Child Brides of India

By C. Stanton Leman

Chapter 8: The Wedding (Mg, slow, rom)

After a whirlwind day, beginning with me asking Adib for Priya’s hand, my proposal to Priya and her acceptance of the Maher (dower, or gift to the bride), signing a formal notice of marriage with the Indian registrar’s office and culminating with the purchase of our rings (Dad’s eyes popped when he saw the ring), both families met at our home for dinner.

The atmosphere was one of joy and anticipation. As soon as we were seated for dinner (Priya seated across the table from me), I recapped the day’s events for Dad and explained what I had offered both as a prenuptial agreement and a dower, I asked him if he could get his lawyer here to draw up the legal documents and he agreed. I also explained my wedding offer to the Haaseem women and he was proud that I had offered.

We learned that in India, the cost of the wedding and receptions (one for both families to meet and the formal wedding reception) are borne by the groom. Salima went through the various steps of an Indian Muslim wedding and it sounded surprisingly very similar to a western wedding.

My father asked how soon Adib could furnish him with a guest list for both events and Adib replied about a week. Adib injected a temporary jolt of reality when he said, “We can set a date, but it will be contingent on the fact that no one responds to the notice and objects to the wedding.”

After a moment of silence he added, “Don’t worry, like most all governmental notices both here and in the U.S., people are usually oblivious to such mundane things.” Everyone warily agreed and we were soon in high spirits again.

It was the first week of July, so we set a tentative date on the 26^th of August, a Saturday for the big event. This would have us married right before Priya returned to school.

Dad said that reserving a place for both functions wouldn’t be a problem; he’d just use the facilities the company used for last minute functions. Mom said that she’d contact a wedding planner and caterer for planning the menus. She also said that the tailor who had made her sari told her that they also made custom traditional clothing for any occasion, so the women would start there for the clothing. Adib said that he would get the guest list together and let Dad know as soon as he could.

The whole time, I’m wondering, What’s the groom supposed to do? When I asked, Mom (the perpetual stinker) said, “Get your credit cards ready, ‘cause the girls are going shopping! Oh, and worry! Worry about what you’ll do when your pretty little wife puts a ring through your nose and starts training you! Remember,” she said wagging her finger, “I know all your weak points!”

This brought a chocolate blush and hilarious laughter all around.

So, I assumed (with my great intellect) that trying to argue with three women was wasted energy. My job would end up being, the ‘go-fer’.

Having a little less than six weeks to put everything together, Mom, the consummate hostess, said that she didn’t see any real problems, excluding the gowns.

I was surprised to learn that the bride never wears white. White is a no-no for the bridal party, family or guests. In India, white is the color of mourning. Instead, the bride wears a bright color: usually red, pink or blue. It’s a sign of prosperity and good luck. Salima said Priya would wear a wedding lehenga (a waist to floor, flared and pleated heavy skirt with intricately embroidered designs, beads, and rhinestones), a long choli, and a dupatta (or scarf-like veil) and sandals or slippers. She would also need a dress for her ‘henna party’ and one to change into before coming home.

She went on to explain that the other women could wear the same or choose saris, but could not be dressed as elegantly as the bride. I, the lowly groom, would wear a Sherwani (a jacket-type outer garment going to just below the knee) with matching pants and shoes and a kufi (a flat type hat). I could wear a business suit to both receptions if I chose.

We learned that both of Adib’s parents were dead and so was Salima’s father, so I told Salima to include her mother in the shopping. Naughtiness sometimes has its rewards. Adib has one brother and sister, while Salima has two sisters and their children and some cousins.

My side had some aunts and uncles and their children, Abby and her husband, some of my mother and father’s very close friends and a few of mine. We estimated the wedding reception to be about 50-80 people.

The men gravitated to the study while the women shivered with anticipation and dollar signs in their eyes in the living room.

I figured that I was ‘on standby’ until I got further orders (maybe I shouldn’t have got her that cell phone!), so I asked Dad if I could finally go to the office with him and begin earning my paycheck. If Mom was involved, I’ll start married life out in serious debt! He thought that was a great idea and agreed. I would also arrange a meeting with the Imaam to request that he perform the ceremony and ask his advice about Muslim marriage procedures.

Anyone who’s gotten married can imagine what the next three and a half weeks were like — controlled chaos. Priya and I were sweating bullets (as was everyone else) as the thirty-day deadline for objections to be filed approached and there was an unspoken tension about it. The day of reckoning came, and the morning after was like suddenly knowing a great weight was lifted away.

