Dressing Room

Water spills through the seem of the door, a sudden gush that sprays into the room. She can feel it licking at the back of her heels where her shoes end, spreading over the plush white carpeted floor. She watches as the dense fibres absorb the spill, darkening into a slushy grey like half melted snow. The sound of water crashing recedes, grows distant before dissipating altogether. A tide pulling back. When no further violence is forthcoming, she feels more secure in the notion that the door will not be blown open, and stepping away won’t invite immediate disaster.

Her arm lifts automatically, prepared to proceed her, but there is no longer the heft of the knife in her hand. No longer the small reassurance that she isn’t completely defenseless. She bites the inside of her cheek, trying to ground herself against the trepidation growing hot and sour inside her stomach.

Soaking wet, she leaves behind a trail of water as she crosses what appears to be the entryway to the new room. Grey footprints blossom in her wake, each steps marring the purity of the carpet, tainting the pristine alabaster. She hardly notices the rivulets of water, the errant drops falling from her like glistening glass baubles, as she focuses on the space coming into view.

Racks of costumes are arranged on the outskirts of the small area, each of the four stands overflowing with various garments. A large, well-lit vanity sits in the middle of the back wall, a liberal array of cosmetics spread across the table. A dressing room, she pieces together. None of this holds her attention for long once she spots the enormous posters hung on the walls.

Her. All of her. Each of the six glossy pictures is a different memory blown up uncomfortably large; a looming snapshot pulled from various points of her childhood and early adolescence. Immortalized. She hardly remembers these snapshots, can’t recall the context for when they were taken or why. Ghosts of her past, transparent recollections that have grown dimmer and dimmer. The only one she does remember is the moment frozen in the poster hung above the vanity.

Twelve had been a hard year. An uncomfortable year. A year that she has never been able to erase despite her persistent efforts. The picture is from her last piano recital. After swimming had lost its appeal, her parents had tried their hand at finding some other hobby to occupy her time. She came to the instrument late; too old to fit in amongst the hopeful child prodigies, too young to find a place in the fold of the older, jaded flock. She was never very good, never showed any real talent, but she was serviceable. Reading music came easy to her, fitting her small hands over the notes less so. Her teachers never spent much time with her -they could sniff out mediocrity from miles away- so often those lessons were perfunctory. Time sinks.

Being away from home for those scant hours was nice. Necessary. She didn’t like piano, but she loved the space it afforded her. She would have kept on with it as well -fulfilled the mundane motions of gradual improvement, never soaring any higher than okay- if it wasn’t for her last recital.

Looking up at the image is nearly too much for her; her sense memory is working overtime, disorienting and discomforting. She can feel the smooth grain of the bench beneath her palms, the buttery ivory of the piano keys, the itchy crinoline her thin white tights failed to protect her skin against. The heat of the stage lights that clung to her skin long after the performance was over. She can feel the phantom heat bloom in her own cheeks, the feverish discomfort burning her flesh.

Brown ringlets cascade over one shoulder in the picture, dropping heavily to her hip. Her dark eyes are fathomless, staring straight into the heavy lens of whoever was taking the picture. Hands folded demurely in her lap, a pretty, little lamb.

This was the last time she'd worn her hair like this. She’d been so proud of the length, so pleased by the abundance. So childishly vain. Her mother had spent hours curling it for the recital, making sure each ringlet held firm. They had both beamed at the outcome, matching smiles stretching wide on their faces, a feedback loop of satisfaction. After that night -when her performance had finished, when an ostentatious bouquet had been placed in her hands, when she had been taken home and his hand had caresses her hair- she’d never kept it long again.

She can smell the faint scent of roses, feel the cool metal of the scissors in her hand as she recalls the events after. The sharp snick of the blades as they chewed through her tresses. Tears mixing with fallen strands, accumulating until all that was left was an uneven bob and swollen eyes. The horror on her mother’s face when she had come down for breakfast the following morning. His silence.

Her parents had blamed her behaviour on piano. Too much pressure. Too many expectations. They pulled her from lessons immediately, putting an end to the weekly reprieve.

Looking away is less a choice and more a necessary action; for her own sake she needs to forget. Needs to push away these cruel reminders. The house isn’t just mocking her, it’s hurting. It wants her beaten. Broken. Brittle. She wipes away the gathering moisture in her eyes impatiently. She won’t give this place the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

As her arm falls back to her side, she becomes aware of how burdensome her dress has become. Water has soaked through the heavy fabric, adding heft to the already cumbersome ensemble. The warmth of the pool has diminished, the air in the room turning the clinging dampness cold. She can feel the pilling of her skin as goosebumps erupt over her flesh, the chill setting in. There is no point in suffering through this discomfort, especially given she’s found herself in a dressing room overflowing with options.

She heads towards the nearest rack and begins to sift through the myriad of hangers. They’re all dresses, she’s quick to notice, clunky costumes that would have dazzled her as a child. None of them are dissimilar from the outfit she’s already sporting; the same gaudy opulence, the tacky overabundance. It isn’t an ideal choice -she’d much rather wear something practical- but dry clothes are better than nothing. She’s prepared to don one of the fanciful dresses when she comes to the last hanger and freezes.

The outfit is drastically different from the other offerings; worn jeans nearly threadbare in the knees, and a fluffy, nondescript, high necked sweater. It’s the outfit she left the house in that morning -if, in fact, this is the same day, she thinks bitterly. Regardless, it’s the last thing she can recall wearing before waking up here. Her hand reaches for the top, fingers pinching the familiar fabric, testing the well-known softness. She doesn’t question its appearance here, doesn’t dare to look a gift horse in the mouth, and makes quick work exchanging her soaked attire for her own clothes. The solace she feels slipping into her jeans, pulling her sweater over her head, is almost overwhelming. Dry and covered, she feels more settled. Grounded.

She hangs the wet dress on the empty hanger, setting it back amongst its siblings. She pulls the note from the pocket -somehow untouched by the water, words crisp but the meaning still unclear- and places it in the back pocket of her jeans. She holds the delicate chain of the necklace in front of her, debating the necessity of it, before she rehangs the key around her neck. The black Mary Janes she awoke in are still damp, and the idea of slipping her feet back into them is less than appealing. She looks around the room for some kind of replacement and spots her old, worn runners tucked into the corner. Her luck doubling, she retrieves the shoes and pulls them on quickly.

Freshly clothed, and nearly comfortable, she returns to the middle of the room. Her eyes sweep the space once more, searching for an exit, but there doesn’t appear to be any doors save the entrance at her back. Her throat grows tight at the idea of having to turn back, re-enter the pool room, plunge back into the volatile waters. If only her discomfort could manifest a door, her will being enough to shape the manor just as the manor itself has willed its own shape. Alas, she isn’t so fortunate.

Reluctantly she returns to the adjoining entranceway, retracing her grey footprints back to the only exit available to her. She brings her head close to the door, ear resting against the grain as she listens. There is no sound of water, no crescendo of waves breaking hard. The lack of sound isn’t reassuring. She puts enough space between herself and the door so she can grab the handle comfortably. Her hand trembles as it turns, eyes squeezing tight like fists as she prepares herself for the torrential assault.