Wedding Bells Are Ringin’

There were certain things that made Cynthia Richardson happy, some things that made her extremely enthusiastic—and some things that made her bristle; having her manager tell her she wasn’t working hard enough or putting enough effort into her job being one of them.

Her icy blue eyes narrowed slightly, her arms crossed over her chest to show her agitation.

“Mr. Reynolds, I have been working effectively—you just don’t see me working whenever you come out of that #@$% office!” she snapped, tired of pretending to be a cowed dog. Time to fight back; her pride was hurt. Therefore, the manager would pay. And pay dearly. No one hurt Cynthia’s pride. No one. Not even if she got fired in the process.

“You’re all spit and fire, Miss Richardson, but it doesn’t change the fact you have been reported slacking by five different employees. Employees I trust.”

Yeah, right. But Cynthia didn’t say anything.

“I will not fire you this time, but if I hear of any inherent laziness in your workspace, you will have to resign. Now. Go back and stay in your little section,” the manager said, leaning back languidly in his brown, leather armchair from behind his red wood desk.

Cynthia was still fuming silently when she left, and kept the same emotion while working with the cosmetics.

Angelica would just die for an opportunity to work in such a place, she thought. Yes, her younger sister would be ecstatic to work in a place where she could work with skin cleansers, makeup accessories, etc. She would probably obsess about her job like she did everything else and chit-chat about it all the time like she did concerning her boyfriend, Lewis Kendall.

Angelica would be getting married in October to him. It made Cynthia feel somewhat jealous of her…

Lord, please forgive me. I know I haven’t been acting as a Christian ought to act today. I even cursed in front of my manager! Must be having PMS. My mom always said Midol™ was used for PMS medicine too. Drat the woman! Doesn’t she understand anything?! Sorry God. No! I’m not sorry!

A conflict began in the middle of her quest for forgiveness; she scowled and slipped a hand over her eyes. Why couldn’t she just apologize and ask forgiveness? Why was she such a grouch? Ugh! She detested herself; feeling so pathetic and loathsome all of a sudden.

“Miss? Are you okay?”

Bess Hamilton—her closest friend.

Irritation. Everything irritated her. Instead of growling and snapping like a cornered wolf, however, she plastered on a fake, plastic, smile and said, “Oh, nothing.”

Just having PMS. Good ol’ symptom only women have. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear at all.

“Oh, that’s good. Better keep up working. Some think you aren’t working hard enough. Hmph. You work twice as hard as everyone else here,” Bess said kindly. She started to absentmindedly organize the row of skin cleansers beside Cynthia Richardson.

“Thanks, Bess,” Cynthia said, and meant it. “It’s nice to see that at least someone appreciates me. Though stop lying to make me feel better—I know I don’t work that hard. Just harder than what the boss said.”

Bess didn’t say anything, dipping her left hand into her apron pocket and retrieving a rectangular aluminum foil wrapped object. She handed the said object to Cynthia, a knowing smile on her face.

“Here, this might cheer you up,” she said.

“Wow! A whole tray of cherry cordials!”

Gomen nasai, Kami-sama. I really am blessed to have a friend like Bess. And I am sorry to have treated You like rotten, Cynthia apologized.

“Yup! I was really going to use them for myself, but I think you need them more.”

Cynthia eagerly tore into the package and popped one rich candy in her mouth, suddenly filled with ecstasy equated with good chocolate bursting with creamy liquid plus candied cherry. The sweet sticky fluid ran down her throat, running over her taste buds.

“Mmm,” she moaned. “Thank you.”

Bess chuckled.

“No problem.”

                                                    Later at Cynthia’s house…

“Like I said, Bob, the tiger’s gotta go.”

“Aw, Phil—A few more days?”

CLICK!

“Come to your Ford motor dealer and—”

CLICK!

Cynthia set the TV remote back down on its place on the coffee table, the once live and active television set switched off to a blank screen devoid of the pesky noises of loud advertisements and lousy shows. People really didn’t try anymore to bring out good entertainment.

No wonder people like anime and manga so much. The Japanese culture has much better movies and films than Hollywood ever produced.

