The Wedding - Luis Rivera (Patreon)

Luis looks in the mirror, takes in the bags beneath his eyes and the limp mess of hair on his head. He looks good, objectively; the stylists hired my the Riveras wouldn’t allow anything else.

Still, he feels empty. Like a shell of himself. Even the smooth silk of his dress shirt makes his back sting, and the tie around his neck feels more like a noose. These are his last few hours as Luis Barrera. Soon he will take his wife-to-be’s family name, and Rivera will be a brand he wears until he dies.

Francisca’s words echo in his head from the night before. The only way you’re leaving this marriage is as a corpse. He stares down at his hands, at the way they tremble as he holds the edge of the sink in a white knuckled grasp.

He believes her.

The door swings open and he startles, not relaxing even as he realizes it’s only his mother. She slips into the room, not a hair out of place, a tight smile firm on her face.

“My darling,” She says, “You look so handsome.”

“I look like I’m going to my casket.” He says, turning his head from her, “Maybe I am.”

“Don’t say that.” He can hear the frown in her voice, “Francisca seems lovely.”

He snaps around, his body tense, “Need I show you my back?”

“No, because I have experienced the same.” She snaps, “Did you foolishly think your father only hit you and your brother?”

“And you’d send me to the same fate?” His fingers curl into tight fists, “You never cared for us, did you? We were an obligation, never a joy.”

“Of course you were an obligation.” She sighs, “You’re so emotional, Luis. Marriage is not a matter of love in families like ours, but business. If you behave well, Francisca might not be so severe.”

“Behave,” He steps away from her, fighting the urge to cry, “Like I’m an unruly dog.”

“Look how you’re acting, son.” She says, gesturing to the entirety of him as if his whole being brings her shame, “Accept your duty. Your brother has, why can’t you?”

“Do not call me son,” He allows the tears to fall one last time, “You are not my mother. I have no mother.”

“You’re being difficult,” She rolls her eyes, exasperated as she usually is.

“And you’re being horrible,” He responds, “Shall we state more of the obvious, or will you do us both a favor and leave?”

She goes without another word, the door shutting firmly behind her. He crumples to the ground, uncaring if the nice suit they stuffed him in wrinkles, and mourns for his life before it ends. A walk down the aisle or to the gallows? It seems the same to him.