On her perfect day, she wears a white gown and carries a bouquet of white roses. White for innocence. Guests sigh when she enters, consummate grace.
She walks to the altar to the sound of the wedding march and stands by her fiance.
Then she spits at his feet, her saliva bloody.
Red on the cathedral floor, on her spotless dress, on the white roses. She pulls out her gun from the bouquet and shoots everyone, because they tried to sell her, because she's not innocent, because she doesn't care, because she's dying anyway. So why not make it fast.
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