Killer Heels complete

Killer Heels

 

I recognised the box being pushed towards me, parcel brown, with slanting red letters spelling out the name of my favourite vintage clothing store. However the sight of it did not fill me with the excitement that it usually would have done. This was not a thoughtful surprise from my boyfriend, but a bargaining tool. I met his dark gaze with my grey one, already knowing what was coming. “Katie, baby, I love you.” His chocolate eyes stared into mine, unrelenting, working his magic. “You know she meant nothing to me. It's you I need.”

 

Tired words, said so often that they were beginning to lose their meaning. I wasn't angry, I had learned how to push that down inside me a long time ago. Stupid I know, what kind of woman lets herself be betrayed again and again? The thing is, Ben is not the type of man a girl like me would ever break up with. As attractive as I am plain, as funny and interesting as I am awkward. My boyfriend, the most attractive of clichés; tall, dark and handsome, with one of those smiles that makes all common sense run, tripping over itself, to the nearest escape route. So I forgive him, I don't like it, but what else can I do?

 

He left a short while after his apology, knowing only too well that forgiveness was already his. He promised to return later, with a Chinese and a bottle of wine, his 'treat', and I was left alone. I slid away the lid of the box and removed the old yellowing newspaper that had been used as a protective cover. My breath caught in my throat, Ben's apology came in the form of 1930's vintage high heels, as dangerously sexy as they must have been when they were worn by their original owner. They were so black they shone, with spiked heels, so sharp they resembled a weapon. A thin black strap perfectly designed to make the ankle appear more delicate was the icing on the cake, not one detail had been overlooked, they were a masterpiece. I felt an undefined emotion surge through me, like a slash of desire.

 

Ben knew how obsessed with vintage clothing I was, it had been one of the deciding factors in my choice to study fashion at university. For me they are more than just items of clothing, they all come with a back story as if they have absorbed the spirits of all the people that have worn them before me. I can lose myself for hours, inventing the lives and secrets of people I have never met but feel I know so intimately. When I wear the clothes I feel completely unlike myself, I can adopt someone else's personality, hide behind another appearance, make believe that I am someone else.

 

Staring at the shoes in front of me I could almost see their original owner wearing them, sashaying purposefully down a 1930's London street, a thin mist of rain causing her black cocktail dress to cling to her womanly curves. She would have been tall like me, but she would have had dark cropped hair unlike my sandy, mid length style. She would have had pale skin, but not almost translucent and prone to freckles like mine, but so creamy and thick that it would have contrasted alarmingly with her red bee stung lips. She would have smoked cigarettes from a long elegant holder, the scent of the smoke mixing alluringly with her heady musky scent. Not the kind of woman that any man would cheat on, but if he did, he would have been sorry. Slipping my feet into the shoes I was surprised at their warmth, it was as if she had just stepped out of them.

 

I made my way across the lounge into my bedroom and turned to view my reflection in the dressing table mirror, the style of the shoes seemed to change the way I walked, my hips swayed more than usual. My whole body felt more loose, more in touch with sensation, my cotton blouse tight against my breasts, tights hugging my thighs. Rifling through my make-up box I was uninterested by my usual styles. All the colours were too pale, uninteresting. Digging deeper I came across a deep scarlet lipstick that I did not recall buying, it's black casing stood out in such stark comparison to the other shiny lip glosses that it's presence in my collection surprised me. I tentatively applied the lipstick, it was thick and dark and instinctively my lips curled into a cruel smile that I did not recognise.

 

I ran my fingers over the different textures of the clothes in my cramped wardrobe. I came to rest on a red knee length tasselled flapper dress that I had never worn. It slipped over my body, weightless, like a second skin. Staring at my reflection I seemed like a stranger, the shoes changed the way I held myself, the blood red lipstick made my skin appear creamy and thick. I was no longer in the mood for staying in with greasy food, cheap wine and a cheating boyfriend. I wanted to be outside in the dark night, exploring this world I seemed to be seeing through different eyes.

