Page 83 of Razors & Ruin

Sweeney is pure class in his pinstriped trousers and burgundy paisley waistcoat, with the black silk tailcoat pulling the whole ensemble together perfectly. His top hat is new, and his cravat is folded neatly.

He looks incredibly handsome, but as an outfit, I hate it. It makes him look like a person, someone who has morals and decency.

I’ll concede that he looks the part—every inch a man of stature, one of London’s fine and proper gentlemen.

But the illusion only holds from afar. Up close, his eyes betray him—dark and predatory, scanning, always hungry forsomething.

If clothes were a reflection of the man, he’d be swathed in a cloak woven from sinew and dyed with blood, billowing around him like a death shroud, but that would be a bit much for a wedding.

I gulp down an inappropriate snigger, and Sweeney smiles at me as the priest approaches the altar.

“What’s funny, treacle?” he whispers.

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m off my rocker.”

“Well, fuck me, my love. Is that what it’ll take?”

His voice has a playful lilt, and I love to hear it. “And here I was, convinced of the veracity of your sound mental health, unperturbed by thoughts of your insanity even as you murdered sluts and rode me like a?—”

“Shhh!” I say, stifling a laugh.

The cleric stops before us and faces the non-existent congregation, preparing to embark on the time-honored ritual that will bind us by law for all to see.

Not that we need to be married to be irreversibly joined. He’s part of me, mixed in, blended, rolled, and baked together.

The priest somberly reminds us that God sees all and knows the secrets of our hearts. If that’s true, it’s generous of Him to allow this cursed union to be enacted under His roof.

The Lord could drop this vaulted ceiling on our heads right now and end our dynasty of death, but He does not. This leaves only two possibilities; He can’t or He won’t.

So, is God’s omnipotence enough to crush a great evil via His divine intervention? He’s shown up for less.

So where the fuckisHis Almighty Beardness? He could strike us down here and now; there’d be some juicy irony to it.

Maybe our love is made from something too strong, too true for God to destroy. Yeah, that’s it. The only other option is that He prefers to leave us be, which doesn’t say much about the state of humanity.

I suspect He’s the deity of the oldest tradition, the one who got all rough with the fire and brimstone.

No wonder He tolerates us; Sweeney and I have both in spades and aren’t afraid to get our hands dirty.

“Do you take this man to be your husband?” the priest asks.

“I do.”

“And do you, Sweeney Todd, take this woman as your wife?”

He grins at me. “Absolutely.”

“Then I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Sweeney sweeps me into his arms. The name isn’t really his, and he’s barely a man at all, but it’s good enough for me.

As his lips crush mine, I feel the weight of it; the final step that locks us together in ways no one else can touch.

What matters is the meaning behind it, and I know for sure—my man is all in.

We have no wedding breakfast, and I leave my bouquet in the shocked hands of the organist. I don’t need it; besides, everything at our place ends up dead, flowers included.

The new sign is finally up at the shop, gleaming in bright brass letters.

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