The Red Dress

 The crimson red dress lies spread out on my white sheets, evidence of a previous misdeed; I tilt my head or maybe it’s a  promise of a misdeed yet to come. I smile to myself as I wring out the final droplets from my hair letting the dark, tangled mess spill out across my pale shoulders.

Rifling through my pants I pull out the plain black pair in order to match my lacy black bra, satisfied with the match I turn towards my bed. 

Ready I stare down at the red dress, it taunts me and shames me, how will I ever be beautiful enough to wear these folds of confidence. I had always wanted a red dress, but looking at it now it made me think that only models, actresses or dancers should be allowed to wear such silky red.

 I turn away from the dress and open my wardrobe, maybe I should wear black, then maybe I can blend into the background and slip away without anyone noticing me. But wasn’t a masquerade about being who you usually conceal? Holding onto the wardrobe doors I gaze back at the red dress imagining my black hair spilling down the back my metallic silver mask contrasting with the bright colour. Would I look like I should be feared or would I look like a small child dressing up in her mothers clothing? I close the cupboard doors impatiently and turn towards the bed not to be shamed by a god damn dress. I was wearing it not the other way round. 

I zip down the dress and shimmy it up twisting my arms through the straps before patting down the rumples and closing the dress back up. I head into the bathroom not letting myself focus on the dress in the mirror and instead focus on my eyes and lips. If I was going to let my concealed person out then I was going to have to show confidence, and well that started with the way I dressed.

Shimmering my eyes up, elongating and darkening my eyelashes and painting my lips blood red perfected my face. Twirling some of my curls up on my head while letting the rest hang down my shoulders made my smile, I rarely did anything to my curls but let them hang, but I had to agree I liked the face in the mirror. 

Fashioning a simple pear necklace around my pale neck completes my face, the chain chasing the white pearl around my increasing pulse. I swallow any apprehension back into the pit of my stomach.

I wiggle my feet into black twisting heels and walk downstairs. My curls twining around my face and framing my red lips, I tie the thin metal mask onto my face and finally turn towards the only full length mirror I have in my flat.  

I gasp.

The person in the mirror can’t be me, she looks beautiful, confident and in control. The dress hugs my curves but isn’t so tight I feel trapped. The slit framed by heavy red waves sits just above my knee. The dress was beautiful, I admired its every fold and crease yet as I twisted this way and that I realised that it wasn’t the dress, but in fact me. The way I smiled, the way I moved, that was all me. The dress accented me but it wasn’t what was beautiful or confident that was all me. 

As I stepped into the ballroom from the dark street I didn’t want to hide in the corner, I wanted to be seen and admired and adored. I may not want to stand out normally but the concealed me definitely liked the attention. The sense of mystery just enhanced my devious side. I hold my head up proud, proud to be a women and proud to be me.