The Saturday of the week before the wedding, my dad had all of our invited relatives and Abby and her husband flown in and put up at the Crowne Plaza hotel in New Delhi. That Monday, both of our immediate families met at a restaurant my dad had made arrangements with for the family pre-wedding reception.

Priya wore a shimmering aqua colored mermaid-cut evening gown and matching headscarf and was drop dead breathtaking! Mom wore a blue custom sari, as did Salima in red and Sarah in emerald green. The men wore suits.

During the course of meeting everyone (even some of my relatives), I introduced Priya to my first cousin, Elizabeth. She’s my mom’s eldest sister’s daughter. She was accompanied by her seven year-old daughter, Emma, whom I’d never met.

Liz introduced us to Emma, a lovely little girl, not quite four feet tall with light ash blonde ringlet filled, shoulder length hair. She wasn’t overweight or plump, just kind of fleshy. Her face was slightly round with a cute button nose and a sprinkling of light freckles across her high cheekbones and nose, all adorned upon alabaster skin that framed her sweet, pink-lipped smile.

She was dressed, surprisingly, in a little dress sari in pastel pink. Her sandaled miniature, tiny pinkish white toes poked out of the bottom of her sari. She looked at up at Priya with silver dollar eyes and said, “You’re sooo bee-uuu-tee-ful! Can I stay with you? Momma, can I git married too?”

We all laughed at her childish innocence and Liz said, “Someday, Baby, someday.”

Priya bent over a little to her eye level and said, “Sure you can stay with me! I’m a little scared meeting all these people, would you hold my hand and be my best friend tonight? Would you like to meet my momma?”

Emma jumped up and down, clapping her hands saying “Oh yes! Let’s go! I’ll be the bestest friend ever!”

With that, Priya and Emma giggled off hand-in-hand towards Salima and my mother.

My Dad came over about the time Liz had finished introducing Emma to us, and said, “How’re things going Liz? How do you feel?”

“I’m fine, John, thanks for asking. I have my good days and bad ones too.”

Dad explained, and I was sad to learn that Elizabeth was trying to raise Emma by herself after Jack, her husband, died six months ago. She was also fighting breast cancer at the same time. He said that Mom had Emma’s sari made to brighten her up and make this trip a memorable experience.

Despite a few cultural faux pas,’ it was a warm and friendly evening and really nice to meet Priya’s relatives. Even though our side was already informed of Priya’s age, there were a few initial gasps at her size and color. These quickly faded away with Priya’s ever charming way of dealing with these issues; she’d been doing it all her short life. She took it in stride, moving effortlessly around the room with Emma glued to her side, holding her hand.

As I lovingly watched Priya with Emma by her side, I not only reveled in Priya’s beauty, but couldn’t help but notice that she was just a little taller and not much bigger than Emma. They were both beautiful girls, but totally opposite in their beauty. Priya’s milk chocolate brown skinned hand holding Emma’s alabaster white; Priya’s long blue-black hair against Emma’s shorter, soft cream-colored blonde.

Then, I wondered… why was I even thinking of such a thing? Comparing a normal, seven year-old little girl, totally innocent of adult things to an intellectually and emotionally precocious eleven year-old lolita? But then, would it be that much of a stretch to make love to a child such as Emma? Would I, or more importantly, could I desire such a thing? Am I trying to rationalize or justify some deep, dark, unknown perverted desire? This whole train of thought was very distracting and unsettling as I banished it from my consciousness and continued the evening.

With the family party behind us, Priya was excited and looking forward to her Mahendi, or henna party. A few days before the wedding, the men meet at the groom’s home for an evening for conversation and fun; while at the bride’s home, her female family members and cousins meet to apply turmeric paste to the bride to bring out the glow in her complexion. A family member or an artist paints intricate and detailed designs on the bride’s hands and feet in henna while the bride and woman folk sing and dance to traditional songs and have an evening of frivolity. The bride and groom can no longer communicate until the wedding and the bride cannot leave the house until her wedding day. One of the bride’s cousins applies a dot of henna to the groom’s palm. This would take place on Thursday, two days before the big day.

All of the relatives that Dad put up in the hotel enjoyed a few days of sightseeing before the wedding.

