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So it began. Caspar actually thought himself properly prepared, having plied himself with effervescent libation. Bourbon could easily go sour on him, particularly where the reliving of the past was concerned. Some might argue that bourbon was inappropriate fare for brunch, but what was appropriate had never really called to the waxy, catgut strings strumming pleasure within. But his inner monologue digresses, because he'd suffered a mimosa or three instead, believing it more practical and less likely to catapult him toward suicidal ideation, Evil Kenevil style, if things went unpleasant this afternoon. Silly man.
When the memory absorbed him, it felt like an invasion. Him, tucked away within some invisible corner, glimpsing the soft intimacies of siblings. Caspar didn't actually recall the wedding, although he'd been in the wedding party. It'd been long ago, and he'd been fucked up with a lot more regularity in those days, so it was hard for him to say that was what this memory was. But the dress put a stop to his wondering, because he could remember that much. Its vintage white, its laced modesty.
He stood there, unseen, watching the girl as she watched herself in the mirror. He thought she looked content sitting there, unaware of what was transpiring outside this bridal room, and unaware of what her short life would hold. "You little fool," he whispered fondly, even as the memory faded to gossamer nothingness.