Alison and Lorna: Jilted Bridesmaids

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True to Haroun's prediction, Lorna does indeed attempt murder. Alison barely escapes with her life.



She was going to die.

There was no doubt about it, really. The one, single look of purely murderous intent had said it all and Alison had turned around to start running for her life on the very spot, not even considering any other option as even remotely viable.

Hell, even running wouldn't do it.

She was very, very dead.

"You. Got. Married." Each word was precisely framed and bitten off, spoken so softly that they were almost hard to hear. Of course, so perfectly pronounced were they--giving the illusion of total control--that lip reading was a simple task if one that filled the intended audience with certain dread. A nail file probably shouldn't have looked so dagger-like or conjured up such vivid images of mutilation but then, this was no ordinary conversation. Green eyes narrowed dangerously, "Tell me I'm wrong."

Saying she was wrong would not doubt save her life. But, there was the matter of the additional ring, the still very present desire to giggle madly at the whole "being married, yep!" deal and the fact that Alison's vocal cords had taken a trip out of the mansion when most needed...

"Eep?"

"You wench!" Lorna flung herself out of her chair and tackled her best friend, not a single muscle having telegraphed the move beforehand. Someone had been training. "I can't believe you got married! What happened to my wedding plans? My cake? My hors d'ouerves. MY DRESS!"

"Oof." Alison braced herself for impact and still ended up stumbling backwards, taking Lorna down with her as she cushioned -not quite voluntarily - the fall. "Er. Erm. I saved you the trouble and now it can be all about the reception for everyone and you can cook everything and boss all the help around?" she offered, a gleam of hope for survival shining bringhtly in her eyes. A tentative squirm went to show that there would be no getting away from the tackle, and Alison obediently went still again.

Lorna glared. "You got married and didn't tell me until after!" she said indignantly poking the blonde in her side. "I can't have a proper wedding reception without a wedding! And what about the photographer! Did you even have a photographer? Who were your witnesses, Elvis and Wayne Newton?" Clearly Lorna's sense of propriety had been outraged.

"Not ticklish!" Alison almost, almost poked Lorna back in the side, then decided - wisely so - to keep that as a last resort. That and the open window nearby she could jump out of in her bid for escapedom. "...erm. Funny you'd ask that. It was a good Elvis costume, too..." Alison said a bit wistfully, forgetting about her impending death for a brief moment.

"That's why I poked you instead of tickling you! I know you're not ticklish! I'm your best friend after all. You know, the one who was supposed to be in your wedding that you were supposed to be planning with your best friend's help and input so that she could properly show you how happy she was for you? Remember?" Lorna rolled away and sat cross-legged on the floor, pouting.

"It just happened!" Alison protested, scrambling after Lorna to flop down nearby, head in her lap while doing her best to look endearingly cute. "We were all stressed and worried and the wedding plans were just horrible and not working and then well... Elvis! Stroke of genius! So we went with it!"

"Not stroke of genius! No! Calling your best friend so that she wouldn't miss your wedding? THAT would have been a stroke of genius." It wasn't a very far stretch to the sofa to grab a pillow and whip it back to smack Alison in the chest with it. "Meanie!"

"Ooof!" She was going to get a beating, yes - but she would live! To enjoy her marriage! This was good! Alison sculpted her face into an appropriately woeful and contrite look - which really wasn't that hard, truth be told - and nodded obediently. "I know. I'm bad bad bad. I'm sorry? You can organize the whole reception for the mansion if you want?"

"Hmph!" Lorna expressed emphatically and whapped her with the pillow again. "Just be glad that I don't leak this news to the tabloids and insinuate that you're carrying Elvis's baby. I can do it you know. I have strange and mystical powers." The talk of a reception mollified her slightly. At least she could still make fancy cakes. And embarrassing speeches. So very many embarrassing speeches. She laughed just a touch evilly.

"Yes, you do." The assent was meek and a bit worried, what with the evil cackling, but Alison still figured being alive now was good and she could always try running later. Or something. "Am I off the hook now that you get to plan the whole reception?" she asked, batting her eyes as cutely as possible while never fending off a single pillow whap.

"Not a chance. I get to hold this over you for years and years and years." Embarrassing speeches. Oooh, and photos. She knew she could find embarrassing photos. Maybe from the early years of Alison's pop phase. "But you're spared for now. Now get up. I have to go beat your husband for cutting me out of this too. The rat bastard."

"Husband." Alison literally purred the word out at that, smiling in one of those endlessly stupid ways only the newly married could achieve. "Okay. Let's go find him."

Hey, she'd survived after all. Haroun would as well.