Clothing you will Die For

I stepped gingerly into the main foyer. I had to adopt this kind of personality, it was a given at this kind of place. You had to fit in, or ship out, or something to that effect. I told myself that, at any rate, something to keep the mind occupied.

The lights were unglamorous, kind of ironic (in the real sense) in this overdressed room twice the size of my house. They forced the shadows out, not too kindly, and underlined everything on my face.

Presently, I was melting onto my partner’s forearm. Not less than once did I notice him later wiping his arm with a soggy handkerchief. I smiled a tightly held grin, trying to intimate a range of dot points within the one gesture: won’t be much longer; I’m really, really hot here; I promise I won’t leave you alone; what was the ‘help’ signal again?

Loud music blared through the surrounding wall speakers, over 140bpm. Distinctly chosen, surely, to raise the pulse. I insisted privately on walking slower to counteract the effects. He flinched ever so slightly. It must have been getting to him, too.

I finally sat down, placing my carry-ons under my chair, smoothing my skirts, and finally stopping. It was an eerie moment of limbo – I felt the detachment of activity sinking in to my pointy shoes. It went away quickly.

The music changed pace, and lighting – direction, as the time clicked over to the opening hours. Every pair of eyes pointed in the same direction – the soft red curtains winching back to reveal a shiny, black wall. Emblazoned in the symmetrical centre was the brand name “System Down”. Tentative oohs lilted from the audience. It had begun.

A voice demanded attention – crackling over the bright air. “Welcome. Your VIP status has been confirmed, and you are on your way to gaining a step into your new life…” (metaphorical if I ever heard it)
A low volume chatter crinkled through faces and hair flicking this way and that. I turned and made a smart comment. Not really the time, but I felt the urge.
The commentator continued, “… please stay in your seats for the following presentation…”

The music cranked up again, massive bass notes zooming through the floor and my pointy shoes. Tall and gangly women and men pranced out onto the walkway, quickly accepted by the customers with whoops of appreciation.

It was clear that all were in agreeance of the items before. Glorious items of clothing that were set for the best kinds of people – us. There was a clear sense of community in the room, we were selfish, yet, all together in this. All VIP’s, all important.

I chose the long red crinoline, a gorgeous number, with long sweeping sleeves and even a train! They provided special sparkly red shoes to match. Somewhat reminded me of Dorothy. He chose a neat suit, a blend so that it would breathe, with a matching cummerbund. I felt touched by this.

It was nearing the end. The MC glossed over some painfully personal shows, in which I couldn’t help but drop a tear. I was getting more upset as the evening progressed. I allowed myself at least that. We couldn’t even look outside for the last time, the air was… well, there was no point dwelling.

We were given far too much time to put on our new items. Of course, they fit perfectly. It was all perfect, really. I stood around, trying different resting angles on my new shiny red shoes. I was trying not to look bored, though.

Time was up, and we both went to our specially selected personal room. I was breathless from holding in my sadness. He smiled, such a generous smile, and leaned over and embraced me. I could hear it outside, hitting, such a loud boom. The whole room shook, like a crumbling building falling over itself. The gas seeped in. And that was -

Clothing you will Die For

Michelle Smith

Joined April 2007

  • Artist

Artist's Description

What would you do for the perfect item?

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