Katerina
Every step fills me with a heavy dread. My stomach is cement, holding me down.
I finally focus my gaze on Dominic, trying to meet his eyes, only to see them squeezed shut. His face is pinched and his lips pursed.
When he opens those dark eyes, he looks at me with boredom and disapproval.
To anyone else, he probably appears stoic, serious. But I can tell. I see the way his nose is slightly upturned, the way his eyes seem empty. He has no desire to be here.
I end the march to my demise next to Dominic.
Only days ago, I had been filled with hope. The visit from the women in his family ignited it. But looking at him now, all of it is gone. His blank stare, the way he mindlessly stands here, it’s as though he’s in a trance.
He wants a wife as much as I want a husband. This is simply a means to an end. I can handle that.
But I don’t know if I can handle the disapproving and dismissive way he stares at me. It’s not just a wife he doesn’t want; it’s me he doesn’t want. I don’t know what his problem is, but he’s pissing me off.
The priest greets us and hands us blessed candles. I hold mine in my clammy hands. I have to squeeze it tightly, so it doesn’t slip.
He starts praying over us in Russian, and it brings a smile to my face that Dominic won’t understand his wedding.
I glance at him victoriously, but he doesn’t seem to care. Fuck him.
The priest holds the rings and begins blessing them. As he goes through the rounds of blessings, I try to decipher if he knows this is a sham. That all of this is fake.
I decide he either doesn’t know or is too afraid of my father to let on that he does.
Our rings are exchanged. The priest places Dominic’s gold ring on my finger and my silver ring on Dominic’s finger three times.
Finally, we switch the rings, placing the correct ring on the other’s finger. Dominic places mine on my left hand, the American tradition, but I stare at him cooly as I move it to my right hand.
I look down at the silver band, and for the first time, I realize I don’t have an engagement ring.
It makes sense. Why would he have bothered buying one?
The priest begins the Crowning Ceremony. He leads us to the center of the church while chanting psalms.
When the priest looks at me, I know it’s my time to vow my life away.
“Have you good, free, and unconstrained will, and have you promised yourself to no other?” the priest asks me.
I pause. This is the moment. The one that changes my life.
“Yes, with God’s help,” I repeat the traditional Russian response.
It’s a lie. All of it. I’m not here of my good, free, or unconstrained will. I’m not able to promise myself to no other. I briefly glance at Sergey and refrain from shivering.
The priest guides us to hold each other’s hands, and as my warm one connects with Dominic’s, goose bumps spread across my body. I expected his hands to be as cold as the rest of him, but to my surprise, they’re warm. And large. They’re also full of callouses. And for some reason, that coarse skin comforts me.
The crowns are then placed on our heads three times. They symbolize martyrdom and eternal unity.
It’s bitterly ironic how true that first part is. I truly am a martyr in this marriage. All alone with no options. Forced by my father to make this sacrifice for his precious Bratva.
I feel the weight of the ridiculous crown. It’s a fucking mockery of me. Of the Bratva Princess.
I zone out as the priest reads scriptures and prays. I’m a monotonous robot as I drink from the common cup. I don’t register my movements as I do the ceremonial walk around the lectern.
But I do feel the weight lifted as the priest removes the crowns. I feel slightly lighter, as though I can breathe.
