She couldn't see the world but the world could see her. Spring is coming but see won’t see it bloom. Claire sees the world in bright colours in her dreams but awake, she sees through cotton wool.
She slides open the doors with silver knobs. A neatly organised closet - clothing, colour coded from black to white and in all neutral tones, hung on the same white wooden coat hangers appears. She walks her fingers through the clothes one by one. She feels the rough hairs of the cashmere coat, and is at once reminded of the day she walked into the doctor’s office, tugging onto her mother’s coat. The words still ring in her ears - “Your daughter’s eyesight is deteriorating rapidly.” The rest she didn't hear because the world around her began to disintegrate. The world she knew was disappearing before her eyes, and one day it would be gone. Becoming a sixteen year old fashion designer is just a chimera now for Claire.
One, two, three, four…
She picks up the coat hanger. On it, hangs her grey sweater and baggy pants. Claire changes into them and heads downstairs, clinging desperately on the metal rails as she takes each step. She shuffles her feet walking into the room. A room she had created for herself as a world protected by judgemental strangers. There are rolls of fabric in all colours and patterns and extra ones in black, white and grey. Beneath the window is a sewing machine and beside that is a bare mannequin and a full-length mirror, reflecting her pale face and luscious chestnut hair. But for Claire, standing in front of the mirror, she doesn’t see a beautiful face. She sees a hazy silhouette, not enough to see her best features: curvy slim body and long lean legs. Claire stands there, palms covering her face as she starts to tear up.
Outside the frosted glass window, the bright heavenly light shines through. She hears the voices of people walking past upon the sounds of car motors. She begins to think about the world outside and the people in it. In that world live people she trusted, people who neglected her and made her feel more lost than she really was. Her “friends” had once made her a fool as they caked her face in makeup and wrote the word “PATHETIC” in lipstick across her forehead when she said yes to their pleas to give her a makeover.
Claire wipes away her tears with the back of her hand and reaches for a roll of fabric. She twinkles her fingers towards a roll of fabric, rubbing the material against her fingers - thin, small grooves and imperfect. She feels for the familiar cold handles of a pair of scissors from the drawer and a cuts clean line through the fabric. Draping the blush material onto the mannequin, Claire pins it in place. There was clearly an excessive amount of pins lining the edges of the fabric. She remembers a clear outline of her old sketch, the one she made made before the world started receding into darkness. A loose, sleeveless above-the-knee length dress, with edgy cuts and lace detailing on the neckline.
She undresses the mannequin and brings it over to the sewing machine. She leans over to the drawer as her fingers search for the velvet box where she keeps her large-eyed pin. Threading two threads into the needle - one black, the other white. With light pressure, she steps onto the pedal. The needle jabs into the material as she removes the pins lining the hem. She makes it to the end, cutting off the thread and flipping the fabric over. She hadn't done this since been told she was losing her vision, but has so quickly gotten use to it. She begins again. This time, more pressure. The needle stabs into the fabric at the edges. Claire remembers a time when the faces of those she loved became unfamiliar and those she thought she could trust made her feel different. She remembers her support teacher looking at her with pitiful eyes and saying, “It’s okay if you can’t do it, you’re blind. This is something we have to get used to”. Each and every sense of anger continues to drive her determination.
The presser foot jumps up and down as the material runs along. Her fingers curve around gathering the fabric near the waistline. Claire leans over to grab another fabric roll. Fuzzy. Grainy. Silky. The elegant, flowery pattern raised on the blush lace, sends a warm sensation up her fingers as she slides the sharp blade through it. Claire attaches the lace detailing to the neckline and a zipper to the back.
Dressing the mannequin and trimming the edges, Claire feels the uneven stitches. She takes a few steps back. The blush material wraps tightly against the mannequin- simple and stylish. Claire squints hard, to see a very blurry image of her new spring dress.
Her dress. As she looks at it, she realises that it is a creation that no longer belongs in this monochromatic protected world. It has to leave these walls. So does she.
She puts on the dress, throwing the baggy pants and sweater in the corner and steps out the door. It flows and twirls nicely as she spins in circles. She meets the cool air of spring. It feels different to her in this dress. She feels different. Claire prances around, dancing like the moon above in her white gown.
Thank you for taking your time to read my story. Please upvote and follow me @betrayerx and I will continue to create quality posts.
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STOPI like your style. As I read it, I really noticed the word 'fabric' and it distracted me a little. It might be worth using a different word in a couple of the sentences.
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Thank you for your critique. I will in the future take note of this and try to improve my writing. Thanks again.
Which authors would you cite as influences?
I don't really have any particular authors that have particularly influenced the way I write. I think it's more to do with my surroundings and the types of issues and ideas I'm exposed to through the media.