She really did believe this. She was twenty-three years old and still loved watching anime and Japanese films like Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children. The foreign nation seemed to put their all for the people, whether it be movies, games, or musicians in general (she had heard about some musicians fainting in live performances because of this factor).

It was too bad some Christian entertainment seemed to have the same ailments as Hollywood. Slap on the name Jesus on any product and make it sappy good and suddenly the poor Christian population would guzzle it down.

Cynthia had read one inspirational romance where it was plot-less, had no conflict, and was syrupy sweet—enough to give the readers huge cavities and make any nonbeliever cringe at the work.

So, I guess God blesses only the really pretty women with a big bosom and luscious auburn hair, she thought, thinking of the countless stories where the heroine of such stories had been physically flawless in every aspect. Mentioning PMS or periods was a no-no, and then there was the fact they had to be super righteous. In other words, they were all carbon copy Mary-Sues just waiting to torture unsuspecting readers.

She had given up reading such twaddle long ago, instead turning to classics if she wanted to be inspired. At least the classics didn’t have soupy sentimental Christian themes with the plot thrown in like a last minute ingredient.

It was sickening. It really was.

And also, what was with those Christians always talking to God in their stories and having Him reply audibly? God didn’t have to speak with an audible voice to Christians—He used the Bible to speak to them by the Holy Spirit.

I’m probably being too picky, she thought, picking up Oliver Twist that laid beneath the Women’s’ Featurette Magazine on the coffee table.

She leaned back against the couch, ready to absorb herself into one of her favorite classic novels. As a big fan of Charles Dickens, she eagerly read any novel of his.

The phone rang, much to her disappointment, right when she was in the middle of the very first paragraph of the very first chapter.

She groaned in annoyance, standing up to answer the bothersome telephone from the kitchen.

“Hello?” she said into the light blue receiver, hoping it wasn’t her boss.

“Your schedule has been rearranged so you will be working nine hours tomorrow instead of the normal six—Trenton is to be going through eye surgery tomorrow and she wants you to take her place.”

Well, what do you know—it was her boss.

Great. As if things couldn’t get any worse.

“All right,” she said tonelessly, hoping not to sound too disappointed by this news.

Why am I so disappointed? There’s nothing to do at home, and I can do my shopping Thursday.

But she couldn’t convince herself to be happy in that working was something to do. She hated her job. She hated it more and more with each passing month. Having a smile plastered to her skull and mentally pulling her hair out at rude customers and spoiled brats while saying, “Have a nice day,” like a broken record.

Lord, I need a change of air. Soon. This is suffocating me.

Her manager, being brief, hung up on her, having nothing more to say.

Cynthia sat back in her sofa, no longer so desirous to read Oliver Twist. She was, instead, thinking of the fact she would have to work three more hours. She knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault—just why did it have to be her at this time of month when she felt like pampering herself? For crying out loud, did they think she enjoyed becoming a witch with a capitol B at this time of month and that was why they insisted on torturing her?!

Gomen nasai! Kami-sama, I won’t think that way again, she apologized in her prayer, intermingling English with Japanese as was her habit. Sometimes she even pronounced Christ with a Japanese accent: Kirisito.

Her early fascination with the language was still at large, though she knew very little real words apart from the simplest phrases. One of the earliest being “gomen nasai” or “I’m so sorry” in the formal sense. Kami-sama was what she had called God because it meant, literally translated, “Spirit Lord”—thus, “Lord of the Spirits”. And since God really was “Lord of the Spirits” she liked calling Him by this title.

She picked up the book and decided to revert back to reading it—if anything it might sooth her continuously rankled mood.

As if on cue the telephone rang. Again.

Sheesh! They really were torturing her today. Either that or Satan was having a heyday. He was probably cackling and popping his knuckles, saying, “I have her now: insert-evil-laugh-here!”

She glowered down at the object, withdrawing the temptation to rip it off its perch, knowing such actions wasn’t very Christian. At the moment she knew she wasn’t the best example of how a Christian should act; it wouldn’t due to say, “Shut the @%# up and leave me alone!” Though it was a temptation.

