MicroHorror

Sophie’s eyes widened when she saw the stylist pull the hideous jacket out of the cardboard box. She told herself, Don’t frown like a sour apple. You need to succeed in this show or it’s back to farmville and selling Snowshakes at the Frosty Cow.

But she couldn’t deny her fear as the clothing neared her body. The jacket had a high, unbending collar and consisted of layers of steel mesh. Threads of metal protruded from it like dangerous stubble. Sophie thought she spotted rust in the armpits.

“You really want her to wear this?” the stylist asked the designer. The stylist was a kindly, plump woman in her forties who reminded Sophie of the women from her hometown in Wisconsin. The designer, Ivan, was a lizard-like Spaniard who’d sported the same crimson spiky hair since he achieved global fame in the ’80s. He sneered when he smiled, and he called every model “bon-bon.”

“Girls are already hitting the runway,” Ivan said. “And this one’s incomplete without that jacket.”

“Ivan?” someone called. “Anna Wintour’s arrived.”

Ivan nodded and glared at Sophie. “Arms up, bon-bon. And don’t forget the zipper’s in back.”

The stylist frowned as she guided Sophie’s arm through one sleeve. Sophie’s upper body was bare except for a bra. Sophie winced when she felt metal points scrape her skin.

“I don’t envy you girls,” the stylist said. “The industry only gets harder on you, turning you into emaciated dolls and forcing you into impossible outfits.”

Sophie finished bringing her arm through the other sleeve. She glanced at her hand and saw a crisscross of red scratches.

“Sacrifices bring success,” she said in a flat voice. She felt a rash forming under the collar. She looked at the stylist and said, “Why wasn’t this jacket at last night’s fitting?”

The stylist shook her head and said, “Ivan ordered it last-minute. He wanted the show to have a ‘gothic’ feel. His friend mentioned these outfits being stored in a church basement outside Madrid.”

Sophie nodded and fanned her eyes, which were tearing from the jacket’s constant pricks. Techno boomed from the showroom, and models queued for their walks. Sophie looked at the stylist and said, “You haven’t zipped up the back.”

The stylist smiled and said, “You’re suffering enough, sweetie.”

As she approached the portal to the runway, Sophie tried not to grimace. Be a machine, she told herself. You’ve fasted for days without fainting and you’ve worn heels that should’ve broken your ankles. You can handle this metal monster.

She received the thumbs-up from the man directing runway traffic when she felt someone grab her.

“You’re as big as a pig with that jacket open,” Ivan said. “I’ll zip you up.”

Sophie heard the zipper’s rising, but she went deaf when pain dominated all her senses. As the jacket constricted, she felt hundreds of tiny hooks enter flesh from her neck to her navel. Her agony was so intense that she couldn’t scream.

Ivan pushed her forward and said, “Strut, bon-bon.”

Stumbling around the screen, Sophie felt her body turn hot and damp. She saw the returning model give her a horrified look. Cameras flashed, onlookers gasped, and Sophie’s upper body rained blood on the runway. Sophie tried pulling on the collar, but she realized the jacket wouldn’t release her without ripping skin. Dizzy, she sank with a whimper.

As medics pressed bandages against the jacket in vain, Sophie remembered the lamb’s wool sweater her grandmother had made her when she was a child. Hating its simplicity, she hung it from her windowsill for moths to devour. Weirdly, she desired that sweater now, thinking it would fit better than any set of angel’s wings.