Fashion is one of the oldest facets of society; It's been used to show wealth, express emotion, and define culture, and that fact remains today. Perhaps I'm a bit biased since it's the heart of my career, but I can't think of something more engaging and timeless than a well-designed dress or piece of jewelry. To that point, I, Julia Medici, created my fashion house at 16 in my parents' basement. They weren't the most pleased their daughter with near-perfect test scores had a dream they deemed so frivolous, but when my first commission for fashion week came at 18, they finally saw the importance of my expression.
My business exploded after college. Every magazine wanted to interview me, and models were lined out the door for a spot in my shows. I was coveted, lusted after even, and it felt fantastic. I crafted a new line every few months with no rest (Except for my weekly companions), and I was happy. After all, don't we all wish to be remembered as visionaries in one way or another? Held in regard next to Gods?
Everything was going perfectly. For decades, even my worst designs were given rave reviews. Then that little bitch popped up on the runway: Susan Matarazzo. Silk had been out of style for years but one gown with just the right slit and suddenly every critic and journalist called her a star. She became an icon overnight, and at first it didn't matter to me. I still had a loyal base, and she had hers. I didn't notice the calls slowing down, my spot-on fashion week getting pushed farther and farther back. I even have a hunch that whore stole a few of my favorite playmates. Perhaps I made a slight misstep when I confronted her at a party about poaching my models... still, there was no need for the guards to throw me on the street the way they did. When I was starting out, waving a butter knife around with a few threats was perfectly normal. The current mindset of the public did not agree.
Orders became so few and far that I had to sell my warehouses and donate most of my stock to keep the lights on. My seamstresses and assistants either joined other houses or were fired during my more unsavory bouts. It finally got to the point where I was left with one little boutique on a corner in New York. I was lost in the crowd... my Godhood was gone. Still, I had discovered a new way to make ends meet, but I wasn't sure I had the strength to complete my latest order. I had finally found a new client who wanted to collaborate on a new collection. She was secretive; never told me her name, only came in once to give me the order information, then it was all emails until the book arrived, along with every 'tool' she said I would need. I almost called the whole thing off when I looked inside; each page and piece of hardware more repulsive than the last, and instructions so vivid I dare not repeat them. Was I really this desperate? Had I sunk this low where I would risk what little I had left for a woman I knew nothing about? It turns out, as gruesome as it was, it became easier as time went on. Whether it was my pent-up aggression that kept me going, or the promise of renewed fame, I sewed through the night, tuning out the screams as best I could...
Her specifications proved difficult to fulfill, but the task was near done after a mere three months. I hadn't sewn this fast since those days in my parents' basement. They still call me every week, saying they'll always be proud of me, but I hear the sadness in their voice. They're ashamed of what I've become. They'd be mortified at how I've changed even further. I try to put them out of mind; soon they'll be proud again, along with the rest of the world, even Susan. I had 9 out of the 10; all I needed was one more sample, and I'd be done. All those late nights studying people in coffee shops, following them from movie theaters, posing as the delivery person, it was almost done. My client had been calling for the past week asking about her crown jewel, her perfectly sequined pantsuit, but I couldn't find the right sample just yet. Or maybe I couldn't bring myself to start looking. I pace at my boutique desk, carving a dent in the floor with my shoes as I try to piece together a plan, perhaps a way to get out of finishing the order, but when my door rings open, I see that I no longer have that option.
She walks up to me, a pearly smile spread across her face. She has the most darling blue summer dress, and a polka-dot bonnet atop her blonde hair. She couldn't be older than five or six... she was perfect. She taps the desk, polite as a church mouse, and asks for my help.
"Excuse me, Ma'am. I got separated from my mom and dad. Can I wait here and use the restroom?"
She spoke so clear, so eloquently. Something in her voice told me she was well loved. I just nod absently and point to the restroom door. Her shoes clack on the marble floor and she goes in. I start to hyperventilate, a pit forming in my stomach. I hadn't felt this way since the first one, but this was far, far worse. I go to lock the door and close the blinds, just waiting for her to finish. After ten minutes, she doesn't come out. I go in to check on her, but the restroom is empty. I start to feel a glimmer of hope; maybe she just crawled out the window, skipped down the street as young, inquisitive children do. A shriek from my studio in the basement quickly shatters that theory. I race down the steps, whispering 'no' to myself as I run, but it's too late. Her eyes are met with the disfigured shapes of the bodies, the more recent ones on the right far less mangled than my earlier work, but no less gruesome. The first four were stripped clean; nothing but bone and streams of blood coating half the wall. The next four still held a hint of humanity; a piece of skin hanging off their knee, an offal pulsing on the table, or their face, still fixed in a state of terror. The latest... I hadn't checked if he was still breathing. His face twitched and he looked down, expecting to see his feet in chains, but I had finished that part of the set (A new pair of leggings with a matching clutch) last night. He began to scream, a sound I was now used to, but when he saw the young girl, he tried to form a desperate plea.