 

When Ben eventually returned, he brought the smell of the pub with him. He stumbled across my small living room, to the entrance of my door where I stood looking at him with a mixture of boredom and anger. His lips went straight to my neck, whilst his hands tangled in my hair painfully. "Mmm, you smell so good" he slurred, breathing hot whisky into my face, one hand pulled at my hair whilst the other moved down to fumble gracelessly with his belt. Usually I would leap on any attention he paid me, pathetically ignoring my own feelings in order to keep him close to me, but tonight something felt different. For the first time in a long and miserable year an unfamiliar knife of anger stabbed me in the pit of my stomach, so strong I almost doubled over. I pushed him away with strength I did not realise I possessed. He stumbled backwards and in an attempt to regain his balance he grabbed blindly at my hair. I gasped as he pulled me over with him and as I struggled to release myself, my foot shot out and the heel of my shoe slashed across Ben's shin, cutting clean through his trousers and into his skin. My body suddenly righted itself as Ben fell, my feet acting as if they had a will of their own.

 

He staggered backwards clutching his leg and breathing hard. His dark eyes fixed on mine once again, strange how only a few hours could change his effect on me so dramatically. Those velvety eyes that could crumble any resolve I had now only fanned the flames of my anger. My lipstick was smeared on his throat, the colour of blood.

 

With my high heels it now felt like I looked down on Ben from a great height. I could feel my anger rising at the back of my throat, threatening to spill out in a tirade of words I would never usually say. I swallowed hard and managed to seethe “Get out.” He flinched at my voice, it sounded so unlike my own, it was slightly deeper, husky almost, like I had just finished a cigarette. He opened his mouth, then shut it again abruptly. He stayed for a few more seconds before turning and stumbling towards my door. At the threshold he turned again and eyed me with a look of wonder on his face. This surprised me, I had been expecting anger or disgust, but my actions seemed to have intrigued him. Before the implications of this had time to sink in he was gone, weaving his way unsteadily down the stairs.

 

On shaking legs I made my way back into my room, exhausted. I sat down and slipped the shoes from my feet. Almost at once my fury evaporated and I slumped back on my elbows, my new found grace gone. My nose wrinkled at the smell of whisky that still lingered in the air. The last thing I noticed before sleep took me under was the smell of alcohol, now tinged with cigarette smoke and another velvety scent I could not quite identify, although it seemed vaguely familiar.

 

That night I had a disturbing myriad of dreams. Familiar, painful scenes that I had no wish to relive; my boyfriend, staring at me steadily the first time I caught him with another woman. I saw myself crying, great sobs that made my body shake, tears sparkling as they fell, then the quiet, cold depression taking me over, freezing me. Then the scene changed to something else. I was standing in an ornate mirrored hall, watching laughing couples weave and twirl to the music of a swing band. My frozen tears were now the shining diamonds that glinted from the wrists and necks of the laughing women. Ben's eyes were multiplied a hundred times in the gazes of the men, as dark and as beautiful as their flawless suits. My eyes lingered on a certain group, all dressed impeccably in old fashioned dress coats and tails, all so handsome that they could melt vulnerable hearts. I had the distinct feeling that I was searching for one man in particular, but I could not remember who. I tapped my feet to the music of the band, my spiked heels beating out a steady rhythm, like a drum.

 

The smoke from my cigarette curled lazily across my vision, and I followed its tendrils until I was watching myself in one of the mirrored walls. Except it was not me that I was staring at, not the weak woman in my earlier dreams. It was the dark haired, pale skinned beauty that I had imagined walking down a 1930's street. Her lips curled into a cruel pout, the colour of blood, they resembled a cut across her pale skin. It was an expression that should have sent trickles of fear through my veins, but instead I felt the warm blanket of familiarity that comes from being reunited with an old friend. My body, or her body as it was now, uncurled itself from the chair and began to walk with a catlike prowl that I had no control over.

 

New sensations rippled through this different body, the silk of my dress stoked my curves, awakening ripples of desire, the height of my shoes arched my feet in an exquisite pain. I could taste the hunger in the stares that followed my path, could see the jealousy reflected in the diamonds of the women. Faces and bodies circled my vision, blurring into one another, but there was just one face, one body I searched for, and with it came the strongest sensation of all, a cold steely fury. I meant to kill someone tonight, of that I was sure, I dimly felt sparks of sheer panic in the back of my head but they were weak and soon they had been stamped out. I stalked the room like a lioness would stalk her prey.

