Swan Song by Lydia Graves
Friday, September 6, 2024
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
A macabre short story.
CHAPTER ONE
There are some people who would rather be dead than invisible. People who will stop at nothing to turn a head, to be the topic of conversation, a lingering image in someone’s memory, photographed for a glossy magazine doing ordinary things like shopping, sipping an espresso or simply crossing the road. It’s their raison d’être: to be seen; remembered. Not for doing good or remarkable things. No, for the clothes and shoes they wear.
I have kept the company of these people, and have lived in their shadows, so I am not invisible, just a shade of grey, or sliding on a spectrum of black and white, like camouflage. These people keep me fed. Jungle green is no use to me or them; the black swans of the world glide past in their Gucci shoes and diamond-studded ankle bracelets, and so I mimic them. Think of me as a lyrebird, able to copy the sounds of other birds.
You see, I work in a very special kind of fashion industry, for very special fashion shows, with the biggest of the year just about to start: “The Cut Walk”.
It’s nice to keep you guessing for a little while longer. It’s not often I have all of the attention, so please humour me a little bit longer.
The people I work with have a penchant for the macabre, for black humour, for dark. I don’t mean black clothes. A simple black dress? Not likely. There are plenty of things these people wouldn’t be seen dead in.
But wearing dead human things – like skin, tissue – yes; for the right occasion, with the right people there to see, now that they want to be seen in. Not just my special guest, but all these warped fashion-followers. That’s what this show is all about. In business, you have to give the consumer what they want.
To achieve this collection, I’ve been something of a magpie, paying my way for a litre of blood for the make-up, a kilo of flesh, a mile ribbon of tissue… It still astonishes me what money will buy if you know the right people. To be honest, though, The Cut Walk Collection is as much about an affirmation of my life, and gift as a designer and entrepreneur, as it is about death, and the dark desires of those who will buy and wear these clothes, changing inside from grey to the blackest of black.
Clothes. They didn’t mean much to me until I was fourteen, and I saw a beautiful woman at my father’s house party. She was wearing a Versace dress so sophisticated that only her erogenous zones were covered up. It was difficult to tell where her loose, black hair stopped and the black silk material began. I remember thinking that, if I were a classic car, I would like to make a handbrake turn to the smell of hot rubber, just to make her head turn my way for a second. She oozed sexuality and confidence from every pore. Needless to say, she never noticed me until the following day.
She stayed over and ate breakfast, in a pair of striped pyjamas two sizes too big for her, too shy to ask my father to pass the sugar, so I did. She was stooped and lounged in the chair – clothes, you see, transform your behaviour. The street alley cat morphed into a bag-puss. Dad had obviously seen every inch of her body by then, and had lost all interest; now, strong coffee and a hot croissant had all of his attention.
I am grateful that I met that woman, whatever her name was – Father had so many. She was the first to teach me how powerful and transformative garments can be. The idea appealed to my sensibility.
When I was twenty, I chose my first wife based on the choice of her handbag – and, of course, its contents. Zara carried an open-topped tote bag – here was a woman with an open, trusting nature. I delved inside many times during our five years of marriage, soon to tire of the emotional creature carrying perfume, tissues, a soft, pink purse and three different shades of lipstick, wherever she went. It was Zara who told me I was addicted to gambling. I told her farewell.
At thirty-two, I met a marketing consultant who carried a leather briefcase. I found both her and the bag erotic. The black leather purse inside was snapped shut, zipped, as private and closed as the jewels between her legs. We shared the same passion for gambling, only she was better at it than me.
This evening, I hope that will change.
You see, I am older now, much older in many ways. I still enjoy looking at the way women change into other creatures at parties and events, when they are wearing my clothes. I especially like the ones who suddenly own their sex drive, who propel their bodies forward into a crowded room, like an Aston Martin with the top down, the wind in their dyed air. Women who rev their engines when they see something they want – and, for a short time, kid people into thinking they always get what they want.
I steer clear of romantic involvement with women. I consider myself asexual. Clothes, adoring looks and gambling are aphrodisiac enough to satisfy me.
