Devil in the Black Dress

(an adventure in real life)

By Amanda Marie McDuff

"Ack!"

A deep searing pain shoots through my chest. A terrible, tightening weight lies on my heart. The air is suddenly stifling.

"Ack! Oooogh. . . shit."

The breath is driven from my lungs, as a hawser of black and white polka-dot chiffon twists below my ribs. My arms flail helplessly, pinned to my ears, hands flapping aimlessly straight overhead.

"Ack! Ack!"

Breathing is quickly becoming more difficult as I blunder about, crashing into a wall, then a chair.

"Urgh. Agghh. dammit. agchhh." Crash.

The dress had certainly looked innocent enough. Slinky, sexy black chiffon, with tiny white polka-dots, a straight mid calf skirt and a bodice with pocket pleats and epaulets. Definitely a hot outfit.

My breath comes in gasps, filtered through several layers of cloth. Inside-out skirt is piled on my head, tumbling down over my face. Everything has gone black. . . with little white polka dots.

The dress sure had been cute though. Hanging there in that second hand clothing store. No size marked. It had looked to be a bit small, but . . . for three bucks, worth taking a chance.

"Argh. ooolff. oomp. c'mon dress let me go. . . shit."

Pulling the dress on had been accomplished with only a bit of a struggle. I even managed to get it buttoned. For a moment. However, I decided quickly that this particular dress, cute or not, was never destined to find a place in my wardrobe. It fit well enough at the waist, but in the body it was, well, a tad. . . tight. As a matter of fact it seemed to have me in a full nelson, restricting my shoulder motion by about 60%.

It wasn't until I tried to get the dress off that I realized the true extent of the peril.

A twisted cord of slinky black material encircles my ribcage just below my arms, binding me completely. Desperately I struggle to free myself. Twisting, pulling, bending, arms flailing and beating the air. Crouching, cursing, crashing against dresser, nearly falling over that damned chair. Pulling some more.

With diabolic tenacity the chiffon remains in place. Even "Hulking Out" is to no avail. If anything my struggles only serve to further tighten the dress's death grip.

"Agcch! Urph, damn. . . scissors! Yeah! Got to find some scissors!"

Blundering from the bedroom into the darkened hallway, I can't see a bloody thing. Somewhere in my gyrations I had lost one shoe, and now find I can't kick the other off, so am forced to gimp along on one heel.

"Oooof!" Wham! Into the door frame, then the wall.

"Aaaaiiiee. . ." Thud. Tripping over the dog, then trying in vain to break my fall with arms stretched out over head.

The true demonic nature of the dress is becoming apparent. It tightens inexorably as I thrash and roll, desperately trying to get my knees beneath me. Blind. Disoriented. Each breath becoming a struggle. I feel as if my ribs must crack. Like my heart is in a vice.

Arms flail frantically, tearing at the material of the skirt, twisting, pulling.

Crashing finally into a wall, I am able to lever myself into a kneeling position, then standing - bent straight forward at the waist, hands groping desperately.

Blindly, I flounder into the kitchen and yank open the "black hole". The drawer crashes at my feet. Sorting frantically through piles of clattering junk with numbing fingers, viewed down a long black and white polka-dot tunnel. String, several hundred pens, tape dispensers, spools, ladles, spoons, strainers, extension cords. No scissors. The desk drawer is next. Envelopes, more pens, rubber bands, floppy disks lie scattered. No scissors. The computer desk. No scissors. Still the dress tightens its death grip.

My life is beginning to pass before me, as my breath comes in ragged, painful gasps. I am weakening. The polka-dot chiffon dress from Hell was about to claim another victim.

I can feel the strength draining from me. My struggles diminish. I can't help it. I can feel my will to live slipping away, as the dress' strength increases with each moment. Oblivion is near. I'm glad I have on clean panties.

An eternal blackness is beginning to creep into my brain, when suddenly my mind fills with a vision. A tombstone - cracked, neglected, askew amongst coarse weeds. And carved across this melancholy stone a simple message. . . "TRIED TO FIT INTO AN 8".

"NO!" I roar, thrashing violently to my feet. Battering my way back into the kitchen, I slip and stumble over all the strewn junk. Stretching out desperately with both hands, I finally reach the knife rack. An ten inch long carving knife is the first my hand encounters. It flashes in the fluorescent glare.

Both arms are bound together so tightly, movement is possible only at elbows and wrists. Gripping the knife with bunched fingers and twisting my wrists down and in, I can just bring the point of the blade against the material directly in front of my face. Again and again I lunge, trying to pierce the cloth but the chiffon gives with each jab. The dress seems to be mocking me. A dozen times the knife is thrust, a dozen times the slinky material slides and stretches out of harm. I can feel my spirit flagging, darkness is moving in on me once again.

In desperation, I drop to my knees. Bracing the knife against the floor with both hands, I aim it upward, towards my throat. Leaning forward, I can feel my balance teetering precariously. The cloth pushes against my face, stretching before the point of the carving knife. Further forward I lean, further the chiffon stretches. Suddenly one knee slips. With a shrill ripping sensation the knife blade slides past my neck, the metal cold against my skin.

It seems as if with this single breech, I have struck the heart of the demon. The material parts easily now as the knife blade saws into the black and white polka-dot bindings. My shoulders can flex a little, widening the gap with each motion. A very welcome sound of tearing cloth comes close to my ear.

Suddenly daylight may be seen. Cool air spills over my face. The remnants of the dress still encircle my chest, but the fight seems to have gone out of it. Gasping, I finally manage to tug it off over my head. Collapsing on the kitchen floor I lean back against the refrigerator, fighting to calm my breathing.

Lying in a heap across my legs is the dress. Black and white polka-dot chiffon. Once very sexy, now with a jagged slash across its bodice.

I wonder though, if I was to cut this part off here, and fold this down, tack it here . . and here, I could still salvage a real cute skirt out of it . . .

Ed. Note: The author originally penned this article under the name of Christie Lea.