Chapter 12: Something Borrowed, Something Cursed

7:00 a.m. – Pop.

You wake up with your hand in hair.

Not the casual, soft kind of hair you idly touch when life’s going okay. This is weaponized hair — stiff with product, heavy with pins, arranged by a person who once cried in cosmetology school because their updo collapsed mid-exam.

You blink.

There’s a woman in front of you.

White dress. Full face of makeup. Veil.

She is staring at you like you’ve just crawled out from under the bed.

You both scream.

It’s a duet of raw panic: hers loud and piercing, yours low and hopeless, like a dying goat.

She grabs your wrist with both hands and yanks. Your fused skin doesn’t budge.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” she shrieks.

You clear your throat. “Okay. So. I can explain.”

“You’re touching my head. Why are you touching my head?!”

You do the whole spiel: genie, wish, monkey’s paw, magical punishment.

She stares at you, trembling. Then says, in a tone that suggests she’s actively calculating **** versus jail time:

“If you ruin this for me, I will ruin you.”

8:30 a.m. – Hair & Makeup

You are now in a salon.

It is exactly as humiliating as you’d expect: standing behind a bride as a squad of frantic women in matching satin robes try to redo her hair around your hand like you’re some kind of deeply upsetting accessory.

“Is… is this part of the ceremony?” one stylist asks, eyes darting between you and the bride.

“No,” the bride hisses. “It’s a curse.”

“Oh,” the stylist says, as if that clarifies everything.

At one point you accidentally brush her ear with your thumb. She spins, eyes wild.

“DO. NOT. MOVE.”

You stare into the mirror and whisper: “I wish I was dead.”

10:00 a.m. – The Groom

His name is Kyle. Of course it is.

Kyle looks like he sells luxury condos and supplements in the same breath.

When he sees you — attached to his fiancée’s head like some horrifying growth — his face goes red.

“WHAT THE F—WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

You try: “It’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’re palming my wife’s skull like a basketball!”

“Technically fiancée,” you say.

He lunges. The bride shoves him back. “If you mess this up, Kyle, I swear to God—”

“Mess this up?!” he roars. “He’s literally on you!”

“Do you think I want this?!”

You try to help. “I don’t want this either.”

They both turn and scream in unison: “SHUT UP.”

1:00 p.m. – Ceremony

You are now part of the wedding party. Against your will.

Every photo will feature you standing directly behind the bride, hand glued to her scalp like you’re posing for the world’s worst engagement announcement.

When the priest says, “If anyone objects,” Kyle stares at you like a predator.

You do not object.

3:00 p.m. – Reception

There is no corner dark enough to hide in when you’re fused to the bride’s head.

Everyone wants to know who you are. The bride lies through gritted teeth: “He’s… a family friend.”

A drunk uncle slaps you on the back. “Bold move, son. Weird, but bold.”

Kyle downs tequila like water. You can feel his hate radiating across the room like a space heater set to “kill.”

6:00 p.m. – The Dance

First dance.

You don’t know where to look.

You don’t know where to put your free hand.

At one point the bride hisses, “Stop stepping on my train.”

You want to tell her you’re busy processing your public execution scheduled for later tonight.

10:30 p.m. – Consummation

The genie’s clause kicks in. The night cannot be skipped.

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the floor while Kyle argues with God in the bathroom.

The bride sighs. “Let’s just… get this over with.”

You put your hand over your eyes. Which doesn’t help. Your other hand is still glued to her skull.

You mentally detach from your body. You live in the ceiling now. The ceiling has no feelings.

7:00 a.m. – Pop.

You wake up alone.

She’s gone.

Your hand smells like hairspray and despair.

You stare at the ceiling.

“Genie,” you say softly, “I hope you die in a fire.”

The ceiling does not respond.