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MCD, cisswap


Yangyang bleeds as she pricks herself with the thin needle. The blood beads at her fingertip and she stares as it slowly expands past the breaking point and slips down her delicate finger. She gasps and lifts it up to her lips to catch the bleeding. The metallic taste coats her tongue like a blanket. She presses her tongue against it, to halt the bleeding.

She brings her hand back to examine it, waits as the blood bubbles back up to the surface. She sighs.

After wrapping her finger in bandages she returns to her work space. The tulle skirt fans out across the floor, hours of meticulous needle work displayed along the flower petals. The petals feel like velvet in her hands as she sews them into the fabric. She’s delicate with them, takes them in both hands one at a time while she works. The dress will be beautiful when it’s finished.

It’s a shame no one will ever wear it.

-

The first time the woman comes in, she isn’t alone. An older woman accompanies her, parades her around the dress shop like a show dog. The woman is silent as she follows, tall and beautiful and utterly silent.

Yangyang’s eyes follow her from where she sits at her work bench. The fabric in front of her wrinkles in her hands as she grasps for some sort of evidence that this is real.

Her boss shoots her a look, and she diverts her eyes as he greets the pair.

“I need a dress for my daughter,” the older woman says proudly. “Isn’t she lovely? She needs a dress to match.”

“Yangyang is our best dressmaker,” the shop owner replies. Yangyang looks up from her fabric. “She is the best we have.”

Over the mother’s shoulders, the young woman is looking directly at her.

-

The woman comes in again and again after than, but alone. She still doesn’t speak as she lets Yangyang take her measurements and sample colors. She doesn’t even know her name, just that she looks like what Yangyang thinks Angels must look like.

Her hair falls so delicately around her face, like a holy golden halo. Yangyang would kiss her feet if she wanted her to.

She doesn’t, instead she just measures her waist and offers her a soft smile as she leaves.

The beautiful woman always smiles back, but she never speaks.

It’s not until Yangyang has a sample dress for her to try that she opens her mouth.

“Are you really the best?” she asks. Her voice is like honey, thick and sweet in Yangyang’s mouth.

“I– well–“ she stutters, pins in hand.

“That was a silly question, I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is soft as it floats through the empty shop. “What I meant was if you are the best, why are you somewhere as small as this?”

Her mind is moving so quickly she can barely keep up. She doesn’t have the chance to stop herself before she blurts anything out.

“I like it,” she says. “And John pays me well, and gives me all the best projects. The people in the city aren’t too fond of single seamstresses like myself, and, well, John doesn’t mind.”

Her confession is unspoken, the truth of why she doesn’t head off to a bigger shop in the city. Women are preferred when they are wives and she will never be one.

“Can I see in the mirror?” the woman distracts. Yangyang nods, leads her over to the mirror they keep in the back of the shop. She stands back as the woman marvels at it, runs her hands down the front, turns to see the back. “It’s beautiful, is this what it will look like?”

“This is just a sample, for the shape,” she replies, stepping forward to stand beside her. “The final dress will be much more... detailed.” The woman nods, eyes not leaving her reflection.

Yangyang steps away, leaves her to look and sneaks her own glances from across the room. When the woman returns, she is back into her own clothes and hands over the dress like it is the most valuable thing in the world.

“Thank you, Yangyang,” she says kindly. “Please send for me if you need anything else, anything at all.”

Her fingers linger on Yangyang’s arm as she says it. So the truth was not completely hidden.

“I can’t call for you if I don’t know your name,” she supplies confidently.

The woman smiles, blushing up to the tips of her ears.

“Jaehyun,” she says. It sounds so pretty coming from her lips. “You can call me Jaehyun.”

“Okay,” Yangyang replies, breathless. “Okay, Jaehyun.”

-

They meet most often at Jaehyun’s. The large estate left to them for days at a time. More often than not, it is Jaehyun sending for her than the other way around. John excuses it, allows her to slip away for a long weekend, as long as her alterations get finished.

Yangyang always feels so small in the backseat of the carriage. She keeps her hands in her lap and practically folds in on herself as they make their way up the long drive up to the mansion.

In the forest, a statue of a space man waves.

She shudders. A chill falls over them, heavy and fearful. It crawls up her spine and under her dress and unsettles her.

It doesn’t leave, even as they pull up to the entryway and someone opens the door for her. It follows her as she makes her way through the familiar corridors. The chill strangled her as she reaches out to open the door.

It blankets her as she screams.

-

Yangyang does not go to the funeral.

She isn't invited. She doesn't know if it's on purpose or not but she never expected an invitation in the first place. As a seamstress there would be no reason to invite her, as a lover there would be no reason to welcome her.

She doesn't think she would have gone anyways. On the day of the services, she locks herself in her room and stares at the dress.

It was almost done.

It looks beautiful, fanned out in her living room. The light filters through the window and reflects off the pale purple fabric. All that was left really was the skirt, the final details and individual petals she had cut out one by one from her best silk. They were locked away in a basket downstairs, far out of the reach of her greedy little fingers.

She could see practically picture Jaehyun in it, could imagine her as she glided around the ballroom at her estate, twirled in her skirt. She had tested the fabric against her skin already, praised the way the soft color complimented her. Yangyang teased at the way the pink flowers matched her blushing cheeks.

Jaehyun had pushed her away teasingly, then pulled her back in for a kiss.

That was the way she wanted to remember her, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t banish the snapshot of her pale, lifeless face from the back of her eyelids.

She shuddered, turned back to the dress.

Before, it sung sweet songs and adoration for her lover. She wrote a million and one love letters into every seam. Now, it was filled with nothing but hollow, empty, grief.

In the distance, the church bell rang, loud and reminding her of where she wasn’t. She clenched her fist in balled up rage. From her work table she picked up her blade.

For a flash, she lets her anger grip her entirely. Yangyang wants to take her shears to fabric and tear the whole thing to shreds, toss it all into the grave her lover is to be buried in. Her hands shake with it, the impulsive desire to destroy everything in her sight.

But as her hand brushes the fabric she freezes.

Jaehyun had insisted that she bring the mirror from the shop upstairs to her private quarters when they started meeting there. It watches her now as she stands there simmering in her own fury. Her reflection looks back at her the same way it did as she looked on while Jaehyun tried on the dress for the first time. She gapes back.

Downstairs, she hears the familiar sound of John returning after a day spent elsewhere. She didn’t bother to listen when he told her way. She can just make out his stomping as he fumbles his way through the shop. He will come to check on her soon.

She clenches her fist again. She lets out a yelp and released as she feels the sharp jab of the metal into her palm. As she lifts her hand up the blade clatters to the ground and she sees blood. Captivated, her eyes follow as a single drip races down her hand just to fall down, down, down onto the clean new tulle of the skirt.

Behind her, the door flies open.

“Yangyang, I heard a commotion,” John starts. She turns pale-faced towards him. “What, what happened?”

He looks down at her blood-soaked hand, at the fabric right in front of her.

“Oh, dear,” he whispers. He steps into the room, careful to avoid the clutter piling up on the floor. He reaches for her, pulls her away from the dress and huddles her into his arms. “Oh, dear, let’s get you cleaned up.”

As he corrals her out the door and into the hall, she looks back at the dress, at the single stain along the hem. Her eyes lock onto it and she wonders how much of herself she can put into one thing.