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aaluminiumas · 1 year

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The Dress

They had no other choice, and they fully acknowledged all the risks they were about to take. John understood it from the very beginning, maybe with even more clarity than her, but now, standing in front of the old wooden door leading to the shabby house, he couldn’t bring himself to knock.

Usually, he felt no hesitation. He crawled here at night, scratched on the beaten-up wood, and hurried inside, immediately wrapping his arms around her fragile frame, showering her with kisses; she laughed and turned around to close the blinds, sending him to the kitchen to brew some tea or grab a cookie she’d just baked. He never groped for words, he was never at a loss, especially with her, eagerly listening to whatever tale he had to tell, but now the eloquent priest, notorious for his circumlocution, realized that his head was empty. Not a single thought entered his mind. Not a single word slid off his tongue. John even doubted that he should be here at all.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to shake off the stupor chaining his limbs. The upcoming ceremony drove him crazy, he would be more than happy to delegate and never witness the dramatic scene, but he was the only pastor to officiate. It was, metaphorically, his cross to bear—as a comeuppance for all the sins he’d committed. God, no doubt angry with the behavior of his not-so-obedient servant, left no opportunity to slough off the painful duty, and John did not repine against such a cruel decision. After all, he comprehended the motives: this was one of the rare moments when God was perfectly clear.

My soul is weary with sorrow; strengthen me according to your word.

Whenever the man imagined his Millie wearing a white dress for another man, he felt an uncontrollable surge of ire boiling within him and instigating him to do unkind, outright evil things. As a man of the church, as someone purported to listen to lengthy confessions of the most formidable sins, John was deeply ashamed of his own thoughts and tried to stifle them, but even oppressed, they burned him to the core, turning him into a pile of ashes. He could barely subdue the ravaging emotion sweeping over him with the ferocity he had never experienced before: for the first time in his life, the Bible offered no help. No matter how frequently he opened the Scripture, striving to find the right verse, sober his reasoning, and maintain his famous sangfroid, he saw nothing: the blurry lines of the old book smeared across the page, sending his mind far away.

He repented, of course. Still a devout priest, he spent hours in his room, praying his sins away, but this remedy failed too—for an obvious reason, which John had difficulty admitting.

He was not honest. Yes, Monsignor John Pruitt promoting sincerity and spiritual integrity, was not genuine with God anymore, repeating one and the same prayer, asking for forgiveness, and locking himself in a confessional. He did it all pro-forma, automatically, by default; he reiterated and reiterated in a foolish attempt to ingratiate himself with Him and, primarily, assuage his guilty conscience.

Hence, no mercy came from above—and he didn't really count on it anymore. Not that it meant anything to him. Not after the woeful image of Millie getting ready for the wedding.

Finally collecting himself and taking his emotions under control, John lifted his hand and knocked on the door.

No answer.

A feeling of nauseating sorrow gave way to a growing wave of concern. Millie, an impatient little thing, rushed to the door each time she sensed his presence. He could creep in the dead of night in absolute darkness, making no noise, and she would somehow feel him around, opening the door seconds before his arrival.

It didn't happen. The woman did not push her nose in the street, trying to distinguish his tall figure among the trees and the bushes.

“Millie?” he called, voice ringing with worry. “Millie? You in there?”

His voice always made her promptly open that door, either for a midnight date or other special occasion that demanded her presence, but not today. Today... something was off. He couldn't hear her light steps on the creaky floor; he couldn't catch the cupboard doors plaintively clinking; he couldn't discern any sound coming from within—

As if the house was empty.

The priest felt his limbs freezing with dread. Could she just have fallen asleep, affected by the turmoil and stresses of the island, unusually animated, bubbling, and buzzing in the bizarre condition of the previously unknown helter-skelter? Or did she recede to safety, to her darkest corner where she could gather her thoughts and ponder over the decisions she was about to make? Or, maybe, she paid a visit to George's family, his numerous sisters? She was never good at doing her hair. She'd said so herself.

While his heart warmed with the sudden memory of her sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her thick, dark hair, John still nervously shifted from foot to foot on her porch. The priest peeped into the nearest window, hoping to discern the delicate silhouette, but saw nothing: the living room was empty, so was the kitchen, or at least the part he managed to make out from his position. Where was she? Off to the church already? Meeting her would-be in-laws as he'd earlier surmised? Discussing the nuptial with the groom himself?

Hardly.

As someone who spent hours in this very house, knowing its every nook and cranny, John perfectly knew the layout: not only could he roughly estimate where the rooms were situated and how the furniture was arranged, but he also could visualize the windows Millie would have to pass by in order to enter the corridor. Still, the woman was nowhere to be seen: she didn't dust the shelves as she used to, bake a cake in the kitchen, or read a book on her favorite sofa. Nor did she knit, listen to music, or quietly wait for him… and there were not a lot of places on Crockett where she could—or wanted to—go.

