The Fashion Victim

Stitch..., stitch..., the thick curvy needle dove into the leather in a swift motion and the two flaps united in a perfect seam. Monsieur R. looked up, his face suddenly moved by a strange emotion; sentimentalism, nostalgia, fondness, perhaps all of these, merged into one. In his mind's eye, he could see Valentina smiling at him with that strange equine smile of hers, gauche but somehow charming and her eyes sparkling with some inner glee. All things considered, he thought, he might have loved Valentina, but with something of a brotherly breed, innocent and surely platonic.
The beige thread made its sinuous way through the leather, shaping it into a most exquisite corset. For this time only, he had wanted to use true whale bones, the way corsets had been built in bygone days as opposed to the nylon replacement of later decades.
The boots were already standing by the mannequin, thigh high creations of creamy smoothness with their curious rear lacing and hooks and grommets not normally used in fashion design but rather in body-piercing parlors. The hot pants were taped to the fiber glass hips of the mannequin with the embroidery of a heart on one of the rear pockets. But not the stylized heart of cartoons and lovers, instead, the beautifully accomplished stitched representation of the organ itself, its blood red hue, in contrast with the pale beige of the leather. The long opera gloves rested on the display table nearby, stuffed with silk paper to shape them perfectly. Next to them lay a glass jewelry box with several items such as gem rings and bracelets which he meant to decorate the gloves with, when the outfit was entirely completed.

* * *

The first time Monsieur R. saw Valentina, he had been in awe of her porcelain-like complexion and her onyx hair that cascaded in thick locks over her shoulders and breasts. She was not by any means beautiful with a face a little too long, a graceless nose and large lips, though her eyes were quite enticing. She was a tall girl, a little clumsy with a boyish gait, thin-limbed and the classic pear-shaped body of these females destined to breed robust children, but of the still thin variety. She had applied for the position of in-house model for fittings and had been instantly hired, along with a few other girls. Height was a prerequisite for the job as well as thinness, but facial features were completely irrelevant.
Monsieur R. had been instantly fascinated by her because she fulfilled a strange longing which he had never been able to quite explore. She had a childlike mind, a little more than a simpleton and from their initial meeting, she had placed her entire trust in him. She was completely smitten by him. Willing from the start to indulge him in platonic companionship, though she might have dreamt of a little more. He had easily convinced her of the necessity to keep their relationship secret so as not to cause any disturbance in the harmony of the atelier where he was seen as a minor deity by most of his staff.
She was aware of his interest in her and perhaps she thought that he was taking his time to appraise her justly or that he might be old-fashioned, a anachronism from a conservative and obsolete era. She allowed him to lead her in his deliberate dance of mysterious rendez-vous and late night dates.
Right from the start, Monsieur R. had encouraged her to attend to her personal beauty. He had bought her the most luxurious lotions, creams, buffing stones and brushes, scented, natural soaps and oils, sugar scrubs, salt polish, loofahs, and velvety towels, all sorts of exfoliating pastes and emollient, hydrating balms. Slowly, he had accustomed her to his patient ministrations which she accepted as the symptoms of an untold worship.
She adored him as though he was the essence of her adolescence's dreams. His lovely boyish face with almond eyes, a decisive nose and full sensuous lips, long blond curls of soft hair and the gaze of a doe. He was thin and perfectly shaped and he gave the impression of intense focus turned inward, into a wondrous world of his own making that others could only wish to get a glance of, perchance, if he ever deigned to reveal it.
When he spoke to Valentina, he never looked at her face but rather focused at her figure; her long arms, her legs, her gentle hands and most of all, he loved to stare at the peculiar insect tattoo on her mid-drift. He spoke softly, searching for perfect words which he would turn into beautiful mantras that enthralled her. He would envelop her of his green gaze and make her feel safe and..., loved.
It is true that in some peculiar way, he did love her. Though one could hardly find any notion of romance in his passion. Rather, it was fueled by the cold fire of pure esthetics, for his eyes could only see with his mind but not with his heart.
The affair had lasted barely a few weeks when, on a balmy night, he killed her. Softly, gently even, while she was asleep, with one tiny droplet of air injected into her vein. She hadn't even awakened and there was a lovely smile on her lips.
Then, delicately and most precisely, he had cut her limbs and head and carefully peeled the entire skin off her body. He had incinerated the rest in the furnace of his remote country house and buried whatever little else remained.
Then, patiently, he had scraped the last fibers off the skin with sharpened razor blades, pinned the various parts to wood planks and caressed oil and tanning lotions into them. Timelessly, he had applied layer after layer of oil to render the texture more perfect. While he concentrated on his task, he could visualize the girl as she had been when he had attended to her beauty treatments and it was now almost the same except that no flesh or muscle could alter the flawlessness of her skin. It was now absolutely perfect and taunt and somehow much more alive in his eyes than when it had covered her body.

