Ila Williams stood at the altar staring at her soon-to-be husband and thought, “This cannot be real life. She wanted to scream. She wanted to faint.” The man before her looked like he’d been assembled from spare parts at a horror movie warehouse. His face was a nightmare of twisted scars and sagging skin. His teeth, when he smiled, were yellow and crooked. His hair was patchy and gray, like someone had glued cotton balls to his scalp at random. and his posture hunched over like a question mark that had given up on life.
He had to be at least 70, maybe 80, and he smelled like mothballs and regret. Do you, Laya Marie Williams, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? The preacher asked. Ila’s mouth opened, but her brain screamed, “Say no, run. Fake a heart attack, anything.” But then she remembered her mom, sweet Patricia Williams, who worked three jobs and still couldn’t pay the medical bills, who was counting on Ila to do this one thing, marry this this creature, so they could get the money her dad had promised.
