#4
I was nineteen, when I met a man named Steven Malcolm. We met another man, Ethan Lambrey while attending art school. The three of us became dearest friends. When I was twenty-two years old Steven walked me down the aisle in a wedding dress hand tailored by Ethan. That was supposed to be my happy ending. And it was for five years.
Steven and Ethan, would have had the fashion world at their feet. Steven was on every magazine. Ethan’s designs opened doors and made him a name. Networking opened doors for Steven. Steven opened more doors for Ethan. Ethan opened up shop. And then two. And then three. And finally four. Steven fell into politics. It was supposed to be their happy ending. And then there was five years.
Five years, things changed. My husband became a monster. Steven wouldn’t release his rights to Ethan’s business. And another two years passed. No one talked to anyone, but things changed.
Miscommunication is how wars get started.
I’m not sure how long I was out, but with a jump my eyes pop open. Body jumps to life with a wave of panic. Heart pounds within my chest. A jolt of fire pulses through my veins like a hot inferno. A hand braces my shoulder pinning me downward. My eyes follow the hand upward along the arm that is connected. It’s attached to a man wearing surgical scrubs. Resting above a thin white mask, two grey eyes peer downward at me. His voice says to stay still.
I can’t relax. This isn’t Steven. Where am I?
Above there is a bright lamp in an otherwise dark room. We are the only thing visible in this vacant space. But all in all, not the only thing here. Small hums and whispers reach out from the distant portions of dark. My ears strain to place Steven’s voice among the whispers. Nothing.
The stranger continues to say relax. In his other hand there is a threaded needle in his waiting grip to descend upon the wound in my chest. Carefully the needle dives inward and outward. Above and below the thin layer of skin the skilled fingers of the tailor dress the wound. There are a handful of stitches neatly completed. Relaxing, he moves himself from my shoulder and concentrates on this work.
Something about this moment reminds me of Ethan. Like a dressmaker following a pattern to sew up a garment this surgeon follows the folds of the body to close up an incision. Tiny finger movements. Delicately tending the open space. Fitting me back into my own skin like it were a torn dress. Ethan used me for fittings on occasion. The same hand movements climbing up my neckline and back down around my waist; carefully pinning the extra fabric when necessary. But there’s something else about it that I can not place.
Another jolt of hot fire jumps through my veins. My surgeon removes a large needle from my left leg. I can only wonder “What is that?”
Voices are growing louder in the far corner of the dark. It’s Steven and another man that I can not recognize by the sound of his voice. He has a thick accent. Cajun with a slight hint of a southern drawl. It seems like an older gentler man. They aren’t discussing anything particular. Sounds like the weather. It’s too far off. To hear more, I would need to move. And with that thought I look down at my body that’s unresponsive.
Below the hands continue to sew together the fleshy portions. Up and down the needle continues to move. I can feel it. A dull sensation. The voice asks me to sit still. Reminds me that this will hurt less. The voice is growing familiar. The others are no more than a hushed sound in the back of room.
Perhaps it’s the drugs he keeps giving me. Perhaps I’m hallucinating. Perhaps there are no voices.
But there are voices.
The stitching is fashioned in a unique manner. It almost resembles something I’d only seen one other place before. A light skin colored fabric that felt like a sheath of natural skin gliding over the body. A one of a kind garment fashioned to fit only one type of body. Mine. And those grey-green eyes are something I can only place in one memory. Nineteen standing in the corner of a fabric studio with a hand placed on my collar bone pinning the folds of a flesh colored dress. Accidentally pinning my hand. Apologizing with an unmistakable look of sympathy in his grey-green eyes and that same voice that reminds me to please sit still.
“Ethan?”
Arrived home early this morning to discover broken glass, an old Patrick Nagel print [irreplaceable] that I’d preciously held tightly to for many years… in a manner of speaking it fell and the glass shattered in one corner. It was an odd thing to me and I should be more upset. Yet I’m not. Disappointed, yes. A little sad, yes. Mad, hurt, or vengeful, no. Some things have to remain in perspective. Possession is impermanent. However, I’ve spent a portion of the day cleaning up the pieces and the whole mess brought to mind a piece I’d been working on in early January. It was an idea that had consumed my attention the last few days of December, when my HD had crashed. Needless to say it’s time to delve back into it. For now… here’s another installment. #5 will be up this week. Enjoy. m.
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