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"Go. You can't let her see you. Go get help! Please!"
She turns to run, but her chest is met with my old bodkin. I'll never forget the sound of her final gasps, stunned that this random, seemingly kind woman could do this. The man screamed in anger, pleading for me to show mercy on the child, but the deed was done. I picked up my tools to my right and put her on the table, but I grabbed a towel first and walked over to the man, gently touching his neck... he shouldn't have to see what happens next...
The day comes and I go to my client's high-rise office with the clothes organized neatly on three racks, each one covered by a heavy tarp. She welcomes me in and offers me a glass of water as if it's a normal business meeting. She hands me an envelope of cash and pulls the tarps off the racks. She traces her fingers on the outfits, almost sensually, and puts her ear close to the fabric. She grips the metal pole as a wave of ecstasy falls over her.
"Exquisite. The lining is tight, and the whispers are so clear. And the pantsuit is absolutely fabulous, the most divine of the series! You really are the best."
I try to say thank you for her complement but I'm too repulsed for anything but bile to come out, so I keep my mouth shut. I turn to leave, but I'm stopped as a despondent man and who appears to be his wife come into the office, waving around a picture that makes me run cold: The little girl in her blue dress and bonnet. My client's guards come in to escort them out, but the man just brushes them off.
"Please, has someone seen our daughter? She went missing in this part of town last week. Your cameras can see the entire city center, you must have caught something! Please, we have to find her!"
My client covers the racks and puts her hand on the man's shoulder. She's silent for a moment, watching his eyes as she constructs a lie.
"I do wish I could be of service to you. I can't imagine the pain of losing your child. Unfortunately, my cameras have been out of order for the past two weeks. I will urge my men to keep a watch for her."
The man can only cry on my client's shoulder as she gently pulls him into the hallway. His wife starts to follow, but she stops for a moment and looks at me. I feel as if she's ready to accuse me of something until she forms a small smile.
"Are... are you Julia Medici?"
I utter a low 'Yes' in response, shocked anyone still remembers my name. She seems happy when I confirm my identity, and she holds her daughter's photo just a little tighter.
"Your baby line was the first dress my daughter wore... Actually, I wore one of your designs on my wedding day. I know this is strange to say, but... thank you. May- may I hug you?"
"I... of course, I'd be honored."
The woman runs into my arms, holds me for dear life, then tips out of the room to follow her husband. After the couple boards the elevator to leave, my client returns with a sigh and leans by her desk window.
"Well, now that's over. Let's talk about next steps."
"Next steps? I-I thought this was a one-time thing?"
"Oh, it was supposed to be, Darling, but your work is too good to be a one and done. I'm thinking we could turn this into a global phenomenon; get this into as many boutiques as possible and get your career back on track! No one would have to know how the sausage is made, so to speak. What do you say?"
I almost agree. The thought of reclaiming the top spot on the runway has been in my mind for so long I had forgotten why I joined this business in the first place. But I can't see that look of terror again. I won't. I get up and turn to leave, but an idea strikes. I turn back to my client and stare deep into her eyes. Maybe it was all those late nights of work giving me some extra physical strength, I can't be sure, but somehow I get up the nerve to run straight at her. She doesn't have a chance to get out of the way, luckily, and I launch her out the window next to her desk... but I don't have a chance to stop myself first. I don't think I would've made it long had I stopped anyway; even if I survived the prison sentence, the thought of that girl would be too much. As the ground gets closer and my client's face fills with more and more rage and shock, I realize something: That feeling of Godhood stole something from me. Pursuit of respect turned to greed and control, and my heart was gone before I could blink. I wish I could say I left this world without that feeling of greed, but I can't. All I can say is... I'm sorry, you sweet girl... You didn't deserve this...