These people here at The Cut Walk have been my business for thirty years. The vain, careless, rich, hungry ones who should know better. The ones seeking the life of their alter-ego, even if it’s just for one night. In a moment, I will welcome them to a spectacle – and to a kaleidoscope of sensations – of disturbance, awe and repulsion in equal measure. Each and every one is a multi-millionaire, expensively dressed and respectable-looking – so predictable, but they come with a deplorable fetish.
How delicious.
CHAPTER TWO
It is a balmy summer evening and the blackest of nights. Lanterns hang from the yew trees, dispersing gentle light over gravestones which complement a full moon, carving out the silhouettes of grim cherubs and my guests, all side by side.
The catwalk, which runs down the centre of the graveyard like a white seam, is lit by green strobes and rimmed by yellow cats’ eyes. At one end, the models will stop and turn; the other is an altar, lavishly adorned with lilies, black orchids and candles.
The air is fragranced by the flowers and incense, sickly-sweet, to soften the dark beauty of a model dancing in a glass enclosure, to the right of the altar. A skeleton is painted onto her exquisite naked body, her face masked with a fine silk web. She moves like a dying moth around a fading lightbulb.
Jessica Livingstone is the dark beauty in the front row, with the enormous Bulgari ruby ring on her finger. She is dressed to kill in a Prada red silk dress with fluted lace sleeves, which fall gracefully around her slender wrists and hands. It’s me she wants dead. That one will steal the show when she stands up.
But, not just yet; I have my swansong and my final legacy first: a masterpiece of theatrical talent and technical flare.
I shall make my appearance in a moment, and start the fashion show. It is unusual for me to feel nervous, but this is an unusual occasion. Not the show itself. Death. Pertinent, given our location. It is assumed that a mourner won’t visit a gravestone and interrupt the show, but it’s a nice possibility, which I haven’t planned for – I am a gambling man. To have stiff bodyguards and ugly metal fencing wouldn’t do. Besides, not many mourners pay their respects at three in the morning, I suppose.
The gravestones and dark monuments are disturbing as they are, enhanced by the thick, white webs festooned over almost everything. Some headstones are as tall as me, others tilted, cracked, and most show their age by the moss and lichen clinging to them, which are achingly beautiful in the glow-worm lights. Only a few of the graves have recently been tended to, remembered with flowers and such, which I am glad about.
‘Ready?’ I ask the army of models behind me, to prime them for our grand entrance onto the catwalk. Army is perhaps the wrong word to use, because we are a family, joined by flesh and blood: not ours, of course, but that is beside the point. They are instructed to move like mourners, to tread slowly, like a funeral presage.
My models are exceptional. Patient to have withstood hours of preparation, for minutes on the show, while wearing a corset, worn for now beneath a black cape and red contact lenses. Their blusher is made from blood, and the lipstick from human fat. Wearing animal skin and fur is so unoriginal and last season, though I did spot snakeskin shoes and a matching handbag in the audience. Perhaps the guest has fallen on hard times.
I signal to the lighting technician. Then, we parade through the graveyard like flashing, green ghouls, like the lids of coffins have been lifted. We parade, we tread, we dazzle, as the green strobes run their long, thin fingers over my guests and over us.
From the muted sounds coming from the audience, I sense pleasure and disquiet – a perfect combination.
We all wear masks, even me. I won’t pretend that’s because I have a conscience. Vanity, I’m afraid, to hide the fear I feel, too freely expressed by the twitch in my left eye, and the sweat from my pores. Besides, the crow-masks add to the macabre theme of the show, inspired by Dia de Muertos, and my customers’ insatiable desire for fashion murderabilia.
I am a genius.
‘Welcome! Welcome! Some of you have travelled a long way to be here for this special evening. It will be worth it, I assure you!’ I say, fleetingly meeting eyes with Jessica Livingstone. ‘This exclusive line of fashion is the apex of my long career. Clothes have become props or costumes for behaviour; they transcend mere body dressing, or articulating concepts of the individual. They express our greatest and darkest of longings. Clothing is a metaphor which goes beyond the personal, beyond words. So, the need for anonymity and privacy is paramount this evening. These masks, hoods and capes conceal identity and can conceal illicit behaviour. The thrill of the reveal is all mine! Enjoy!’ I say, and take a small bow, to the sound of applause and the music of Camille Saint-Saëns’s “Danse Macabre”, played by the orchestra seated in the shadow of the church, beneath the gargoyles and stained-glass windows. It’s all in the detail.
