Made for Me | Flash Fiction

Wedding dress illustration - "Made for Me" Flash Fiction

Liza drew back the changing room curtain and struck a sassy pose for her maid of honour.

“Liza… it’s perfect!”

“I know!” Liza squealed as she turned away from her friend and admired herself in the mirror. “It’s lacy but not too fussy. Form fitting but not too clingy. Vintage but not too stuffy. And it fits me like a glove; even the length is bang on. It’s like it was made for me.”

She was right; the dress was made for her. It was made for her to do something truly awful.

The dress was originally constructed for a bride in the 1960s, who’d been giddy with joy at the prospect of walking down the aisle towards her sweetheart. That is of course, until she actually did.

As soon as she entered the church, she found herself enraged at the sight of her smiling husband-to-be. Her blood felt like it would boil in her veins as she grew closer to him. By the time her father gave her away to the man she was destined to spend the rest of her life with, she could take it no more.

Fury took over. Before she quite realised what had come over her, her hands were on the groom’s throat, squeezing with a brute strength she had never known had been inside her. Desperate guests tried to drag her away to no avail; she was too strong. The dress had made it so.

The dress found itself, along with all the rest of the bride’s belongings, displayed in a charity shop a few months down the line, while the bride herself grew accustomed with the idea of spending the rest of her life in prison.

It wasn’t long before a new bride spotted the dress in the charity shop window. She and her fiancé had very little money to spare for their wedding. It felt like fate that she would find a wedding gown at an unbeatable price in a charity shop. Not only that, but the dress fit her flawlessly – it was even the perfect length.

The second bride managed to make it down the aisle, all the way through the ceremony, and even long into the reception before the rage crept in. It wasn’t until the speeches that she found herself becoming increasingly irritated by the words uttered from her new husband’s lips.

By the time the couple fell into their marital bed, the bride was beside herself with anger. Her husband – beside himself with lust – was too distracted to notice. She found her hands reaching instinctively to his throat, and just a few minutes later she found herself a widow.

The second bride’s mother couldn’t bear to part with her daughter’s belongings, even long after she’d been locked up. The fateful wedding dress found itself carefully folded up and placed in a wooden chest, which gathered dust in the shamed mother’s attic.

Five decades passed by, the dress wholly forgotten, until it was released from its binds by a distant relative of the second bride who was oblivious to the repugnant crime of her ancestor. A family’s determination to sweep unpleasant happenings under the rug meant that she knew nothing of the dress and its gruesome history.

What she did know was that it was vintage, it was in excellent condition, and it would be worth a pretty penny.

The dress was swiftly sold and given a prime display in the window of a local vintage store. That was where it caught the eye of its third victim.

“How much is it, Liza?” the maid of honour asked.

“Don’t know and I don’t care. I’d pay anything for it,” Liza replied softly, as she twisted her hips and watched the swish of the dress’s pretty skirts. “I’d kill for this dress.”

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