Thursday evening, about seven, I drove Mom over to Priya’s for the henna party. Mom was excitedly welcomed into the house, but a little pixie pipsqueak of about five abruptly stopped me. She stood at the door with Sarah behind her. I tried to get a peek at Priya, but Sarah and said pipsqueak stepped outside and closed the door. Sarah said, “I’m the translator and this is my cousin, Aleeya.”

I looked down (almost straight down) at a tiny little Indian girl with long dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She was looking straight up at me with a smile and her hand behind her back, so I smiled back and said “Hi!” She said something in Tamil (I think), and Sarah said, “She says you’re not allowed to see her, so stick out your hand.”

Poking a little fun at the bossy little imp, I said, “Why, what’s in your hand?” Sarah translated.

She lowered her head a little and looked up at me through her lashes with a devilish grin and spoke again. I looked at Sarah who laughingly said, “She says she’s not gonna tell you, but if you don’t do as she says, she’ll stick a big, fat cobra in your hand!”

Laughing, I said, “Well, we don’t want any cobras, do we?” I extended my right hand to her.

She took it, turned it palm up and pulled my fingers open. With the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, she concentrated in painting a nice dime-sized dot in the middle of my palm. When finished, she looked up at me and grinned, spoke and turned to run into the house. Sarah said, “She says bye, Cousin, see you later.” With that, Sarah curtly spun and disappeared inside leaving me standing outside with my hand extended and an open palm of wet henna. I marched — open palm and all — to the car and went home to my evening of frivolity.

The evening’s festivities ended around midnight and Mom got home around one. Dad and I were sitting in the study talking. Mom came in all giggly and happy when Dad said, “Well, did you girls paint her up good?”

Mom said, “You bet! Yep, she’s a painted Indian all right!” We all laughed at her pun.

Dad said, “Well, what else did you all do?”

Mom still bubbly said, “Oh, we sang songs, danced and had a wonderful time picking on the bride, especially by her grandmother. I really like that woman! She may be up in age, but she’s as naughty as schoolgirl!”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Mom went on, “Well, when the little ones went to bed, we were teasing Priya about her wedding night. You should have seen her, Sean; she was a continual blush! Anyway, all the girls were asking her questions like ‘have you held hands?’ and ‘what’s he kiss like?’ but Priya would just blush and wouldn’t say anything.

“We all left her alone about it for a few minutes. Then, out of the blue, her grandmother said, ‘Just looking at him, I bet he has soft lips!’ She must have caught Priya right when she was thinking of Sean and Priya swooned out ‘Yes, very soft lips!’ Well, with that, Priya was embarrassed and blushed into oblivion that she’d revealed having kissed you and we all cracked up.

“Priya’s grandmother wouldn’t cut her any slack. Salima and I saw that twinkle in her eye because after the laughter died down, she said, ‘You know…’ then she looked up like she was going to give some wise grandmotherly advice and said, ‘You know what they say about a man with soft lips, don’t cha?’ Playing along, we all slowly nodded with Priya looking wide-eyed all around waiting to find out what everyone else pretended to know. Her grandmother said, ‘Salima! You didn’t tell her, I’m ashamed of you! Well Priya, I guess I have to break the bad news.’ She shook her head a couple of times going ‘tsk, tsk, tsk,’ and then said, “Well… they say a man with soft lips has a tender heart,’” and my mom held up her hand with two fingers about an inch apart imitating Priya’s me ma and said, ‘ and a teeny, weeny pee-pee!’ Well, with that, I almost pissed myself!”

Dad nearly fell off the chair laughing while I just shook my head and smiled. I then had to laugh knowing it was a harmless joke about my manhood: and, it was funny!

After my parents had dried their eyes and reseated themselves, Mom said, “Seriously though, you should see the artistry and intricate detail of the designs: it’s absolutely phenomenal!

“Sean, you’re in for a big surprise on your wedding night! They painted both of your names in her hands and you don’t get to sample the goods until you find ‘em both! Good luck, Pal, you may not be getting any!”

After some more ribbing, Dad exchanged some of the men’s ribbing with Mom. He said, “Yeah, they did some of the same to Sean.”

Mom, like a giddy schoolgirl said, “Oooh, do tell!”

Dad said, “Adib didn’t think it was as funny as everyone else, but he took it in stride.”

Mom said, “John, out with it, will you?”

