by Fiona Page
“What do you want to do today?” Lacy asks, wrapping both hands around her pink poodle mug and taking a sip of the chai inside. She glances over at her girlfriend through a cloud of steam.
Sierra shrugs, her shoulder dipping gracefully. She’s dressed in a fluffy teal sweater that costs more than Lacy makes in three months at her job, artfully ripped skinny jeans, and black satin ballet flats that Lacy covets with a passion. Her dark hair is long and loose, and sometimes staring at her is like staring at a painting, done by the most masterful hand.
“I have a party coming up for my art class,” Lacy offers. “I could use some help deciding what to wear.”
Sierra visibly brightens, as Lacy knew she would. Shopping and fashion are her two favorite hobbies, and she has a huge walk-in closet to prove it. Of course, no one but the Fashionista herself is allowed to enter the closet. It’s like an achievement that Lacy hasn’t quite unlocked. She doesn’t mind. As long as Sierra shares her wonderful clothes, everything’s good.
Sometimes, though, she can’t help wondering, Why don’t you trust me?
Thoughts like this are fleeting, especially when Lacy remembers how well the two of them fit together.
“Let me get my purse. Finish your chai, darling, and we’ll go shopping,” Sierra says, leaving the kitchen.
Smiling affectionately, Lacy finishes her drink, placing the cup in the sink.
####
Sierra is a self-proclaimed Master of Fashion, and Lacy is more than happy to indulge her in her title. She deserves it, after all—who else could find an outfit that Lacy never would’ve even considered that is somehow perfect?
“Absolutely lovely,” Sierra says, watching Lacy twirl in front of the dressing room mirror. “I’ll lend you my white Chanel purse to wear with it.”
Lacy smiles, examining the outfit in the mirror. It’s a rose-gold dress that somehow pulls gold highlights out of her wavy blond hair. The skirt is satiny and soft, reaching her knees at the perfect length for spinning in circles.
She meets Sierra’s dark eyes in the mirror and blows her a kiss.
####
She wears the dress and her favorite ankle boots to the party. Sierra tries to persuade her to wear heels, but Lacy wins that argument by illustrating how many lucky things have happened to her while wearing these boots. An internship at her favorite art college, a promotion at her job, a meet-cute with a wonderful, fashionable goddess…there’s luck woven into these boots, she just knows it.
The purse and a pair of large hoop earrings were non-negotiable, however. Both items came out of the mysterious walk-in closet. Lacy feels like a kid on their birthday whenever Sierra brings a new, lovely piece of clothing out.
Sierra watches her leave the apartment, a fond smile on her face, dark eyes alight with amusement.
####
Lacy wakes up the next morning to Sierra cleaning. And by cleaning, she means clothes are flying out of the closet. Rolling onto her side, Lacy blinks. A black slip dress hits the wood floor, and Sierra emerges from the closet.
“What’s the matter?” Lacy asks, brushing hair out of her face.
“Looking for stuff to donate,” Sierra replies, walking around the dress and into the bathroom. Bottles clink as she begins her morning face routine. “I feel…claustrophobic. Too many memories.”
“I’ve never seen this one before,” Lacy tells her, kneeling to pick up the slippery fabric. It’s exactly the kind of thing her girlfriend would love wearing.
Sierra pokes her head around the corner. “It’s not mine.”
Lacy stares at her before the meaning sinks in. “Oh.” Oh. This dress, the one she has in her arms, belonged to one of Sierra’s exes. She can’t tell if she wants to throw it back on the floor or burn it. But even though she can’t help being a bit jealous, she isn’t the kind of person to do things like that.
So, she gives a small smile and folds the dress, laying it on a chair.
Sierra watches her and crosses the room, pulling Lacy into a hug. “I’m sorry, darling. That was callous of me.”
“I love you,” Lacy says, voice muffled by Sierra’s fluffy white sweater.
“I love you too,” Sierra says into her hair.
####
“Hello?” Lacy calls, stepping into the apartment. She has a meeting in half an hour, and it’s a bit surprising that Sierra isn’t home.
