Flash Fiction: The Dress

It was late and Hana Song was tired. She was tired of them. The journalists and their interviews. The politicians and their demands. The people and their empty, unknowing praise. In spite of this, her shoulders were back, her head was high. She was the picture of deadly beauty, dressed in a blue, tightly fitting, low cut, backless dress, patterned with blue flowers. Her hands folded softly in front of her as she walked up the stairs to the entrance of her high rise apartment. She was a terrible blue viper, ready and waiting to strike. The sound of hundreds of voices, fans, tabloid reporters and security all mixed together as she walked. She was very tired. She had no one to talk to, no one who could understand, no one who could comfort her, no one who could hold her as she cried softly, wishing the loss of so many never had to be, except him. The cause of it all, yet the only one who could bring her back. She wondered to herself when she might get the chance to see him again. Wondered when she might be able to smile again. Wondered when…. 

“MS. SONG!!” 

She was startled out of her thoughts by the wheedling voice of a reporter for the Japanese tabloid, Weekly Asahi Geinō. In her moment of waking dream, she had stopped moving and had been surrounded, her security tried to make a path, but the going was slow. She had been weak and her weakness had been exploited, she would not let that happen again.

“Ms. Song, my name is Kyoshi, reporter for the Weekly Asahi Geinō, what do you have to say about your dress?” 

“First off, Kyoshi, what a very interesting name, with a name like that, you shouldn’t be staring at beautiful women in beautiful dresses, some might consider it improper. Second, Do you think there is something wrong with it? I rather like it.”

She raised her arms gracefully and gave the onlookers a quick spin. Lights flashed and the crowd melted. She once again faced her adversary. His face was red with embarrassment but deeper within his eyes was the soul of a carrion, a creature of death, who feasted on the death of others. 

He raised his voice, the wheedling tone had been replaced with an accusatory one, “The problem, Ms. Song, is the pattern on that dress, those flowers,” he paused for effect, turning to everyone around him building tension in his impromptu audience, “are the signature design of the famed Omnic fashion designer Sanyukta Gurung, our sources tell us her designs are worn exclusively by Null Sector officials, most notably Ramattra, leader of Null Sector. Do you care to comment on this choice?”

Her lips parted but no sound came forth.

She was shocked, she had completely forgotten it was a gift from Ramattra, when she had chosen it that morning she had only known she loved it, known it was the perfect dress, known it was the sweetest gift. But times had been too full and in her foolishness she had forgotten. She had shown the world she loved it. Her weakness had put him in jeopardy and thrown contempt in the face of the trust and love he had shown her. Why was she so weak? Why? Why?  She regained her senses in an instant, 

“I had no idea. I play videogames and save the city from terrifying metal monsters. I lose friends and allies everyday. I am sacrificing the better part of my youth to defend ungrateful men like you from the horrors that lie in wait in our oceans. I don’t have the time of day to care about the foolish intricacies of political showmanship. I wear beautiful things and carry my head high to inspire the people of Korea. I am the manifestation of the warrior princesses of old. You, Kyoshi, are a rat, scrabbling in the grime and the filth of sensationalism and lies. Let me pass.”

He slunk back into the throng, defeated and ashamed and the crowd parted. No one wished to incite the wrath of Hana Song, warrior princess, defender of Korea.

She passed out of the noise of the city into her private elevator. Her security cleared her flat and radioed the all clear to the man accompanying her. 

“You’re clear to enter the room Ms. Song, my boys are all out of there, I’m sure you could use some privacy right now, so we’ve also shut down travel to and from your floor. I’ll be on the floor below, if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Thank you Akio, thank you for everything you do.” 

His cheeks pinkened slightly,

“Of course, Ms. Song, we’re happy to serve.”

They continued the ride in silence until they arrived at the top floor, they exchanged goodbyes and she stood facing the door, still as stone, until the door was closed.

Hana collapsed onto the couch and yelled at the top of her voice,

“I HATE HEELS!” 

She took off her heels and threw them as hard as she could against the wall. One and then the other. They bounced off the wall. She grumbled, why didn’t they break or something. She threw them pretty hard. She stooped down to look at them again, not even a scratch. She needed him, but he wasn’t there. Would he ever be able to come back to her after tonight? Had she ruined everything? She had shown everyone she loved the dress. People would begin to suspect them. She pressed her hands against her face in frustration and anger, why was she so stubborn, why couldn’t she think, just once. She needed to sleep. She picked herself up from the couch, staggered to the light and switched it off. She promptly tripped over one of the heels she had thrown against the wall and fell in a heap to the floor, she would sleep right here she decided, and there she slept.