And the building itself. It seemed dauntingly empty, practically dead. The construction bore a weird atmosphere of eerie lifelessness, lacking Millie’s attention to detail and comfort.

The man felt his blood go cold: something did indeed happen. He felt it with his skin. But what exactly? Could she have done something to herself? She'd seemed so confident the night before, fiddling with hairpins and the mirror, occasionally pressing a rosebud to her temple. Heartbroken, yes. Millie was heartbroken, but she nonetheless put on a brave face, saying she knew what she was doing. Determined. Strong. Unhesitating. Ready to protect their future at all costs.

With a heavy heart, the man remembered how unwilling he was to listen, with his mouth agape, staring at her in disbelief. Frantically whispering, she insisted that it was their only way; it had to be done if they still wanted to live on the island as they used to.

If they still wanted to live on this godforsaken island, belonging to just as the godforsaken state of Washington, situated in the godforsaken area of the godforsaken United States of America.

If they still wanted to.

Did they? He never really asked. When they were lying in bed, dreaming on and on, counting the hours till dawn, John preferred to think of other, more pleasant things. He told Millie about art he saw in the Vatican City, mentioned various pictures he admired in Florence, imagining them walking across the streets of Rome... And she just listened, sometimes chuckling and not really interrupting his rapt ramblings, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. Then she stood up, stark naked, and basked in the translucent moonlight. That's where he gaped at her, entranced by her beauty, slightly dazed and embarrassed by the boldness.

Soon John discovered that she was pregnant, and he realized he couldn't quite process the situation. Millie may have expected him to take measures, but the priest felt stymied to act. Her pregnancy complicated the already intricate condition, and the man, genuinely horrified, found out that he didn't possess enough courage to step down from the altar.

He did not possess enough courage to take her away.

“Millie?” the man managed to find his voice again, turning the doorknob.

Again, no answer. To his great surprise—and much to his terror—the door was not locked.

The tacky paws of fear crept across his back and stuck to the nape of his neck.

“Millie, I am coming,” John shouted indecisively, careful not to touch anything but nonetheless quietly closing the door behind him.

Adjusting his collar and clearing his throat, John crawled through the narrow corridor, intently looking around, hoping to spot a note, a tiny sticker with a short message written in her minuscule handwriting. Focusing on the scanty furniture, the man struggled to squelch the panic rising in his heart. What was he about to see? She never ignored him—never. Even when they quarreled, quite rarely though, Millie nonetheless welcomed him, greeted him with a modest smile, and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips, pushing the door close behind him.

She'd been waiting for him as long as needed. She never gave up on him, and he betrayed her by letting her make such a decision, by letting the woman sacrifice herself, her hopes and dreams.

“Millie?” John called in the umpteenth time, heading over to the bedroom. “Are you here?”

The oak door of the bedroom did not penetrate a single sound from within, and John, bracing himself, placed his hand on the brass knob.

The sight unfolding before his eyes petrified him, scarring the man for life. From this moment on, he knew that it was the picture he would never erase from his memory.

Mildred, his smiling, cheerful Millie dressed in white, was sitting in front of a scuffed pier glass, senselessly and listlessly staring at her own reflection. She certainly tried to primp up and, judging by the scarce cosmetics now lying scattered before her, did her best to look good: she had taken the occasion seriously, but something stopped her.

Not even being present, he did.

She would have looked peerless. She would have been the most beautiful bride among many others, and he'd seen a fair share, but she would have topped them all if not for her pale face, turning into a mask of pain. This absolute lack of reaction, silent grief, her lukewarm caramel eyes, now faded hollow pits of despair—the sight filled him with the consternation he had never felt before.

How could he do this to her?

“Millie? Millie, love,” John muttered under his breath, darting towards the woman and kneeling before her tiny frame, taking her limp hands in his. Knowing the doors were open for everyone to see, knowing that people could easily discover them, the man suddenly realized that he no longer cared. The nascent fear to lose her—for good—transformed him completely, making him forget about his ephemeral duty before the congregation.

“I… can’t do it, John,” Millie rustled, her voice barely heard. “I can’t.”

John pressed her knuckles to his lips, the cold touch sending chills down his spine. He turned her into a ghost of a woman, an apparition, chirring across the house, and he wielded no power over the circumstances, he could not undo it, no matter how hard he prayed or how much effort he put into his responsibilities. She had been planning it for months, he had been preparing for weeks, they—

“I can’t, John,” she muttered, her eyes filling with tears she strove to hold back. “I just can’t go there.”

John swallowed thickly, his mind working frantically.

