding the truth alleviated – it was crystal clear now, of course, clear as diamonds. Her husband-to-be was flawed – of course he was, no one was perfect, even her Love – and easily manipulated. This hussy had, no doubt, enticed him with her wiles, and he, poor man, unable to resist, fell under the enchantress' spell. There was no other possible explanation. Her Love was confused, that was all, he had lost his way, like a child enticed away from the forest path by the witch’s sweets. But all was not lost – if this woman wished to steal from her on her wedding day, she was sorely mistaken. The ticking of her mechanical parts whispered to her like faceless voices.

*****

Love was cruel to Lovers. As much as she strained for optimism, insecurity clung to her like a vice. The reflection she saw before her, she decided, was no longer hers. It couldn’t possibly be her who stood there, ashen and haggard, an inward slope to the shoulders like steel beams bending under too much weight. This stranger, like her husband’s harlot, had been sent to taunt her, no doubt, sent by Love to test her strength, to temper her like chocolate. Intimidation plagued her – what if she truly was not strong enough? The more she ruminated, the more her metal failed her, the more her mettle flagged. But more than anything, she was tired of it all, of the hoops she was forced to leap through like an ass chasing happiness on a stick. Weakness was so easy, a soft comfort in a world of hard edges and sharp looks. Perhaps, if she stopped trying, the world would be kind, look down on her warmly, embrace her and gift her with the Love she so sought. If she stopped trying.

She studied the stranger’s appearance with the scrutiny of first Love. Her dress was ancient, sagging around the shoulders and far too tight around the chest; it had faded too, like a hazy memory, now nearing the sad grey of a life lived too long. The hem was ragged and torn. The lace had lice. Her face shared the consistency of sleet. Maybe her new companion in the glass was a corpse bride, engaged to the Lord of the Underworld, subservient to death and pain for the rest of her existence. She would have felt pity, if she could have felt anything at all. 

This sad, sad figure – how lonely she looked! How distraught! She had been outgrown, forgotten, left behind in isolation. She was trapped in her glass womb, birth date long overdue, awaiting the time when she could burst forth and breathe in the outside air. Her mother, too, was trapped in the same limbo – distracting herself from the pathetic bride in the reflection, she glazed the widow with her stare, sticky and sour like lemon curd. Though she was no longer possessed with frenzy, there was still something alarming about her presence: her movements were robotic, without life or passion or Love, and the churning ostinato of her inner noise sounded distant, avec sourdine, as if it were being played from a cliff’s edge and the wind was snatching the sound out of the air. She couldn’t let herself end up like that. Her mother was her worst enemy – there was no way she could permit herself to become any more like her than she already had. She had her Love still, as much as it was trying to oppress her, and determination: nothing else could stand in her way.

*****

As soon as her man stepped into the room, suited once again and without his temptress, thank goodness, she snapped into action. The howl that she produced was not difficult to source – she merely looked at the phantom bride opposite her and it simply poured out, like vomit. She made her body shake with feigned seizures, fighting against the side of her which told her to sit still and be good. It had the desired effect – her husband, enthralled by her performance, stopped in his tracks, looking physically ill. She no longer noticed the flashing lights, nor their influx as her fit continued, nor the swarm of people desperate to watch her plight, to mock and scorn the fallen Queen. She simply focussed on her Love, raising her hand to him as she always did, a symbol of her devotion and heroism: see, I am sacrificing myself for you, I am here, I am your Love. 

His trance was broken. Without a moment’s notice, he sprinted towards her. She couldn’t believe it – some part of her, the deepest, darkest depths, had doubted her brilliance. Her depression, so fleeting, was soon forgotten, joy swooping back into her life like a great eagle. How high she soared! Her Love had returned to her at last. She had caught happiness; it was hers to possess. Everything – the old, sad bride, the harlot, the widow – fell into oblivion. Her Love crammed itself inside her mind, filling every hole and crevice, lining her piping. She had won.

A door slammed, footsteps resounded, then he was there with her. He was just as she imagined, tall and broad, and warm as the sun, so close beside her. Her façade fell as soon as he neared, and silence thickly coated them. Tension held her still, taut like rope, ready to be wielded. She watched him watching her, eyes aflame from the twinkling of cameras. His breath brushed against her flesh, caressing her. But she could do nothing, as she waited; everything was rigid, at breaking point. 