“Well,” Dad started, “Adib’s brother, Mahmoud, was teasing Sean about Priya’s skin color. At first, Sean started to get upset, then Mahmoud said, ‘Be lighthearted, Sean, we all love Priya and wouldn’t insult her, just joke a little.’ with that, Sean seemed to lighten up.

“He put his arm around Sean’s shoulder and said, ‘You know there’s a reason we’ve all married light skinned women. Do you know why?’ Sean says ‘I don’t know, but I guess you’re gonna tell me.’ and Mahmoud says, ‘Well, it’s like this…’ he then took a drink of tea and continued, ‘A long time ago there was this feared Indian prince. He was renowned for his sexual energy and had 100 concubines. One night, one of his wives sorely displeased him so he divorced her. The next day, he ordered a search throughout all of India for the most beautiful woman in the land. After months of inspecting young virgins and rejecting them, they finally brought him a beautiful young, dark skinned girl: just like Priya! The prince said ‘She is truly lovely, but why is her skin so dark?’ His servant cunningly whispered, ‘Because she’s a goddess of desire. Her desire burns so hotly within her, it has darkened her skin!’ The prince was amazed! He said, ‘If this be true, I may have no need of 100 concubines, true?’ ‘Yes,’ the servant replied. So the prince married her immediately and took her to bed.

“Once naked and in bed, she delighted him into a trance. Her soft, tender touch masked her ability to bind him hand and foot to the bed. For thirty days and thirty nights all throughout the palace could be heard her moans of ecstasy and the prince’s pleas for sexual release. She rode him like a Bedouin slicing the desert wind on his noble Arabian steed.

“When they finally emerged from the bedchamber, he crawled out on all fours with her astride, as if riding a horse. She rode him to the throne room where she sat upon his throne with him at her feet, sucking her toes.”

“Mahmoud finishing his tale said, ‘And that my new nephew, is why we don’t marry dark skin girls. Do you understand?’”

By now, Dad wad beginning to laugh, almost unable to continue. He calmed himself enough to continue and went on, “Well, Sean just looked at him and said, ‘What, I don’t get it.’ Mahmoud clasped Sean’s face at the ears with his hands and looked directly into his eyes said, ‘Nephew, you are wealthy and have a company empire to run. Do you want your eleven year-old dark skinned goddess turning you into a toe sucking pussy and taking over your fortune?’”

With that, Mom slid off the chair laughing and clasping her crotch with both hands exclaimed, “Oh God no! I’m pissing myself!”

When we had stopped laughing enough to coherently talk, Mom said embarrassingly, “Well, I think I should take me and my wet panties upstairs and get ready for bed.” She was still shaking her head and laughing.

Dad rose from the sofa, took hold of Mom’s hands helping her up said, “Boy, Joan, you really made a mess. Look at the carpet, there a big wet spot!”

She replied playfully, “If you promise not to punish me, Daddy, I won’t turn you into a toe sucking pussy. I already have your fortune!”

That started the laughing fits all over again. We all silently agreed that they had milked as much frivolity out of the evening’s festivities as they could, so we all went off to bed with Mom walking up the stairs, wet from waist to toe.

The day of the wedding, as with all weddings the world over, was hectic. The ceremony and reception were both being held at a reception hall that Dad had arranged for through the company. The ceremony itself was to begin at four pm. I had to be at the hall about two to go over the final details of the Nikah (formal wedding ceremony) with the Imam, so I paced and fidgeted around the house until about noon, then decided to shower and get ready.

Mom had dressed in a beautiful silk lehenga/choli of lime green with a matching dupatta and looked radiant. She had left with my father to go to the hall earlier to ensure all was right with the arrangements.

I met with the Imam, and we went over the ceremonial ritual. He told me to be certain that the declaration and acceptance were both made in perfect tense or the contract would be invalid.

Around three, people were starting to arrive, so the waiters were holding all of the groom’s guests outside the hall. I gathered Mom and Dad and we went outside to greet them.

Priya arrived with her family and quickly went inside so fast, that I only caught a glimpse of her. Salima and Sarah were dressed as Mom was, but Salima was in red and Sarah in dark blue.

A small band of musicians appeared and began to play, at which point, the groom’s Baarat (or family entourage) were welcomed to the wedding hall. For the formal Muslim ceremony, the women and men were separated. As is the custom, the sister of the bride, Sarah welcomed my family by going around tickling, teasing and poking the guests with a flowered baton. Usually, the bride’s brother and the groom share a glass of sherbet, but Mahmoud, Priya’s uncle stood in.

