Writing for Fun
Dressing To Kill - Maureen Rampersaud
May 2014
'Oy, pass that nail varnish, it'll go very nicely with this.'
Leila made that familiar 'tah dah' gesture. It said 'look at me in my killer dress' extremely eloquently. It was red, low cut, clingy and very short. It's strange how clothes can talk. In my view this dress was saying 'desperate, lonely and inadequate', but then I knew the occupant of the garment and she couldn't fool me.
I had known Leila since we were five. She was quiet, studious and way cleverer than me . . . until six months ago when her dad left the day after her fifteenth birthday party. I missed the good friend she'd always been, I suppose I understood her switch to the superficial side and her pathetic attempt to be the 'life and soul'. It was wearing but I stuck with her, hoping that she would revert to her true self eventually. We hit the town like Beauty and the beast. I had my boots and long sleeved warm, navy dress on. I won't be cold for anybody.
Darius lifted a few weights before he pulled the plain, black tee shirt over his tattooed, muscled torso. He checked himself in the mirror, yes it looked okay with his black jeans, nondescript. He always wore black on his birthday. It was the day he allowed himself to be truly himself. As usual, he had waited until dusk to leave, he had been patient and now he deserved his present. He slid the penknife into his pocket.
He sat in his favourite spot. Girls went to and fro in gangs, twos and even singly. An hour went by, but he didn't mind waiting. Then . . . there she was. Red, red for danger, red alert, blood red. The dress and it's colour spoke to him.