 

I awoke suddenly, no longer on my bed but curled up on the sofa. The heels of my shoes were cutting into my legs, sharp enough to draw blood, I must have put them on during my sleepwalk. The dream still clung to my senses, the reflected images of couples in an unknown mirrored ballroom still danced before my eyes. My thoughts turned to the mysterious woman that seemed to be lingering in the shadows of my mind as if I had dragged her out of my dream into the world. I could feel her presence all around me, see her in every mirror, smell the intoxicating scent of her fury on my dress. I felt her inside my own skin, moving my body in different ways, poisoning my thoughts with flame and metal. I gripped the arm of the sofa, trying to control my breathing, struggling to cling onto any control at all, to regain my body and my thoughts from this dangerous beauty.

 

In the bedroom I rubbed my lips furiously to remove the thick lipstick and exchanged the red flapper dress for a pale pink dressing gown. Sitting on the edge of the bed I struggled to take off the shoes, it was like they had moulded themselves to my feet. When they finally came free, the sight of my feet was enough to make my stomach lurch. They were covered in little cuts and bruises, as if the shoes had been brutally manipulating my skin. With a shudder I chucked the shoes far under my bed, vowing to get rid of them later that day.

 

Hours later I sat on the sofa tense and trembling, after my grovelling telephone call Ben had agreed to forgive me for my behaviour the previous night. Of course it did not occur to him that the fault may also have been his, that he had acted unacceptably and I had merely reacted to it. Not that I would ever bring that up, losing him was too much of a risk. He let himself into the flat and as usual there was little time for niceties. He led me straight to my room and lay me down on the bed. With a wicked smile he whispered “How about you wear those shoes?” I took a sharp intake of breath, the memories of my loss of control earlier ignited in my mind. “Please” he breathed huskily, his voice breaking with lust. The eyes that usually only conveyed boredom and a sense of duty, now sparkled with desire. Him wanting me as much as I wanted him was enough to get rid of any ridiculous fears of a make believe woman.

 

I let him slip the shoes onto my feet. He sat back and with a start I recognised the hunger of his stare matched the stares of the men in my dreams. My body jerked as he lay his lips on me, pinning me underneath him, restricting my breathing. My heartbeat quickened as I realised I could not move, I tried to speak to tell him to be more gentle but my voice caught in my throat. He was so heavy, I struggled underneath him, pathetically clawing at his chest in vain attempt to free myself. Frantically I tossed my head from side to side until he caught my hair, bunched it in his fist and pulled until I was completely in his power. My eyes were trained on our reflection in the dressing table mirror. Except, as in my dream, it was not myself I was staring at. It was black hair that was caught in his hands, dark eyes that stared back at me.

 

I lay silently, barely registering his violent treatment of my body. I could feel her in me, screaming and cursing, her rage flooding and feeding my own. Long after he was finished and asleep I lay there trying not to give myself over to her, but she was tearing at my consciousness, with her talon sharp nails, picking apart my thoughts stitch by stitch. By the time that I finally gave myself to sleep I was no longer sure what was right, or what was real.

 

I fell into her body much quicker this time, it was as if I had never been awake. I could still hear the muffled music of the swing band, although now I was standing on the street outside the hall. I noticed the familiar shape of a man I knew well, obscured by a swirling mist. When he finally turned and came into focus, I felt a stab of pain in my chest, this was the man I had been looking for. His deep brown eyes widened in recognition. Eyes that had pierced many an innocent heart, most recently the one of the body I now inhabited, leaving a hole that had allowed hate to stream in unchecked, until there room for nothing else, a heart that beat solely for destruction. His stammered apologies slipped over me, matching every sorry I had ever heard, meaningless. Silently I rested a hand on the back of his neck, then I crushed his lips against my own, hard enough to bruise. He did not pull away, he had always liked it rough. This body bore the scars for his penchant for sex and violence. Bending slightly I slipped one shoe from my foot. My fingers closed around the arch, caressing it like the handle of a knife. Still murmuring empty words into his open mouth I brought the sharp heel of the shoe down in a graceful arc and slashed across the delicate skin of his neck.

 

I awoke to heavy darkness. I knew immediately that something was wrong, the silence of the flat was absolute, not broken by Ben's usual heavy breathing. His weight against my body was unmoving. I did not need to turn the light on to know that he was dead. Laughter reverberated around the room, it was not my own, although I could feel it ripping from my body.

 

 

Author's Note

I'm looking to put this forward for a collection of short stories loosely based around image and what clothes mean to women. Would really appreciate any feedback as this will be the first story I'm submitting professionally. Thankyou!