Priya stepped forward and I saw her for the first time. She looked like an Indian princess of a lost Indian dynastic age. She was wearing a shocking pink lehenga and long choli with intricate embroidery work encrusted with silver sequins and stones that shimmered like diamonds. Her head was covered with a pink, translucent crepe dupatta with a border matching the same color and craftsmanship of her lengha. On her henna painted feet, she wore sandals that also looked jewel encrusted.

Through the dupatta, I could see her pink tinted smiling face and a headpiece with what looked like a single string of diamonds ending with a ruby hanging from the center of her head, and dangled in the center of her forehead. She had dangling earrings that looked like a bangle of diamonds with a center ruby on each ear. She was also wearing a necklace that had large diamond hoops, with diamond stringers hanging in front at varying lengths to form a “V” in the center of her chest with a ruby at each stringer’s end. Her wrists were adorned with bangle bracelets of silver and jewels.

I started to cry because she was so beautiful and all in our family’s party were gasping at the vision before us. Little Emma tried to run to her, but was caught by my Mom and returned to Liz’s side. A veil of flowers was then placed on each of our heads, and then we were led to the area where the ceremony would take place. Priya and I were positioned about two feet apart with Priya to my left and Adib standing next to her on her left. Mahmoud stood behind Adib and Dad behind me.

The Imam waited until the room was quiet, and then began addressing the crowd, “Since Muslims are aware of the steps and precepts of a Muslim wedding, there’s no need for explanations, but for the benefit and understanding of our non-Muslim guests, I will offer an outline.

“The official Muslim marriage is legalized in two steps: the declaration and the acceptance. Since the bride is a virgin and underage, she cannot make a declaration: it has to be made for her by her guardian, but she must give her acceptance of her dower and consent to be married. Once this is completed, the bride and her guardian, groom and witnesses sign the dower agreement. Once this is done, then the groom, guardian, followed by the two witnesses and the bride will sign the Nikaahnama, which is the document that registers their marriage. After this is completed, then the rest of the ceremony is very much like western weddings. Alright then, let’s begin.”

After a litany of prayers and readings from the Koran, Imam looked at Adib and said, “Today we will witness a solemn pledge between Sean Michaels and Priya Haaseem. I ask you now in the presence of God and this congregation to declare your intent.”

Adib began, “I have given my youngest virgin daughter, Priya Haaseem to Sean Michaels in marriage.”

Imam to Priya, “Do you accept Sean Michaels as your husband with the dower that you have agreed upon?”

Priya replied, “I have accepted and espoused myself to him.”

Imam to me, “Do you accept Priya Haaseem as your wife?”

I replied, “I have accepted her as my wife.”

Priya then stepped forward with her father and Adib and signed her dower/prenuptial agreement. I then signed, the witnesses signed and I returning it folded and in the envelope to her. Then, I signed the Nikaahnama, then Adib, followed by our witnesses, my Dad and Mahmoud and finally by Priya.

Imam said some more readings and the blessing of the rings. He nodded to me, and I took the ring from my dad, and repeated after him:

“Priya, I give you this ring as a symbol of our vows, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you. In the name of God, The Most Gracious, The Most Merciful. With this ring, I thee wed.”

Priya then took my ring from her father and said “Sean, I give you this ring as a symbol of our vows, and with all that I am, and all that I have, I honor you. In the name of God, The Most Gracious, The Most Merciful. With this ring, I thee wed.”

After some more readings, the Imaam finished with, “In as much as you have each pledged to the other your lifelong commitment, love and devotion, I now pronounce you husband and wife, In the name of God, The Most Gracious, The Most Merciful. Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder. God bless you and the congregation”

With that, everyone clapped and cheered. All the guests were separately seated for dinner by sexes. We ate the lavish meal my Mom had so beautifully and expertly planned. After the meal was finished, Priya and I were snatched up by Priya’s women folk and seated on pillows about three feet apart with the Koran placed between us. Priya’s grandmother said “Don’t look directly at her,” she then handed me a mirror and said, “Use only the mirror to view her,” then moved away.

Under the direction of Imam, all the women prayed for us and offered their salaams and we returned their salaams.

We then stood, and Adib took Priya’s hand and placed it in mine, and said, “Son, she is my baby, take good care of her.”

I replied, “I promise, Adib, I promise.”