“Hello?” she rasped, wavering between annoyed, polite, and

“if-this-is-another-call-about-my-job-you’re-deep-fried”.

“PMS, hm? I just went through my cycle last week.”

Angelica.

“Uh, what did you want? I mean—hello.”

Her sister chuckled.

“Oh, I was going to tell you that we’re upping the wedding for June. Sherlock hates the month of October and cries whenever”—

“Whoa! Wait a sec—Sherlock?”

There was a pause contributed to either a shrug or a silent snicker.

“Sherlock is the name of my future hubby’s second cousin. His parents are devout fans of the detective and want him to become one when he grows up. Get this—Holmes is his middle name. Sherlock Holmes Wibbert. Cool, huh?”

I feel sorry for the kid, Cynthia thought, but decided not to say anything. She didn’t want to draw out this conversation any longer than needed be.

“I wanted to tell you that I changed the colors of the bridesmaid gowns. Instead you’ll be wearing lime green. I’ll be wearing black.”

“B-but I’m not a brides—black?!” Astonishment slipped into the back of Cynthia’s throat. Black?

“Yeah. My hubby has some Goths for friends and we agreed it would be cool if I wore black on my wedding. His second cousin is coming in a brown Ulster, strait pants, and deerstalker (his parents sure are proud of him), and Bloodless Sue will be dressed up as Mana. Y’know—Mana-sama from Malice Mizer.”

“B-Bloodless Sue? Goths? B-black wedding dress?” Cynthia babbled, wondering in her head about the insanity of it all. Not that she had anything in particular against Goths, it was just unheard of for a bride to wear a black wedding dress.

“Bloodless Sue is her real name. Though everyone calls her ‘Bob’. I can’t say I can see much improvement in that though.” Angelica laughed pleasantly. “Don’t worry about it, though. Everything is going to be fine. Oh, and don’t worry about the bridesmaid thing (I was just teasing you about the color). Instead you have been elected to cosplay Sephiroth from Final Fantasy.”

“I know where ‘Sephiroth’ comes from,” Cynthia growled.

“I found a place that actually sold sleek, shiny white wigs and something to keep the bangs up like they are in the games and stuff. It’ll be so much fun! Well, gotta go and I hope with all sincerity that the wonderful news has refreshed your spirit and soothed your restless soul. Sayonara!”

Click.

The only thing the news had done was assure Cynthia Richardson of the fact Lewis Kendall’s relatives were filled with nutcases. Black wedding gown. A boy named Sherlock Holmes Wibbert who was to wear the famous Sherlockian-type garb. A woman named Bloodless Sue cosplaying Mana. Being elected to cosplay Sephiroth. What function that had to do in the wedding, Cynthia had no idea. She wondered, though, if someone was also being “elected” to cosplay ‘Cloud’, the spiky blond-haired, blue-eyed hero of Final Fantasy VII with the ridiculously oversized sword. If so she would be greatly relieved.

A wacky image of the impending wedding came to her head and she laughed at the imagined expressions on the faces of the people in the auditorium. It made her wonder who exactly would be conducting the ceremony. A minister dressed up as Dracula perhaps? It would make perfect sense.

Iesu-sama, life keeps getting stranger each day. Please give me patience through this unique period of time and richly bless all those in the congregation and make everyone realize the solemnity of the marriage ritual.

Solemn her foot! This wedding sounded like a circus gone berserk.

But who am I to judge what takes place in the future? Who knows, Lord—maybe this wedding will be the best I’ll ever attend. I know it’ll be thewackiest.

I-I-I-I-I

“Whoa,” Bess said when Cynthia told her about her younger sister’s plans for her wedding. Her brown eyes were wide and her lips were parted in a perfect ‘O’ shape. “It does make one wonder who’ll be conducting it.”

Cynthia bit into the fudge brownie she had bought at the snack counter. Both were on their break, so she had had enough time to tell her friend the news.

“I’ve never cosplayed anyone in my entire life—I already have the jitters just thinking of it. What will people think when they see me coming to a church building dressed up like a baddie from a popular game?”

