Made for Each Other

Prompt Day #321: Violate a bridal fashion store.

Made for Each Other

 

They take me to the shop, tell me I need to have the appropriate dress. I just follow along. Everything is so fuzzy at first and I can’t think straight. I have no memory, I am not even sure who I am or how I ended up in that place. There I was all of a sudden and I recognized no one.

They said my name was Eve and I was about to be married. They said my groom was eagerly awaiting. I needed to find a dress. The shop is filled with perfect women, smiling, giddy with love. I wonder how it feels and I wonder if I once felt that way too. I curse the accident or whatever had happened to put me in such a state. Couldn’t the wedding be postponed, I ask. Perhaps if I saw my beloved, it would trigger a memory and all would be well. No time. No time to waste they say.

Everything inside is white, sparkles, and pearls. Innocence, life, new beginnings. Maybe I do belong here. Everything is new to me now too. The looks on the women’s faces tell me otherwise. The lace and rhinestones can’t make up for the ugliness in their eyes, the smooth satin contrasts the sneers on their perfectly pink lips. No, I do not belong here after all.

A woman with flat lips pressed tight beneath her teeth rushes over. How can I help she asks but what she means is; what can I do to make you leave here? They tell her I am to be married, that I need a dress. She regards me in disbelief. I do not look like a bride. Perhaps she has nothing so splendid as to cover my faults. Instead she turns and scurries down a hallway lined with garment bags.

Meanwhile I watch the other girls spin in the giant mirrors. Their smiles shine with reflections of beaded artistry making them that much more beautiful. I tell them I want a dress with lots of sparkles and shine. They tell me no. They say my groom would not like that. You want him to be happy, don’t you? They ask, but they aren’t really asking me, they are warning me, daring me to argue. I don’t.

The woman returns, heavy bags draped over her small frame, wearing her down. She drops them on the ottoman in front of me. I have no idea how to begin to guess what size she is, she says not to me, she speaks to them as if I am not even here, as if I am not real. They nod and begin to unzip the bags. One by one, they hold the dresses up to me and frown. The last one is big and plain like a table cloth. Can you fit this to her, they ask the woman. She squints at me and huffs. I’ll do what I can. She says and grabs me by the arm. I follow her back, back to wear the façade of perfection ends and reality returns. A simple warehouse of browns and stainless steel. She points to an overturned crate. Stand up on that she says. I obey.

After what feels like forever, my arms shaking, held out from my sides, pins placed all around me like a sharp chalk outline, she stands back and walks in a circle. It’s the best I can do she says. And tells me to go look in the mirror. I step down cautious not to impale myself a million times in one movement. There are more white queens standing at the mirror and I wait my turn. Their eyes catch mine as they spin this way and that. I see the horror and shock, the confusion as their eyes adjust to the contrast of me. I don’t remember what I once looked like, but I suspect that things have changed since then anyways. I think that even if I still had my memory, what I was about to see would still be a shock. It is my turn and I step up to the mirror.

My God, what has been done to me? I am a road map of scars. I am a mismatched monster. My hands, I finally look, really look at them, are not from the same body. One arm is longer and one heavier than the other. Where a necklace would lay, there is instead a train track encircling my neck, blue sutures like sapphire jewels glow against the bloodless flesh beneath. My hair stands on ends, dried and frizzled from the jolt of electricity that reminded my heart how to beat. My heart? Was it mine? Had it always lived behind the bones of this rib cage?

I’m a monster! I cry and they stare. They stare because this is something they’ve known much longer than I. They observe me as I come to the realization that my groom, the one I was made for, is the same as me. No, No, No! I say and I smash my hands against the mirrors. They crack at first, distorting every reflection into freakish versions of what they once were. And then the glass falls and I grab a hand sized piece. It cuts into my palm but what’s one more scar?

I slash. First I slash at the ones who made me. I cut and I bruise and I make them into monsters too. The girls in white are next. I don’t like white, I like red and black and blue. I don’t even feel the pins as they give up the fabric and find my flesh. I am in a rage. There will be no wedding, not for me or anyone else in this place. I knock over furniture and break vases filled with flowers and I grab the flowers up and rip them apart. Petals intermingle on the floor each one once so pretty now part of an ugly mismatched whole.

The candles go next and their flames leap onto the silks and satins in an effort to survive. They climb high above and away from me. Each brilliant bead reflects its light giving the illusion of Hell. My groom would not like this at all. No. He does not like fire, he would not want to see all the tiny little sparks reflected in the pretty beads that might, for one small moment in time, make me feel pretty too. The screams are dying down now, and I step into the fire from whence I came.

 

 

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