“Millie, you… You don’t have to. We will find another way,” he rambled, squeezing her fingers, trying to warm them up. “You do not have to go through this. I know there are—”

“I am weak, John,” Mildred implored, interrupting him, her eyes finally diverting to the man, and he felt his heart breaking at his point. “I started all this. I offered this scheme, thinking I’d created a perfect plan, but I couldn’t have ever imagined how greatly I’d fail. I cannot do it. I cannot go there and pretend to be a happy, normal bride everyone is expecting to see. I cannot.”

“Millie—”

Her name stuck to his tongue. What could he possibly do to help her? What could he possibly say to mollify her? He loved her determination, her sense of responsibility, but wasn’t it the moment when she should just flip it off and... What’s next? A truthful voice in his head rang. What’s next? What do you want her to do, a pregnant woman on a miserable island, all alone, without a family who’d protect her from the side glances, gossip, and humiliating jokes and discussions? Do you want her to proudly carry her burden, constantly listening to disparaging jeers of fellow citizens, trying to guess the baby's father's identity? Do you want her to bear with bullying that would certainly transfer to her—ultimately yours as well! —child studying at school? No. This was more than he could handle.

And still, he couldn’t impose it on her. Even by Crockett's low standards, it was an atrocity beyond any normal mind.

“Millie,” John said finally, finding his voice. “Millie, you are the strongest woman I know. But this ordeal, this torment is much more than a person can handle. You are not a Christian martyr to go through this; you are not Saint Sebastian or Jesus Christ Himself; these throes will not—” his voice broke, but he managed to grope for the right words, “You have already proven your strength to whoever questioned. You do not need to go on. Millie,” the priest pleaded, his voice dropping down a notch. “Refuse. Say no. Do not do it to yourself.”

Out of the blue, her face, lifeless and gray, beamed: she gave him the smallest of smiles, revealing the gentle lover he knew so well. For a split second, the man felt his heart flutter; his eyes sparkled with one of the sweetest memories when he kissed the very same smile an hour before dawn.

Her gentle hands cupped his face, thumbs brushed across his lips.

“I must,” the woman breathed out, her sad eyes gazing at him. “For the sake of our own future. For the sake of our baby. For the sake of our peaceful—or relatively peaceful—life on Crockett Island.” Another wistful smile. “You can easily imagine what happens if something less outstanding comes out. Remember, our highly inquisitive Mrs. Keane started an affair with one of the fishermen and then dumped him for unobvious reasons? The island was roaring. Or that death of old age that happened to take our respectable Mr. Whittaker, the doctor. Everyone was sure it was either a curse, an unknown disease, or a poison.” She paused for a moment, unable to squash a chuckle. “Think of us, John. If this comes out…”

Her voice petered out. She didn’t finish the sentence, but he could easily guess what she implied.

Collecting herself, Mildred stood up. John, staring in awe, couldn’t process the situation: it was the simplest dress possible, but the pride she put into her posture, the inflexibility of her stature, the determination in her otherwise puffy eyes made him hold his breath. She could have been his.

She could have been his, had he said the right word.

She could have been his, had he been half as brave.

Standing up, the man looked her in the eye. Millie hurried to wipe off a fleeing tear and turned around.

For a moment, the woman stood still, staring at the figures, reflected in the mirror. A bride in a white dress, her face drawn, but her posture proudly straight. A tall man dressed in dark colors, his shoulders slightly slouching forward.

“It still could be us,” Millie suddenly blurted out in a whisper.

A spark of recognition, a weird thought struck him like lightning. Even though he didn't fully understand the meaning behind her words, something stirred inside of him, sending a tingling sensation to the tips of his fingers.

“We still... could flee.”

John doubted he'd heard her correctly: her voice was so quiet that it got covered by the susurrus of her dress. Dumbfounded by the strange, unexpected proposition, the man shuddered, unable to grasp the idea. But before he could collect his wits and answer, Millie, swallowing a lump in her throat, uttered, “Please... Help me with the dress.”

His trembling fingers touched the zipper, feeling the familiar warmth her body exuded. In a moment of spiritual weakness, he wondered whether they were desecrating the sacrament of marriage. They most certainly were; she was wearing this white dress, though she was no longer innocent and was expecting a baby. She never loved the man she was about to be married to. They were deceiving God Himself to make their game fairer, while there was only one option he should have pondered over.

The priest leaned forward to press a kiss on the back of her neck, on the seventh vertebra, exactly where the zipper ended, engulfing the woman in a cloud of frankincense.

“Millie,” he whispered, his long nose grazing across her pale skin. “Please… Try to be happy… if you can.”

The woman nodded and silently squeezed his hand.

#midnight mass #millie gunning #john x millie #mildred gunning #john pruitt #monsignor pruitt #father paul hill #hamish linklater #alex essoe #fanfic

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