He put his hand on her shoulder. Who knew physical contact could ever have felt so good? Gentle pressure, firm grip, massaging her pain away. Strength and gentleness, gentility and roughness – extremes at perfect balance within him, and she Loved him for it. She had been wrong, before: everything about him was perfect. Even his flaws were perfection. She idolised him more than anything she had ever known, and it thrilled her beyond belief. 

His head lowered itself down, nestling against her shoulder, breathing in her fragrant, youthful scent, au natural, of course, her aroma was enticing without any additional unguents. His hands descended down her back, gradually, very gradually, just to tease her. Moths flitted in her stomach as he loosened her corset, lace by lace, until it peeled away from her, an older skin being shed to expose the reborn body beneath. His calloused fingers graced the small of her back. She shivered with anticipation. This was what she wanted, what she had always wanted. Her heart seemed fit to burst with joy, with pleasure, with hard lust. It was finally, finally, her time; nothing and no one could stop her, could stand in her way, could –

“There.”

He withdrew his hand from the bowels of the droid. The cabinet had fallen into blissful silence, and with the constant drone emanating from the clockwork girl cut off, he breathed a sigh of relief. These automatons were out of date by a decade, surely – this one, for example, was sagging, her skin thick and clammy with an unnerving elastic quality to it, corpse-white, merely hanging from its framework and lacking the air of life the doll had once possessed. It was a shame – the bride had always been his favourite. Though he knew it was silly, he always liked to wave back at her, locked away in her glass case, lonely and sad. Poor girl. Like mother, like daughter, he supposed, and that was that.

Upon exiting the case, a tall, thin woman with short, bobbed, black hair – it was not her natural colour – and skin darker than the clockwork bride's was waiting for him. He smiled. Before him stood his Love, and everything else was second rate. Her face was contorted in concern. She was so empathetic – it was what he loved most about her. He walked over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, a lyrical ring to her voice, the soft fluttering tones of woodwind reverberating from her throat.

“It’s fine. The thing freaked out, so I had to switch it off. We’ll probably have to arrange for a removal team to come through.”

“What a shame! I always loved those models, they looked so real. Like they really saw you.”

“Who knows? Maybe they did,” he replied. His dark eyes darkened even more. “I saw it move once, you know,” he whispered with the secrecy of conspirators. “By itself. It was moving by itself.”

“No way…” she replied in a complementary hush, glancing at the bride, towering above them, watching everything they did, with newfound anxiety. Looking back at him, she laughed and punched his arm. “You prick!”

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” he cackled, pulling her into a tight embrace. 

For a moment, they both stared at the bride, and the woman in mourning dress beside her. There was something ominous about the two of them, with their vacant eyes, fear-black. It felt almost like those old surgery theatres you saw in period dramas, watching the cadavers before the autopsy. And then someone dressed them up in antique gowns and sold them to a museum. But it was the bride that really made him nervous. She looked like a murdered woman on her wedding day – was there anything more tragic? He shuddered.

“You okay?” the woman beside him asked quietly. They knew each other well; they flowed together into one entity. When he was with her, she filled him to the brim with joy.

“Yeah. Yeah… it was her time. They’re just weird, aren’t they?”

“A little. Kind of sad.” Their shared opinion evoked a smile. “At least the dress is still intact. It’s so beautiful. That reminds me! I found one just like it online. I’m getting a fitting booked this week, so it should be at home by next Friday.”

“Great! You’re going to look amazing in that dress.”

“Better than her, I hope.” He chuckled. “We should head off,” she added, turning away from the glass display case, from the bride and her accusatory glare. “It’s about to close.”

The two headed off together, walking hand in hand away from the bride, to the paradise of the alien world beyond the door, far, far away. The woman exited first, but the man halted. Something, he couldn’t put his finger on it, made him look back at the shell of the droid behind him. He would miss their rituals, the little greetings he received whenever he entered. It was always a highlight of his day – whenever he saw her, he thought of his fiancé, and how stunning she would look in a dress just like that. He tried to smile, but melancholy intercepted the mechanical act; his lips pursed together. In all honesty, he was surprised this hadn’t happened earlier – the bride herself was Innovation personified, and the dress a relic of ancient history; she was trapped between the future and the past, and had no place in the present. He sighed.

Before he left the room and switched off the lights, plunging the room into darkness as he always did, he looked at her eyes. For the first time, they didn’t unsettle him. In fact, they had attained an almost human quality – maybe it was the lights above, reflecting an iris of the imagination. But he didn’t pay much attention to this. Even from such a distance, when he looked into those fathomless depths, he could only spy himself staring back.