Dress for Death

Bronze Medal Winner, written by Pat S.


   Andrea studied herself in the full-length mirror, then leaned close, turning her head from side to side, checking her face from every angle.

    The scar under her left eye was barely discernable. Two years ago, it had been a jagged red slash high across her cheekbone, but time, and a skilled surgeon’s hands, had reduced it to no more than a faint pinkish line. She judiciously added another daub of powder, further disguising it. She sighed and stepped back from the mirror, surveying her image.

    The knee-length red dress clung to her curves and dipped seductively low in the front, revealing the rounded crest of her breasts. The narrow, barely-there sleeves left her perfectly smooth white shoulders bare. She bore not a single mark anywhere on the skin exposed by the crimson dress, other than the small scar on her otherwise flawless face.

    “I hate it when you wear red.”

    Andrea shivered.

    That voice.

    It had been silenced forever on that rainy night two years ago, but the memory of it still retained its ability to leave her quaking and sick. Mitchell no longer had the power to hurt her, but he had left scars on more than just her face.

    Andrea had been swept away by Mitchell Duvane almost from the moment she’d first met him at a charitable fundraiser. She’d worn blue that night. He’d worn power, as if it were his natural attire.

    An attorney for the city, he moved people about as if they were pawns on his personal chessboard, and shook up the local politicos at the same time he shook them down for favors and personal gain. He’d been a graceful dancer and a tireless lover. It had not been until a month after their whirlwind marriage she had discovered her error.

    Mitchell sought not only domination on the world stage, but domination of her soul as well. It had been small things at first. An insistence the towels be hung perfectly straight. That the newspaper remain perfectly folded and unread until he’d gone through it first. That dishes be washed by hand, by her hands, to ensure cleanliness.

    Infractions led to punishments. A pinch of the arm, that left only a small bruise, and which he laughed off. A tug on her hair that brought tears to her eyes.

    Before long, his desire to control, and punish her, escalated. He insisted she dye her naturally brown hair blonde, then demanded she cut it stylishly short. He watched every morsel of food she ate and punished her if she gained a pound.

    A slap.

    A kick.

    A cracked rib.

    On the night of the accident, they’d been on the way to yet another charity dinner. Running late, she’d changed into her new dinner dress in the office restroom, then run through the rain to the car, waiting for her at the curb. The moment she’d settled in the seat, Mitchell’s temper exploded.

    “How many damned times have I told you not to wear red?” He’d pounded on the steering wheel. “It makes you look like a cheap tramp!”

    She’d cringed in her seat, trying to block out the hateful words. Nothing she could say would matter.

    He’d shouted louder, ugly, cruel words, and then he’d backhanded her. The college ring, of which he’d been so proud, tore through the tender skin under her eye.

    In his fury at her, Mitchell never saw the oncoming drunk driver.

    Later, she’d knelt beside him on the rain-slicked highway, listening to the oncoming ambulance, holding his hand while he’d continued to whisper his rage at her through the blood burbling and gurgling in his throat. Only death at last stilled his furor over her red dress. She’d walked away with no more than the cut on her face. Everyone assumed it had happened in the accident. Shamed and guilt-ridden, she told no one it had been a final gift from her husband.

    For two years she’d worn every color in the rainbow, except red. She’d let her hair grow out, and let it turn back into its natural rich brown. And she’d finally found the courage to accept a date with her new co-worker, Jonathon.

   Jon had teased and cajoled her into wearing red tonight. He’d said it would look wonderful with her hair. He’d said it would add roses to her cheeks. He’d said it was his favorite color.

    And so, finally free of Mitchell, she’d bought the new red dress.

    The phone rang, interrupting her perusal in the mirror. She glanced at the caller ID. Jon. She pressed the answer button and offered a cheerful hello.

    “Still defying me, Andrea?”

    She yanked the phone away from her ear and stared at it. The voice, a mere whisper, had a gurgling sort of sound. She remembered that sound.

    The rain.

    The gritty scrape of the asphalt under her knees.

    The vicious words, staining her psyche the way his blood had stained her dress.

    Carefully, she held the phone back to her ear.

    “Who is this?” she said. “This isn’t funny. Jon, is that you?”

    “I told you,” the voice whispered again, “I hate it when you wear red.”