Chapter Text
It was a typical Sunday morning.
The sun rose behind the quiet and quaint horizon of your little suburban town, clouds leaking from beyond the endless blue mirage. There, you rose from your bed upon hearing a knock at your bedroom door, once then twice, before it swung open.
“It’s time to wake up, Dear.” your mother rang, her voice shrill with exhaustion. You groaned, the light peaking ever so slightly from between your cream colored curtains. Was it 7:30 already?
“(Y/n). Take those rollers out of your head, will you? And get yourself fixed up and out of that nightgown.” Your mother probed incessantly, pacing around your room to look for something, anything, to nag you about. A madwoman every morning, she was. “Brush those teeth. I want you downstairs in time for breakfast.”
You hopped out of bed, so as to not hear any more of her endless chatter, and locked your door. An indicator that you were up and getting ready for Church— though, truthfully, Sunday service doesn’t start for another hour. Your parents insist you get up an hour early, even going so far as to curl your hair the night before, to catch the attention of a lucky suitor. Not just any lucky suitor, either. Your father, the old-fashioned bastard, has his eyes on the pastor's son, Markus: a tall, strait-laced, god-fearing young gentleman. The type of man your father undoubtedly approves of.
Admittedly, he is handsome. Any half-decent girl with two eyes could see that. Kind, too. Every Sunday, he’d stand outside the Church to greet each patron personally as they walk in.
There’s just something about him that you can’t quite put your finger on. Something off. A dark cloud, something demented that he buries deep down. A sickness only you can detect. You see hints of it sometimes in his eyes, black pearls that follow you around like a hawk as you greet him each Sunday. As you sit in the pews of your church between your parents, listening to his father’s sermons. Even as you walk to your parents car after service.
Nonetheless, you did everything you could to avoid him, despite your parents' hurriedness to marry you off. You knew the dangers of a persistent gentleman all too well; especially one like Mark.
You put on one of your many Sunday dresses, a blue and white plaid gown with a bow tied at the waist, and began powdering your face with your favorite rouge. You hear the shuffling of your parents downstairs, your father opening the front door to warm up the car. A telltale sign that it’s time to go. You grabbed your pocketbook and headed down the stairs, heels clanking with each step.
Your mother was waiting for you at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed diligently. Her eyes scanned your person, judging you, before clapping her hands together in satisfaction.
“Don’t you look lovely?” she said, a smile wrinkling her cheeks. “Let’s get a move on, then.”
The church is small, but functional. Practical, (“the way God intended”, your pastor would say.) None of those huge fancy statues of the saints, or beautiful chandeliers. Your parish was rather modest, its most dazzling display being the stained glass adorning each window.
You walked up the pathway, the way you go every Sunday morning, and there he is. Like clockwork. The pastor's son, tall and proud with a bible in hand, greeting every person before they walk through those doors. His eyes zeroed in on you the moment you came into his line of sight. You groaned annoyingly, and your mother pinched your arm. “Don’t be a drag,” she warned.
“Good morning, Mr and Mrs. (L/n)” he began, careful to acknowledge your parents (most importantly, your father) before moving on to you. He stared you down intensely, that same lecherous glare in his eye that made you feel like a piece of meat. You shivered.
His eyes suddenly lightened, likely to not completely scare you away. “(Y/n). Aren’t you as lovely as a sweet summer's day?” He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. Such superfluous compliments had always rubbed you the wrong way.
“Good morning, Mark.”
“Ready for today's service?”
“You bet.”
An arm snaked behind your back, innocently gesturing for you and your family to hurry in. You take a seat at one of the pews, carefully running your arms under your skirt before sitting down. While your mother and father began to talk you bowed your head and began to pray.
Please, God, give me the strength and diligence to be rid of that man.
The service went as quickly as it came, your mind too preoccupied with notions of a certain someone to truly pay attention. Not to mention the pair of eyes fixated on you the entire time.
You wondered what it was about you that triggered such an obsession.
You weren’t exceptional. Not in looks, or bible study, or anything else a man like Mark would care about. If anything, you were unexceptional. A perfectly ordinary girl, save for your opinion on relationships and marriage. Which has done nothing for you but deter the attention of men. Not that you had any problem with it.