“They’d probably think something along the lines of a costume party or something. As if churches have costume parties.” Bess took a swig of her diet Coke. Then she placed the can down beside her and patted Cynthia’s hand.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you with the costume.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The break was soon over and they both resumed the process of working silently on their shifts. Bess would be able to go home in a few more hours, leaving Cynthia completely devoid of someone to talk to.

One thing she didn’t like about this job was the fact she became lonely.

You have Me.

It was an impression, but the still, small Voice that whispered into her heart was almost audible to her ears. To her mind.

Kami-sama, I know I have You to talk to. And for that I’m thankful.

She returned back home late that evening, feeling a bit tired and worn out from dealing with more dissatisfied customers of the products; one of which made false accusations that Cynthia had been cheating them out. She was just doing her job—could she really help it that the head of the company was a money snorkeling hog?

Forgive me, Kami-sama. To make sure I don’t torture Your ears any longer I’ll take some ‘happy pills’. Okay?

She opened the medicine cabinet in her bathroom and pulled out a bottle of Midol. Kaa-san or no Kaa-san (Mother)—Midol was the only option in the house until her next pay period. Which was going to be next Friday instead of this Friday. Ah, the consistency of life!

All right.

She blinked, not really expecting a reply from Kami-sama. Eerily this was beginning to sound like one of those sappy novels in which the characters always heard the Voice of God. Okay, so maybe not sappy—but a bit unreal all the same.

Without another thought on that wavelength, she popped two pills in her mouth and made a face as she swallowed them, gagging when one got lodged in her throat.

Lord, it would be great if I could get my check earlier this month. I really need to be preparing my Sephiroth outfit. Do I really look like Sephiroth to You? Why they chose a girl like me to be him is beyond me. I mean, I’m much fatter than Sephy, and I have breasts. How am I supposed to cover that up? Please help me! I’ve never done this before and I always thought people who liked cosplaying were a bit odd. I mean, dressing up as a favorite character and looking like an idi—excuse me, Lord—at the same time?

She babbled on and on, and after complaining to Kami-sama about the news, she felt much better. Though she felt a bit sorry for Kami-sama who had to listen to her rants and irritation.

I-I-I-I-I

“Here, I think Styrofoam padding for the shoulders would be just fine. You might make due with aluminum, but the Styrofoam looks more authentic. The aluminum will be what the blade of his sword will be made out of—oh, and you’ll need a military trench fitted just right,” Angelica said as one of her friends held a package of Styrofoam for Cynthia to study.

Cynthia bit her lips in her state of nerves. Her hazel eyes darted from the package to her younger sister’s beaming face.

“You do know I’ve never made anything, before, do you?” she asked, hoping they would take the hint and decide to use someone else to cosplay ‘Sephiroth’.

“Of course. Which is why my fiancé has hired an experienced tailor to create the outfit for you. You just have to be fitted, that’s all. No need to fear,” Angelica said cheerfully, throwing her arms open with drama. “Reminds me--Sherlock was so ecstatic about dressing up like his hero that he didn’t speak for a week. Ah, the excitement of youth!”

I pity that boy, Cynthia thought, saying aloud, “That is a relief. I was afraid I would have to make the whole thing by scratch. Is anyone going to be…”

She trailed off when the two women started talking about wedding invitations and the like.

Is anyone going to be ‘Cloud’?

She let the question hang into the air, hoping her sister would turn around and say something—anything. Even negative feedback. But instead she persisted in jabbering away to her friend about the wedding, even though it wouldn’t really take much out of her time to answer her sister’s important question.

“Oh, you’ll need eye contacts. Bought some special ones suitable for your role. Cost me an arm and a leg, but they’ll do the trick,” the other woman said, bringing out a small box out of her purse and handing it to Cynthia. “Read directions carefully about putting them in.”

Cynthia pocketed them. What if she poked her eyes out? What if…what if…what if?

“Come now, onee-chan, it’s not that hard to put them in. I’ve worn contacts for years and all you have to do is cleanse them and place them over your irises. You can do it!”