The models remove their lace and chainmail capes to expose white, satin corsets, adorned with the faces of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy on the delicate buttons, the blood-red lace frills embellished with roses made from flesh, held in place by the tissues and ligaments from beautiful humans. The wigs are made of real hair from victims of murder, and the necklaces from real bones. Another expense, but worth it.
With corsets, it is all about the waist. Even though I say so myself, it was a touch of genius for a simple, black silk ribbon to hold in place a murder weapon used in some of the most notorious crimes. Costly to purchase, I might add.
Saying that, I do love to dress a neck. Alexander McQueen’s skull scarf was a delicious touch. I wish he could be here to see the show. In memory of his work, two models are wearing scarves made from silk and human skin.
The strobes do an excellent job of catching the light on those blades, seemingly moving in synchronization with the music – more classical, of course. If I’m not mistaken, the orchestra is playing “CORTÈGE MACABRE”, BY COPLAND. I WOULD HAVE LIKED TO HAVE MET COPLAND; I THINK WE HAVE MUCH IN COMMON, WITH OUR WAY OF COMBING MENACE AND THE GROTESQUE WITH ART. WE ARE BOTH COMPOSERS, AFTER ALL.
Now the models turn in strappy, red heels, and the black taffeta puff-skirts come to life, to the aching beauty of a violin solo. I feel overwhelmed for a moment by my creations, my Frankenstein’s monsters. Sequins wink in the light, and the black nets over the skirts catch the breeze. Such beauty. I am a creator. I will make God topple from the sky. I will entertain Satan. Just watch me.
Jessica looks bored.
CHAPTER THREE
It was Jessica’s husband Frederick who introduced us, at a cocktail party in Rome. She tired of him shortly after, took half his wealth and moved on to a younger man. I remember when she said to me, ‘I find beauty in the grotesque,’ and our eyes met. It wasn’t her line, of course; it was Alexander McQueen’s. But our paths had crossed, and I knew then that this one leads to death.
Her glossy, black hair and long fringe make the most of those feline grey eyes, which know too much about me. I know I will be hung up in one of her walk-in wardrobes. I will nestle beside Versace, Prada and Chanel. I will mostly live on a hanger, and soon go out of fashion. A befitting end, I suppose.
At first, I was so careful not to puncture my skin with safety pins or needles; she is an exacting client. I wonder how I will look on her; she has a thin, bony body with excellent legs.
The models are walking back off stage.
At one time, I thought: What if I were to gamble one last time? To hurry between the models, disappear from view, run and hide? There is no life, though, spent in hiding, in fear. I couldn’t respect myself. Not I.
I have my debt to pay. So large: £6 million. Only a life will clear the debt.
It is brilliant to plan one’s death in the theatre of the fashion show. Only Jessica and I know that when my body is placed on the altar it will be a corpse, and the knives removing the skin from my face and arms will be real. The design for her ‘coat of me’, as we have called it, is quite exquisite. It had to be. My final legacy, on her back, she said perhaps one day rivalling the best work by Alexander McQueen and Leigh Bowery.
The last line of models makes their appearance, as my phone vibrates in my pocket: a text confirms that my debt is paid. I smile beneath the mask. I amuse myself with the thought that I am in the black.
As planned, Jessica is invited onto the catwalk as my special guest, and is duly wrapped in a cape of human flesh, tissue and sinew; human blood is applied to her cheeks and lips. How willing she is, of course – I expect she thinks it is an aperitif. The black and white chessboard of a catwalk is the perfect place for her and me to stand, before we take our final move and exit.
I feel almost wistful, reflective, as the models exit the stage, and my guest and I remain smiling at the audience. It is almost time for checkmate.
‘Jessica is here tonight because she has been an inspiration for this show and The Cut Walk Collection, an affirmation of life and death!’
The audience claps, while I wonder what heinous acts of criminality and deviance will be committed by the guests who end up buying my clothes and wigs. It’s a chilling thought, to imagine them sliding on a garment to perform their darkest desires, as if thinking it’s an invisible cloak. I can’t be held accountable for other people’s lack of immortality, and the inadequacies of the law, now, can I? I shouldn’t indulge, but I wonder who will be their victims. What will become of their physical selves? I am glad I don’t leave children behind to worry about.