She just wanted to borrow a pair of heels, the pink Louboutin ones that make her a few inches taller and make her feel a lot more confident. She’s never been in a situation like this, where she wants to borrow something, but Sierra isn’t here to ask. It’s not that big of a deal, right? It’s just a pair of shoes.
I’ll tell her when I get home, she decides, making her way into the bedroom. The closet doors are closed tight, as usual, and she digs her fingers into the grooves and drags them open.
The inside is pitch black, and she feels like she’s doing something she shouldn’t be. She fumbles for the light, fingers catching on the ceiling string and pulling down. Light floods the closet.
It’s even better than she imagined. Designer dresses, suits, skirts, and sweaters hang from the rails on all sides. Built-in drawers have hats and shoes balanced on top. More pairs of shoes lie under the racks, barely visible under vivid silks. The air smells like Sierra’s perfume, roses and a subtle musk, mixed with the faintest scent of dust, the kind that clings to a collection of antiques.
Oh, my god. This is amazing! She squeals internally, resisting the urge to run her hands over everything she can reach.
Crouching, Lacy scans the shoes. She finally spots the pair she’s looking for at the far end and hurries over, brushing the red lace dress aside. Her fingers skim over something rough, something out of place in a sanded cedar closet. Frowning, she pushes the hanger into the other clothes, creating a clear space.
It takes several seconds to understand what she’s seeing. Hanging from a hook on the back wall of the closet is something that looks awfully similar to a human spine. Lacy’s seen enough anatomy in her drawing classes to know what she’s looking at, but…it doesn’t make any sense. There’s a tag tied to the top of the…thing with Jessie is written on it in cursive handwriting.
Sierra’s handwriting.
Breath coming in shallowly, Lacy stumbles a few feet away and shoves more clothes aside. A coat falls to the floor, a puddle of opulent wool, but she doesn’t care. Another spine is hung in the shadows, this tag reading Helene.
In a daze, she searches the entire closet, until clothes lie in disorderly heaps all around her. There are seven spines, vertebrae locked together like puzzle pieces, hanging from hooks. Bella. Kaitlyn. Maddie. Jia. Scarlett.
Lacy presses her hands against her mouth to keep from getting sick. This is why Sierra never let her in here. This, this horrifying scene. These spines, pinned like trophy ribbons to the wall. These spines belonging to Sierra’s ex-girlfriends.
She’s been living with a murderer.
How did she never guess something was wrong? Sierra is a closed-off person, it’s true, but Lacy always assumed it was because she had been hurt one too many times by people she allowed herself to be vulnerable around. And Lacy had accepted her as she was, foolishly hoping that someday, she might become the person Sierra needs.
I need my phone, where did I leave it, I need to call the police. She’s floundering, spinning in dizzy circles, searching. There. Next to the pink heels. She grabs it, dialing with clumsy fingers. When the call’s over, she isn’t sure what exactly she said, but hopefully it was enough. Tears blur her vision, her throat tight, heart pounding frantically.
She should be terrified right now.
So why is her chest filled with crushing anger?
The closet blurs around her, a transformation from heaven to hell in mere moments.
####
Time seems to be slip out of context. It seems like both an eternity and seconds later when she hears a key in the lock. Her heart is beating too loudly. This is not how she wants to die. Because she knows what will happen to her, when Sierra discovers her. She’ll be another spine on the wall. A tag with the name Lacy on it, a rose-gold ribbon…
A trophy, a conquest. Another fool who fell for Sierra’s mystique, for her tragic, wounded heart.
Steadying herself, she creeps over to the door. There is a balcony in the bedroom with a fire escape. She can do this.
At the last minute, as a furious, terrified, defiant afterthought, she snatches the pink heels and bolts for the glass door. It takes too long to open as she listens to Sierra moving through the kitchen, her voice loud in the oppressive silence. “Lacy, darling? You home? I brought takeout from that Indian place down the road that you like.”
Finally, the door slides open. Bare feet against cold metal, Lacy runs, a pair of Louboutin heels grasped in one hand. The hazy dusk of the city swallows her up when she reaches the ground.
Leonardo Magazine 