"Is this someone's attempt at humor?!"
Fury. An emotion Onfroy had only truly felt once before walking along his own wedding aisle that morning; or well, what should have been a wedding aisle. Now decorated with broken, soil and feces-splattered wooden chairs, turned over tables and shattered glasses rather intricately placed so to depict pentagrams above the painted word, "WITCH".
But of course, what's a wedding with gifts only tailored to the bride? For the groom, so not to have felt left out, a wonderfully crafted, rather pricey black box sat where he should have taken his vows; his perfect-sized coffin served as a vow in his place… "Here lies husband number seven Eight. Killed by the witch's curse."
"I need… a drink." With each glass-shattering step towards the wine fountain, Onfroy couldn't help but wonder… Wonder what sort of evil would drive villagers to this point. What sort of evil would do this? He didn't believe in curses and ironically, God knows he couldn't bring himself to believe in that devil fellow his mother warned him of; childish explanations for the unknown he'd already rebuked at the ripe age of eight, when he'd lost his temper for the first time; when he'd witnessed his parents stuffing his uncle's body in a-
"Wha-" Onfroy viciously spat out the drink, coughing and gagging all the while; not that the wine was bad; its winemaker had perfectly vinified it. But perfect as it was, the wine had never arrived at the wedding, that or it'd already run dry by whomever swapped it for-
"…Bloo-" He struggled to lift even a sentence off of his tongue. Rage, disgust, the constant gagging and coughing all weighed his mouth shut. Stumbling back onto a damaged, feces-seared wooden chair, Onfroy glared at the wine fountain in utter disbelief; he didn't need a seer to tell him what he'd served himself a cup of; the neatly placed, severed swine head beside the four-foot fountain had given it away, and only God knows he didn't want to know why the nostalgic scent of an alley behind bars came from the cup… God knows, he knew. God… God… The heavy word wouldn't come off of his tongue. Fine. He had another word, a lighter word, just as fit for the wedding; no, for the funeral.
"Fucking Devils." Two words, actually. He couldn't help but laugh, tears and all, seeing as his mother would have been proud to see her boy, now made a true believer, overnight seemingly.