Love Short Story – The Journey of Love
Photo credit: earl53 from morguefile.com
They say it is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.
But I take the risk anyway.
Peeping into her room, my eyes stop at her lean frame as she looks out the window, lost in thoughts.
Her beautiful golden locks are lying loose over her shoulders, curling at the ends.
Her lovely, long fingers are twirling a strand as her lower lip sustains a delicate battle caught between her teeth.
The beauty of a wedding gown has been underestimated.
She looks more stunning than usual, her white veil flying in the wind.
Watching her like this, I know that the journey we’ve been through is worth it.
I remember the first time I saw her as she crouched on the floor of a supermarket, searching for something. I got down on my knees next to her and offered to help.
We introduced ourselves. Jane, she said. But people call me Popo.
She laughed and that sound still rings in my ears like a melody.
I found her refreshingly amazing.
I offered to buy her coffee and soon we started seeing each other.
I remember how, when I first visited Jane’s house, her mother attacked me.
She thought I was her husband.
When Jane was young, her mother suffered a traumatizing experience where her husband left her for another woman. Ever since, she’s lost in a delusional state where she thinks that everyone she meets is the husband who betrayed her.
I now touch the scar at my eyebrows fondly and remember how Jane had cried then, apologizing profusely and showering my bruised face with kisses.
The scar was worth it.
When I told Jane that I wanted her to move in with me, I never expected her to agree so readily.
She asked if we could visit her mom from time to time and I agreed immediately, despite the fact that every time we went to her house, I came home wounded, however mildly.
My father took to Jane more than I did and during the initial days of our moving in, he attempted to harass her. At first, she didn’t tell me about it but when she did, eventually, after a lot of gentle persuasion about her reluctance to spend time alone with my father, I shook with rage.
But because he was my dad, I didn’t throw him out of the house like I should have.
Instead, we both moved out ignoring my mother’s vehement denial that her husband was incapable of such brutality.
Life was hard but we had no idea just how much harder it was going to be.
Jane took up work as a tutor, trying to make as much money as she could.
She also sewed in the evenings and her fingers were often covered with blood spots.
Many times I begged her to leave me. She deserved better.
But she stuck on, contributing as much as she could to making ends meet, both financially and emotionally.
I look at her delicate face now. It betrays no hint of what we have been through.
A few months later I had taken the ultimate step.
“Jane,” I said, getting down on one knee, holding out a new born puppy as she gasped in delight. “I know I don’t have much but it would be my greatest honour if you would have me. Even death won’t do us apart.”
She cried and hugged me, telling me that I was more than she could have ever asked for.
Little did we know there was much more to come.
A short while after our engagement, my mother passed away.
It sent me into depression and for the next few weeks I turned into an abusive alcoholic.
Looking back now, I wonder why Jane didn’t consider leaving me even after the multiple bruises, both verbal and physical, that I hurled on her. However, it was after looking at her black eye one morning after a severe hangover, I realized that I had let my mother’s death turn me into a monster. Within a week, I reformed myself while she waited patiently for me to turn back into the man she fell in love with.
This was followed by an even worse occurrence.
By now, we had both gotten accustomed to bad luck. But what happened next threw us onto the streets. Literally.
In a bizarre accident, our house burnt down.
It happened one Sunday night, when both Jane and I went out to see a movie.
It had been a long time since we had gone on a date.
We picked a romantic comedy and giggled like teenagers while we shared a bucket of popcorn and a drink. It was fairly romantic till we got home and were stopped by a fireman.
Jane burst into tears and got hysteric as she wailed for Spotty, our then two month old pet puppy.
The symbol of our love had died in the fire.
It felt like a sign, these repeated bad things happening to us.
That was when I had decided we had to get married. Immediately.
Jane turns away from the window and sees me peeping.
Her worried eyes turn into a sparkling smile as she chides me for seeing her minutes before our wedding.
“Don’t you know it is bad luck?”
We both stop and stare at each other, recollecting the journey we’ve been through.
We have no house and are currently living in Jane’s mother’s apartment. With all our savings, we’ve bought ourselves wedding clothes and hired a very small altar.
I don’t know how we’re going to manage to survive.
But looking at Jane, I know that together, we’ll achieve anything.
“Bad luck?” I ask, an amused expression on my face.
We both laugh, and after giving her a quick peck on her cheek, I run to the end of the altar, where I wait for our new journey to begin, this time, as Husband and Wife.