Jessica is loving the charade of adoration from the crowd, as I knew she would. God, how I have worked to get to this moment: to be free of debt, and so very nearly free of her clutches.
I smile at Jessica as the applause fades. I recall she told me she plans to wear me to the Bovary Fashion Show in New York, in the winter, and the Tate Fashion Show in London, in January. How uninspired.
The three-hundred crows are making a din from their metal cages, wings flapping against the sides in a futile act. They have been half-starved in readiness for the occasion. It was an idea which came late in the planning – not mine; Frederick’s.
The climax of the show draws near. The orchestra has left, and the sound of a heartbeat is amplified through speakers, perching in the trees. She and I haven’t long now. My face aches from fake smiles.
An assistant opens the cages, and a battering of wings and ugly sounds arrests the audience’s attention for one last time. I like that the audience’s feathers are ruffled – especially Jessica’s – and not the crows’. How beautiful their black wings and dead ebony eyes are. Even the sound of their beating wings outshines the music of the finest composures. These carriers of pain and death are my family.
My sweet assistant tells the troubled audience that the show is over, and Champagne is being served in the church. Off my guests go. So obedient.
The graveyard is deserted, save for Jessica, I and the full moon, a menacing presence and a welcome observer. I am touched that no clouds obscure its view, the way a head can in an audience. Her head is tilted on one side; she is waiting for an explanation, and for the final act.
It was the crows that determined I would wear a long black cape, with deep pockets and a shimmering silver lining.
‘Jessica,’ I say, as I move my hands into the deep pockets, ‘this is for you, my dear.’ And I throw birdseed over Jessica, from head to toe.
Famished, the crows descend from their perches, diving to the catwalk, onto Jessica.
Those gorgeous gold stilettoes and tight frock make swift movement terribly difficult for her; she stumbles backward and falls. A crack suggests a break, or at least a fractured shoulder. I feel like laughing. I keep my cape open, to reveal the glinting silver lining the birds hate.
A mass of black wings and fierce beaks settle all over Jessica’s back, pecking at the cape, at her head. One of her exquisite shoes has come off, the heel snapped off clean. Pity. Her bony arms flap inside the cape, trying to protect her face from the hungry beaks. I watch the birds eat their fill, shredding her tasty face into pork strips.
I kneel down beside her. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead on you.’
In the exquisite opening of her body, and the scattering of its contents, moonlight doesn’t falter. I slide my tongue over my lips, imagining the taste of Jessica. Her face isn’t so gorgeous anymore. That ripped mouth of hers still looks like a grin, though – a few more tugs and it won’t. She raises her arms in a protective gesture, and the lace sleeves slide down to expose bony elbows. One of them is grazed – from the initial fall, I expect.
That first time we met, there was an affinity, a shared appreciation of dark beauty – that much is true . Now Jessica is almost entirely obscured beneath black wings and probing beaks; the crows’ lyrics drown out her cries.
If I were a gambling man – which I am – I’d say Jessica hasn’t much longer to suffer. If she hadn’t been so thin, it might go on for longer.
Such a beautiful death. A true piece of theatre: a marriage of the dark and the unexpected. Jessica would have approved, and found beauty in the grotesque.
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Indenting the paragraphs would make it a little easier to read. Otherwise the story was well-written and the surprise ending was a nice twist. But, I've never been attracted to stories like this even though I enjoyed whatever Allan Poe wrote. It's just not my cup of tea. Based on what you wrote I believe you have a large following of people who like this kind of genre.
Happy Halloween. A volume of Horrible Haunts & Twisted Tales taken from the horror books La Belle Rouge has written every October for a decade and a half. If you have read her works in the horror genre, you know the invitation is for you to enjoy thr
The fortunate inherit riches, prestige, positive notoriety. Those not so lucky bear legacies filled with poverty, infamy or, worse yet, the unhinged insanity and murderous urges of their ancestors.
The fortunate inherit riches, prestige, positive notoriety. Those not so lucky bear legacies filled with poverty, infamy or, worse yet, the unhinged insanity and murderous urges of their ancestors.
CHAPTER ONE