* * *

Monsieur R. had become a famous fashion designer upon the initial shock wave his first full blown collection had induced in the media. Single-handedly, he had merged the classic severity of fetish-wear with elegantly feminine garments. His models wore frightening abstract masks, their hair transformed into sculptures that crowned lengthy bodies garbed in seemingly dangerous fabrics and designs while perched on tall stilettos, with thin legs sheathed in rubber stockings.
It was as though his women were beautifully and mysteriously deadly, the fatal Venus Flytraps of femininity, delicate but so exceedingly powerful in some occult manner that most men would never grasp and only shrink from, while being thoroughly fascinated.
For a while, he had loved the smooth consistency of rubber clinging to their limbs because he could not abide the texture, often flabby or blotchy, of natural skin. Until that is, he had met Valentina. She had been his epiphany of sort, a revelation unnoticed by his entourage. One moment he cast a glance in her direction and the next he could not look away or think of anything besides her skin. It was a strange moment when he knew that the only way his life could go on was to own that very skin all to himself.
But he did not care about the girl, about her liveliness so to speak. In his mind, anything that was not the precious envelope was gross matter to be cast away.
There had been no ethical questions of murder as he had cleverly convinced himself that art mattered more than a life as insignificant and mediocre as hers. There had been no guilt either, but an intense satisfaction, a sense of achievement as one feels when one has reaped his due reward.
The tanning process had taken him weeks, firstly because he had never done it before and had needed to educate himself thoroughly on the subject, and secondly because he had wanted to do a perfect job of it. Once that was done, he had sat at his easel, painstakingly striving to design what would do justice to the perfection of the material. He was well aware that this was his only chance at such a creation and he wanted to surpass himself.
He had kept the making of the corset for last because of his fascination with the insect tattoo that promised to make it a masterpiece. Night after night, away from inquisitive eyes, he tolled at his creation while speaking to Valentina's skin as though it was the girl herself, paying rapt attention to his every word.
Singularly, he could not find any difference because he had never really talked to the living being she once was. Neither had he ever touched a person while he was rubbing her body with lotion but only a shapely epidermis.
The insect tattoo was a shiny green and gold scarab which Monsieur R. had enhanced with special ink to make its tone more vibrant and shimmering. It stood out on the right side of the waist, a tiny bejeweled creature to which he had added onyx colored rhinestones in the place of the eyes. He had accentuated its perspective so that the insect looked more alive and almost about to crawl further up toward the breast.
He had also concealed the holes left by the nipples with gold leaf applied in a thick layer over some animal patch of leather.
Once finished, the whole thing was beautiful.
He had dressed his mannequin with it and adorned it with various jewels and was now in awe of his achievement. He kept it in his flat which was notoriously out of bound for family, friends and staff alike and everyone knew better than to try to invade his sacrosanct retreat. It had made it easy for him to conceal Valentina alive and then dead from everyone's knowledge.
At first, he had been so pleased with himself, happy to be the sole keeper of his secret but, as time passed, he longed to share his vision with the world, to reap universal acclaim for his originality and talent which he now felt could only be seen with this very piece.
He was able to hold out for quite some time but ambition and pride got the better of him and conspired to the collapse of his carelessly built empire of fame and trend.
On a fateful morning, unable to keep his lips sealed any longer, he transported the dressed mannequin to his atelier and exposed it in the midst of his latest collection.
And, to his stunned puzzlement, what greeted him were not applause and exclamations of wonder, but horrified screams of terror and disgust. All eyes were glued to the green golden scarab which all had recognized from seeing Valentina practically naked during fittings.

* * *

Monsieur R. was taken away to a quiet establishment where he is still unable to perceive the solid bars that seal the windows from the world and where he is given imaginary needles and thread to sew strange garments and wondrous fashion designs of invisible gossamer which he only can touch, and of course..., lots of medications.