Your parents do what they usually do after service—go amongst the dozens of other patrons waiting to speak to the pastor. Whether it be a blessing, advice on how to deal with you (an unmarried young woman, that is), your parents never failed to scurry right over to him.
Which means it’s high time to start hiding—from Mark, that is. Usually you opted to hide between your parents, much like a nervous child on the first day of school. But they were too fast for you today—already blended in amongst the crowd, too far out for you to get to without inevitably running into him. You decided upon your last-ditch attempt: moving as far back as you can, bowing your head and closing your eyes in a mock prayer. Mark was a lot of things, but more than anything he was a tight-lipped Christian. You doubt he would interrupt anyone, even you, during prayer.
You were promptly proven wrong.
A large hand touched your shoulder from beside you; The touch so gentle you almost didn’t notice it at first. You yelped in surprise, just loud enough to alert the other church-goers directly behind you, who saved you a wink and a nudge before scooting away. To give you two more privacy, you assumed: something his father probably put them up to.
“Oh! Goodness, Mark, you scared the daylights out of me—“ Your face reddened, embarrassed that he had caught you so off guard. You fiddled with your hair nervously.
His jaw went slack, an amused grin pulling at his cheeks before barking out an awkward chuckle. “I didn’t mean to startle you, my dear,” he spoke slowly, carefully assessing each word so as to not scare you off. You felt like a caged animal. “I do apologize,” he offered, “but I need to speak with you. Somewhere private; if you don’t mind.”
You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, all too familiar with this little game of his. He’d pull you aside to the acolytes room, confess his undying love for you, and beg you for just one singular date. A pitiful display; but one you had no choice but to endure.
You both hurried to your little hideout, strung along gently by him guiding your arm through the small crowd. You hoped that your parents would notice you; not that they would do anything to stop him.
Once alone, he swirled you around by your shoulders, straightening you out to get a better look at you. His eyes looked different—as if spellbound by your mere presence— his look growing increasingly erratic. Your entire body stiffened in fear as he finally began to explain himself.
“ Listen. I’ve been, uh, doing some thinking—Some praying, actually— and there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.“
Mark’s body began to box you into a corner as you took several steps back, which only resulted in him taking several steps forward. His form towered over you, hands shaking ever so slightly. He looked quite flustered now, as if he was about to tell you the most important news of your life.
“Now, you know how I feel about you. But lately, especially whenever I see you, I’ve been hearing Him—his voice, speaking to me. God‘s voice, (y/n). He’s revealed something to me.”
“O-oh, is that so?” you offered, trying your hardest to seem genuinely interested rather than disturbed.
“You’re my wife, (Y/n),” He grasped your hands into his, a sinister sparkle in his eyes. “God has told me this.”
Ah.
You’ve always known this guy was a bit of a headcase, for lack of better words. But surely, this was just another one of his foolish bids to catch you off guard. You still found yourself dumbfounded, mouth agape and unable to come up with any meaningful response.
Not that it mattered. He let go of your hand abruptly, already backing out of the room, his face still turned to you.
“No need to say anything, (Y/n). Just trust me. Trust God.”
And with that, he was gone. A sense of giddiness in every step he took, as if he had just won the lottery. Something about his attitude caused a pit of anxiety to form in your stomach.
You left the acolytes room, scanning the church for your parents, who found you way before you had found them. A hand grabbed yours—your mothers, thank God.
“And where have you been?” She quipped playfully, noticing your flustered expression. She probably knew where you were the entire time, just waiting for when the two of you were finished. How annoying.
“Speaking to you-know-who about you-know-what,” you said, unable to bring yourself to tell her the true nature of your conversation.
“Oh, why won’t you just give him a chance? No respectable young man wants to marry an old maid.”
“I’m only twenty-one, mom.”
“I was 19 when I met your father, dear,” she warned. Your father hummed knowingly. “Ready to leave?”
You looked around one last time for Mark, who you soon spotted chatting up two little old ladies. Offering them a prayer, perhaps.
He catches your gaze, and smiles.
You frown, averting your eyes before turning to answer your mother. “Please.”