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.

What Kind of Breeze Do You Blow?

Tonight, I danced in the street, the pavement wet with new rain and clicking delightfully under my heavy soles. I spun and the world became a blur, familiar and somehow very distant though it was all around me. I'm dizzy now, the dull ache in my head creating an annoying reminder of last nights' drinking habits. I think about how I haven't smoked all day, save for one painful cigarette before I left his place; the first of the day, the one that is torturous after a night of heavy drinking and chain smoking, but an unfortunate five minutes of discomfort in order to get on with the rest of them.

I am sluggish and cold, puffing on my Marlboro. I'm not even paying attention to where I ash, as I found out later that my arm got the most of it. I am deep in thought, headphones cranked high, feet tapping and body swaying slightly to the beat all while I wait for the bus. Fuck Portland, sometimes it's too cold and it stinks in it's cleanliness. I smell the slow decomposition of lost souls becoming comfortable in their routines and slowly dieing blind, without ambition or desire for anything more in their lives than painlessness and mundane convenience. Those types of thoughts are crushing and depressing for me so I choose not to dwell and instead focus on the blurry headlights meandering in the distance or an occasional animal that scurries across the street.

Before I know it, as I am lost in my own mind, the bus arrives and I board. It's a bit steamy inside, not quite full, and it's nearly silent. I watch a man with three large shopping bags piled around him begin to nod off to sleep as soon as the bus begins to roll again. Sitting there, watching him, I feel an intense wave of fatigue sink into me and I am suddenly saturated in it's muck and mire. Oh goddamn it, I think to myself, this is gonna be a long journey home.

In all actuality, it wasn't. My mind made it so much longer because there is so much to think about these days. I am fucked up, really fucked up, and the more I admit this to myself the easier I'm finding it to release these feelings. One day I'm gonna cry about it, I keep repeating this sarcastically to my cat or the plate of food in front of me or in the mirror before I go to a clients house. One day I'm gonna cry so hard I can't breathe and I will melt into the floor and cease to exist.

Hush and Be Still

I was told that returning to the place that you are from is a bad idea, and since returning I have been inclined to agree with that piece of sensibility. While things have changed, the people have not and that is where the majority of my disappointment has come from. Perhaps, within personal perspective, things have not changed so much here as I have changed. I am far from the person I was when I left this city and I am grateful.

It's so strange to see people completely content to stand in the rain while waiting for a bus or taxi. While before I moved it would not have even phased me, as I sit in the Powell's Bookstore cafe I become amazed at myself and those others getting wet. I am amazed at their seeming oblivion to rain, and my shock to it. I am from here, I should understand, I think. I'm going to cut out the fluff-- it's unnecessary.

I'm reading Precious. It's a trite piece of uninspiring inner-city preggo-girl literature, but I find it amusing so I keep reading. Easy read, except when she says shit like 'I ain't neva ax muver fo nothin. she git welfare for MY chile!' What is that? It's like reading A Million Little Pieces, but in Ebonics. Meh.

Suddenly he's there, sitting across from me. Just like that. A little late, as warned, but right there. Oh, good! I put Precious down and he smiles. Brilliant teeth, love those teeth.

Hey, hi, small talk. Let's fast forward through the shitty-shit now-- We are at Wimpy's. I like this bar, I think he likes it, too; he requested it in his polite and non-aggressive way. Service is bad in here tonight, though. What the fuck? Who is the loud-mouthed twenty-something hipster bitch behind the bar? Never seen her before. She's wearing a shiny vintage sweater with the sleeves hiked up to her elbows and a pair of white horn-rimmed glasses. Mean bitch eyes glaring at me from behind those glasses. I don't like her accusing glares disguised as non-impressed and careless. I know she'd rather continue serving Pabst to the four people sitting at the bar, chit-chatting her and carrying on while watching the TV mounted above the bar. She knows them, doesn't know us, would rather we piss off.

Of course, I don't piss off. I never piss off, really, especially when I feel confronted. I push back, so we sat and talked for ten minutes or so until it became obvious that Bitch Bartender wasn't going to serve us shit unless we walked up to her and asked for it. Hmph! Fine.