But her sister’s enthusiasm and positive behavior didn’t convey to Cynthia any sense of relief. If anything, the mere thought of placing a foreign object in her eyes on purpose made her inwardly shudder.  

She was gladdened when she was measured for the outfit and was able to return home.

Home where she could conquer the ability of having her eyes have the same look and color as the character she would be portraying. Green with black vertical slits in the center. Well, at least they were normal sized—unlike some other “specialized” contact lenses.

I-I-I-I-I-I

Cynthia looked at herself in the round bathroom mirror, studying her hazel eyes through the freshly cleaned surface (it had been neglected for a few months). Then she opened the box up.

Two lenses in rinse fluid laid innocently in their little container.

She gulped, feeling her forehead dot with sweat. What if…?

Confound it already!

She had read the directions countless times, hoping to dispel the qualms she had about wearing them. It didn’t work. If anything, reading the directions made the idea that much more imposing somehow.

Making up her mind, she slipped one flimsy lens on the tip of her right index finger, keeping it in a perfect bowl shape. She made sure it wasn’t inside out, then tried to put it in her eye. Her hesitancy and the sheer close vicinity of the foreign object instantly made her blink her eyes, the eyelids scraping onto the lip of the contact. Making it tip upside down on her finger, curling into a quarter moon shape.

It was the same result the very next time she did it, even when she tried to hold her eyelids open with the free hand. There was simply no way she could wear contacts.

I guess I’m one of the many who can’t, she thought, ready to give up after twelve different tries to at least get one contact in. She would simply call her sister and tell her she couldn’t wear them. Angelica would surely understand.

And be disappointed, Cynthia thought, knowing the wedding meant a lot to her sister and that she had a lot on her shoulders already from the preparations.

Well, here goes—Hey! I have it in! Now for the next one. Should be a piece of cake.

She picked up the other contact, squirted a little bit of the sample lens rinse on it, then tried to put it in the other eye, thinking it would slide in easily. It didn’t. Even after many tries and fails she couldn’t get it in.

“GAH! WHAT’S UP WITH THIS LOUSY PIECE OF---GYAHHHH!”

The PMS monster within herself reared its ugly head and roared behind its prison, seeking to be let out and unleash devastation upon the world. In other words, she needed to take more medicine before turning into the ghastly representation of womanhood each woman must endure at least once a month.

Rage boiled deep inside her, sudden images of all the things family members had done to her in the past suddenly fresh in her mind. Her sister probably wanted to make her suffer on purpose! Well Angelica would pay, and pay dearly!

She heard an impression, but it was like a breeze against a strong gale of forceful wind, the source coming from the sudden hormonal aggression.

Growling like a cornered wolf, she placed the contact on her index finger and then—

It held. She now had two of the contacts in. Finally. Her vision looked odd, but…

They were in crooked; the annoying slits weren’t pointed the right direction! After all that hard work and agonizing for nothing…

And so the cycle started all over again.

After two hours of constant practice, Cynthia Richardson had finally mastered putting on the contacts, much to her relief. She had thought it would take much  more time with the way things had been going at first.

Okay, Kami-sama. I am now feeling much more confident—though I still feel nervous about this. You know how I hate getting up in front of people or sticking out in a crowd. Please help me, Lord and give me peace and confidence in this. I know I’m not being asked to jump off a cliff, but in my point of view its just as scary.

Feeling much better after praying, she picked up Oliver Twist and began reading.

I-I-I-I-I-I

The day of the wedding came on the twenty-third of June. It was to be held at the Mayleaf Baptist Church in the auditorium. Guests and family members came whether invited by invitations or not.

Outside the church, rain fell down in torrents.

Cynthia, having already donned the clothes, hair, and sword of the Final Fantasy character, stared at the change in the back bathroom  mirror of the church. It looked surprisingly authentic—aside from the fact she wasn’t a man.

She felt somewhat pleased with the results, though she was still dying with curiosity as to who would be Cloud or if anyone would be Cloud…

She stepped out of the bathroom and sat down on the back row, hoping to see someone with spiky blonde hair and sporting the infamous oversized sword in the audience. She spotted Sherlock in his deerstalker and little brown Ulster at the very front; he didn’t look happy at all.

