The Seamstress

I woke to the sound of a softly feminine melody. It floated in the hallway as I felt my way in darkness to the source of the voice-a girl, backlit by the fluorescent blue flickers of the dens' television. The volume was on mute, bu ticker tape and war photographs gave away the identity of a local news station.

A chill ran down my spine as the girl's haunted whisper of a wordless song accompanied a plastic, beaming anchorwoman reporting another tragedy from foreign soil. I looked back at the owner of the disturbingly beautiful voice, which was simply humming the tune without any regard for me.

I noticed what I could about her. Pale hair like the soft, thin whisps found in ears of fresh corn waved to her chest, hiding her face from view. The short-sleeved dress she wore was light blue in color. It hung loose on her frail frame and stopped at her knees. The hem was torn beynd repair, much like the plain white shirt that she held in her hands. After a moment, I realized that the shirt belonged to me.

What really caught ym attention was her hands. Pale and small, like the rest of her, they worked at a slow, even pace. She was stitiching a long, ragged rip in the fabric back together, taking her time as she did so. I remember seeing other seamstresses work, but never like this. Usually they used machines, and even if they didn't, theire stitches had never been so tiny and efficient.

"Lady, I hope you realize there's no point in trying to save that old thing. Really, it's a wasted effort. Not worth it." I could have asked her who she was and what the hell she was doing in my living room this late at night, and for that matter, how she'd gotten inside in the first place, but I felt no need to. Soemthing about her was unplacable and familiar. It was the feeling that I'd known her for years and fell out of contact with. I felt like she knew all my secrets and had no problems keeping them. More than that, i felt embarrassment for not remembering how I knew her.

Her low voice interrupted my trainwreck timeline of thought. "Maybe not, Rachel. Maybe it isn't worth it. Regardless, it must be done." I opened my mouth to protest, but closed it again once I realized I had no argument. Minutes passed under te tyranny of silence before the mystery girl pulled a knife on the noiseless Caesar and renamed herself Brutus.

"You never saw it coming, did you?" I turned away, back to ghostly light projected by the latest stock market crisis story. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, "He was so messy about it, too.Two knives, deep cuts, long, hard strikes. He really screwed you over. How's his new girlfriend?" I wicned at every negative connotation. It had been months since anyone had mentioned his double betrayal to my face, much less said anything about Lauren, the one who replaced me. I'd heard they were doing well. Frequently, I wondered just what I'd done to make him seek out Lauren while still in the security of our relationship, but I never talked about it.

I sighed and looked over in time to see the girl hop of her stool. I was surprised that her fragile looking bones didn't shatter at the impact.She placed the cloth in my hands, and our eyes met for the first time. Hazel, flickering in the sickly glow, and I knew I recognized her for sure. She smiled, "Almost done."

An eyebrow raised as she showed me the untied thread. "You can't do it?" I asked. The girl sighed, shrugging her gaunt shoulders with a childlike grace. "I could, but I shouldn't. This is something you need to end for yourself." I glanced down and after a moment, I tied a tight little knot that matched the girl's perfect stitches.

I stared at the knot, the shirt, the mending stitches, and I felt a serenity I had long since forgotten. It had been too long since I'd known this calm confidence and this faith that I was alright. My smile morphed into a full grin and as I laughed a word of thanks...

...I was reciprocated by the low murmurs of the news crew and the absence of any female presence in the room, save for myself. I blinked, wondering if she had only been a wishful dream, a hallucination. I proved my sanity by running the lines of the stiching under my thumb.

I was still trying to rationalize the girl's presence when my pocket started vibrating. One missed call, from my friend Shelby. Scrolling through my contact list, I stopped a few names before Shell-Bell...I hadn't called him in months, and yet, he was still her in my phone, taunting me with his name. My thumb waited for the signal to put pressure on the button.

I thought back on the months before, when I'd called him more than I probably should have. He'd done more than hurt me. His unfaithful actions had been followed by the assurances that he was sorry, that it would never happen again, that he loved me and only me. I know it was silly to take him back, but I always did it. I needed him in my life, because when it was good, it was good. When it was bad, i just wanted the good back, no matter the cost. I couldn't bear it when he broke me down completely, when he finally dropped the bomb.

I wanted to tell him I missed what I felt for him, and how he made me feel about myself in those times where I really was the only girl for him. I wanted to hold it over his head, take pleasure in the pain I might inflict if Lauren was there. I could always leave a vague voicemail, and I know Lauren would be suspicious. I could break her heart, tear it up, the way he'd done mine. I waited...the button pressed down...

...I grinned when the message popped up, "Contact deleted."