"I.D.'s please,"

...

"'Kay, what you gonna have?"

We order Gin and Tonics, sit down and begin our discussions. Pleasant talk. Intelligent talk. I love talking to him; I enjoyed it the first time we got together. I make him laugh as much as I can because I like to see that piano-key smile and his laugh is disarming and I feel like engaging and impressing so I go for it. I'm a natural comic so this is good, easy. I feel good.

Bitch Bartender talks loud and her patrons/friends' conversations cut through ours at times. He speaks quietly, so I strain to hear him. I wish it was like before when there were only a few people in the bar and there was no horn-rimmed glasses hipster Bar Bitch to neglect us and let the tumbler glasses accumulate on the table like a pile of guilt. When we step out to have a cigarette we stand underneath my jacket and smoke. He shivers against me sometimes and I like it.

While we are out people put more glasses on our table as they leave. My jacket and bag are still in the booth, though perhaps not visible due to the poor lighting. Whatever. I'm creating my own magic tonight so I will let the little things go, I say to myself, in my head.

More drinks. I'm not drunk even though I didn't have anything to eat all day except for a little bag of gummy bears. I know it must be the bartender, or perhaps I'm alighting on something more mentally powerful than the booze and I neglect to get intoxicated by it. Well, maybe other Long Island Iced Tea will do it. It only hurts my liver to try.


"How about you get the wine, and I'll get the smokes," I say as we peruse the wine isles of a convenient store. Done deal. Paid, out the door and in search of a cab. I get us a cab because my iPhone knows all and the Radio Cab lady knows who I am due to the various corners I call her from. I laugh at this, in spite of myself. Getting picked up on corners? Irony! I laugh in spite of myself because it's funny and I'm funny and this feels good.

Soon we are at his house and in his room and I like it. Books, everywhere. Scattered on the floor, in bags, boxes, shoved into cavities along the wall and on top of various surfaces. I can smell their ages. We pour wine, drink from mismatched glasses and talk and talk and talk. I feel the wine a bit, but not as much as I usually would and we talk some more. So much talking-- more than I've talked in a very long time and I am comfortable and so I let go. I let go quickly and effortlessly and he listens to me as my lips for words of explanation and sorrow and depression and pure emotion. There are times when I feel that I should stop myself, to protect myself from something that could easily hurt me now. But, when I think of stopping and closing up a wave of depression swells in me and I know I must continue, so I do. The good, the bad, my past, present and future. I ask questions at times, but it's mostly me and he listens. I try to look at the concrete floor with the books, the shelves with the books, the chair with the books and not meet his gaze because he smiles and I get soft and watery, my tongue begins to melt and I want to tell him everything so I chance an occasional gaze when I need courage. I am opening more to him than I have to anybody else in my life. It is a little exhausting but I am getting wild with the wine and a love that is hatching in me.

He told me that in antiquity people would describe their emotions as being held in their core, their stomach and bowels, but I feel it in that slow pulsing behind my eyes and in the nerves of my skin and my scalp tingles now because of it. I want to touch him and I tell him so. I tell him that he is precious to me and I feel a bit undeserving and he dissuades me with his genuine grin and reaches out, takes my hand and begins to feel me. I burn and look at his fingers tracing paths along my veins and his alabaster skin against my peach-colored pink-fringed hue. I start to cry a little because he is touching me so gently and with great care. I feel precious and laden with emotion. I am also crying because I am loving for all the right reasons and I feel he is loving me too.

I close my eyes and minutes, hours, eons pass. There is nakedness on the couch, tender kisses and exploring ligaments. There is nakedness in the bed. Smiles, laughing. I want to play piano on his teeth, those gorgeous teeth. Little sighs and laughs, every emotion I've ever managed to feel sweeps over me and morning comes and goes, and in the afternoon I awaken to painlessness for the first time in a very long time.

It's late now as I write this and I desperately want to go back to those feelings that are more powerful than any drug, but I must wait a few more hours. Until then, while the apartment is silent and I am alone with my own thoughts and the cats' purring I put my face in my hands and tell myself to hush, and be still.