The woman named Bloodless Sue (or “Bob”) was seated beside him in her blue Lolita dress, looking for all the world like an exact representation of Mana from Malice Mizer. Only she was a girl pretending to be a male cross-dresser.

On the other side of the church the pews were filled with black clad Goths, decked with chains and bondage straps. They were mostly left to themselves; Cynthia noted many church folk seemed intimidated by them. Though there was a couple who were brave enough to sit directly beside the groom’s friends.

With bated breath Cynthia realized she couldn’t see her mother among the crowd. Who would escort her sister up the altar if Mother didn’t show up?

Also, the pulpit was empty; where was the minister?

As if in answer to her question, a quiet hush fell among the crowd.

Tap-click, tap-click…

Every eye turned toward the entrance of the auditorium. Someone let out a suppressed squeal under her breath.

Cynthia followed their eyes to see…

Cloud.

It was a cosplayer, but he looked authentic. He even had the face-shape and eyes of the character, not to mention the authentic-looking ridiculously sized sword and his entire outfit. Whoever had picked to be the character had picked really well.

He walked down the aisle, boots clicking on the ground.

Cynthia knew he had a part in the wedding ceremony, but she didn’t know—

He stopped behind the pulpit.

So he was the minister. Figures.

“I know some of you may wonder why I, as the pastor of this church, am dressed up like an elf from Lord of the Rings. The truth is, the bride wanted the wedding to be highly memorable. A celebration not to be blurred with the memories of like celebrations past…”

He went on in a long speech about true love then opened the service up in prayer.

Cynthia watched silently as the ritual began with the men coming up front to stand to the left of the altar, then followed by the women at the right side.

All was going well. Until…

“Cynthia,” a voice whispered in her ear. Angelica. She looked petrified, as one could understand. This was her fourth wedding, after all; she didn’t want to botch this one up.

She looked highly sophisticated in her black, lace adorned wedding dress, the transparent veil hiding her face.

“Mother wasn’t able to come. She had a bout of stomach virus this morning—so she wants you to take her place. Come on; don’t be shy.”

Look who’s talking, Cynthia thought, but didn’t say it aloud. She was glad that the minister was dressed up like Cloud and one of the bridesmaids cosplaying Mana. It made the situation so much easier.

And so “Sephiroth” escorted the bride down the altar to be with the groom; long sword dragging behind and silver hair swishing back and forth across "Sephiroth"’s back.

As she took her place with the other women, she noticed a couple of chuckles breaking forth in the audience. She even saw some “Sephiroth” fangirls grinning widely at her costume. Some people who knew about Final Fantasy VII snickered under their breaths at the sight of “Cloud” leading the ceremony and “Sephiroth” being the bridesmaid of honor.

“We are gathered here today to witness the…” the minister began.

Cynthia couldn’t hold it in and started snickering, too, highly amused with the situation.

“Bob” turned to look at her under fake eyelashes, blue lips not even twitching, and her expression a complete mask behind a cake of professional makeup.

The ceremony paused for the romantic music to be played.

In other words, One Winged Angel cascaded into the auditorium with a relish.

Cynthia ended up enjoying herself, feeling proud of the work the tailor had done on her costume, and enjoyed talking with Bloodless Sue and miserable Sherlock afterwards.

The minister had a lot of people following him around, asking for pictures to be taken of him to send to people online. Some people told him he was supposed to be “Cloud” from Final Fantasy VII; not Legolas from Lord of the Rings.

Even the church folk intermingled with the Goths and entered long intellectual discussions with them.

“I’ve never been to such a wedding as this one!” one woman said, fanning herself with a hymnal. “I think its ‘memorable’ enough.”

The man beside her chuckled at that statement.

As Cynthia left the church to return home, the tail of her trench coat flapping behind her in the strong wind and the silver haired wig billowing in the air, she felt somewhat ashamed of her attitude toward the wedding.

Things had gone well, indeed. There had been no need for her constant worrying.

And Angelica would hopefully have the right “Mr. Right” this time…

Cynthia drove her car into the rain-paved highway.

The End