Whilst the congregation has been mumbling along to hymns they recall from school assembly, weddings, or funerals, I’ve been mouthing the lyrics to ‘I Will Survive’… grateful for the blue mask hiding my lips.  

The vicar presses the button to draw the curtains and commit you to history, and deep breaths of relief fight to escape through the mask.  Like the feeling you get after jolting awake from a nightmare and realising it was just a bad dream.  But it was real, wasn’t it?  

Real actions constraining me. 

Real aggression weakening me.

Real words silencing me.

Words spat out like you were getting rid of a sour pip.  My tears washing away your spittle.

Wedding vows and bones being broken as embrace turned to menace. 

And all this whilst I prayed for your love and begged for your redemption.

But you stripped me of love… and now they’re about to see through you and your fallen shield of respectability. The various committees, the golf club, the business associations… they’re all in today. The community you stood tall in as I cowered at home.  You, out having a ball, and me curling into one in the bedroom as a result.  You, heavy in drink; me, heavy in make-up afterwards.  Even your liver finally had enough of your abuse.

You’d have been smug-proud with the turnout; a sell-out in fact.  Like yourself. Shame you can’t enjoy still being the centre of attention, eh?  Always thinking you were box-office… now just boxed in.  I shudder at how I lived with the consequences of you for so long. But very soon I’ll ensure the real you either lives or dies in their memories.

As the congregation mumble “Amen” to the Lord’s Prayer, the vicar clears his throat before glancing down at me.  I nod.

“Ladies and gentlemen, that almost concludes the committal of Donald to Our Lord,” said the vicar, unfolding the handwritten note I’d passed to him as I was returning to my pew.

“However, his dearest widow, Janet, has made one final request. Whilst no flowers or donations were requested, there’s a large plate on the table by the door, and Janet wishes for any donations you may spare to be placed on it… for the benefit of the local domestic abuse refuge.”

I don’t need wing mirrors to know rows of heads are turning and facing one another, mouths aghast behind their masks. Like some of them didn’t suspect.  Well, I’ve just opened all those blind eyes your reputation made turn.

Taking that as my command, I stand up and stride down the aisle. Gliding out of the church doors I hear hushed whispers as the fallout continues, and can afford myself a smile now I’m no longer paying the price of you.

I look skywards at the sun streaming through wispy clouds and feel a warm glow of salvation. A sharp contrast to the bitter wind of our wedding day.

And I remove my mask.