It is customary, according to the Koran, for the groom to take his bride away after dark. The bride’s mother-in-law is supposed to open the door to her new home and hold the Koran over her head as she passes through the door to begin a new life. The sun had set outside. It wasn’t black out, but considered fit. My mother got into the car in front of our limo and left for home to be waiting.

All the wedding guests followed us out to the car cheering us on as we started a new life. I opened the curbside limo door and let Priya climb in and spread her lavish shirt out then went around to the other side and climbed in. She lifted her veil and I saw my new bride’s face for the first time uncovered. We looked at each other and smiled, but something seemed out of place. She was too subdued.

As I looked in her eyes, they welled up and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She then, without saying a word, looked down. I gently put my hand under her chin and lifted her face to look at me. I leaned down and kissed her small quivering lips. It was a loving and chaste, lingering closed mouth kiss. I said, “What’s wrong my little princess bride?”

She was looking and toying with her rings, twirling them with her henna painted fingers and said, “I’m married… I’m really married and your wife.”

“Yes, Sweetheart, we’re really married. Are you okay?” I asked her softly.

“Father was right: things are forever changed.”

I remembered my father’s words to her and said to her, “Yes, everything has changed. There are verses in the Christian Bible that say, ‘There is a time and a season for everything: a time to cry, a time to laugh, a time to love, and a time to marry.’ It’s our time now to begin a new life… together.”

She said, almost whispering, “I will never go home again and sleep in my bed, or feel the comfort of my own pillow, or say goodnight to Sarah, or to Momma and Papa.”

“Do you want me to get your mother? Do you feel you’ve made a mistake? Are you afraid that it’s not yet your time?”

“No, I haven’t made a mistake. I made a covenant with God and pledged my love, my life, my body and all that I am to you! I love you, my husband, and would die for you and I will die loving you. It’s just that I realize that in order to begin my new life with you as your wife, I must close a door and leave my childhood and family behind. Please don’t be angry with me, or think of me as a foolish child.”

Trying to ease her distress, I softly laughed and said, “But my dear, for all your precociousness you are still a child in more ways than one. I’m not angry, nor am I disappointed in you. I only want you to be happy and look forward to your new life with joy, and hope, knowing that we look to each other for the things we sought from our parents.

“There are things in our hearts we’ve kept from our parents, but we’re soul mates. We’re now one person. When one of us hurts or is sad, the other feels it; when one of us is happy and joyful, the other shares that also. There will always be doors in our lives that we, and only we, with Allah’s help, can choose to open or close. You and I reached one of those points today. I closed the door you’re facing now the moment I first looked into your eyes and I did it with joy.

“Look into your heart, Priya, at the love that Allah has blessed us with and moved you to make the vows you proclaimed to God, to me, and our families. If that love burns true, Allah will still your heart with His peace and if you look deep again in your heart, He will have already closed the door for you.”

Priya then crawled up in my lap, put her arms around me and pressed her tiny mouth to mine. She then relaxed and as her lips parted, I felt her little tongue pressing my lips. When I parted my lips, her tiny mouth opened and I tasted the nectar I’d so desperately desired. She tasted like the sweet, sweet taste of purity and innocence… and yes, the sweetness of pubescent passion.

I became erect with desire and pulled her to me gently. When I swept my tongue under hers, she gave a soft moan and shuddered. She broke the kiss lightly, and pressed forward again swiping her little tongue across my teeth then pulled away. Her face was hot and her cheeks had slightly darkened. She laid her head on my shoulder and said softly, “I love you, Sean. I am yours, but please be patient. Let’s wait a little bit longer. I’ve closed a door, but we must wait. Your mother will open the next door we shall enter together. Please, just hold me”

I held her, stroking her hair and cheek for the remaining minutes of the ride home. I pondered our conversation, her childish wish clinging on to remain a child, if, but for a few moments more.

With the license to have my child bride and indulge myself with her innocence, I knew that I loved her beyond words, but there was more: a need; a deep, dark need. It poked its gnawing head from the closet of my unconscious mind as I remembered watching her and Emma together. Is there a demon lurking within: watching, waiting, searching for a way to consume and destroy me? As I again pushed my gnawing unsettled feeling back into the closet of my unconsciousness, I asked myself. “Is there a Jekyll and Hyde part of me that I’m trying to deny exists?”

All I can think about right now is that I want her. I so desperately need her, and soon, I shall have her.