To Sully a Wedding Dress

Trigger Warnings for unreality/dream logic, violent imagery, blood/gore, symbolism connecting to rape/physical abuse, twisted womanhood, and internalized guilt around sensuality.

When Florence opened his eyes, he was greeted by nothing but dark. All around there was just darkness, unable to see the walls of the room, making it look endless.

Florence could feel his own body, in a loose sense, shivering from the chill circulating the spot in which he was standing. There was an underground ambience, similar to that of a basement, rumbling in his ears, making the sound of his own breathing sound quiet in comparison. He could hear it become a fog in the air, arms squeezing tightly around himself. 

Except, until there was the sudden flickering of a light, hanging right above Florence. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the sudden shift, making everything a dizzying blur for a moment or two, maybe more. The light took a while to turn on fully, flicking with sparks, before finally lighting. It had a weak, fluorescent white glow. 

In an instant, the hum went silent, and the room returned to a normal temperature. Florence's ears were filled with the sound of his own breathing, irregular, quiet. His arms, pale and begging for sun, slowly fell down to his sides as he looked around.

Looking around, the light had barely made a dent in the dark, simply adding a gentle, light gray glow to the area around it. Though, it had at least made Florence confident that nothing was in here, batting the oddly elegant chain it was hanging from so it would swing around. Florence followed its glow, seeing nothing but black with the hint of a few grey objects here and there. 

Am I in…a storage closet? Florence wondered, thinking that was the only explanation for the seemingly random and wide range of objects present. Dressers, a bedframe, crates, and a few objects hung up on the wall, such as a mask and hat that kept giving Florence the chills. 

Florence's eyes stopped, slowly creeping back to that object he'd seen in the dark. The mask, as still as stone, a fedora hung just above, which Florence assumed had covered its eyes as it stared out at him with only its lips and a nose. Except, the fedora wasn't pushed forward enough, indicating that perhaps it had been a mannequin instead. 

Florence took a step forward, feeling something tickle along his ankles as he did so. His shoes made an unfamiliar, sharp click along the nondescript floor. The figure became more clear to him the closer he came, having too much muscle and mass to be a mannequin, feeling as if they towered over him despite only being 5 inches taller.

In front of him stood a man, around 6 feet tall with combed back, dark hair, a sharp nose, and uncomfortably attractive, well-kept bowtie lips. He dressed professionally, matching his mostly unmoving features. Florence wasn't even certain if he could see him, wasn't certain if he was alive in any capacity. Florence's calloused though delicate hands rose, reaching for the man's shoulders before pulling them back. Band-aids were wrapped around a few of Florence's fingers, though he couldn't remember anything up until this point.

The life-like doll looked just like…wait, was it just Florence's imagination or had his head just moved? It did it again!

The doll's head had shifted slowly down, implying an eyeline Florence could not see, hat overshadowing the top of his face. Florence followed where his head had tilted, looking down at himself for the first time since he had awoken. 

He had been placed in a white dress, perfectly feminine and modest, with all those cute frills and accenting bows. It had three layers of frills, the top, the middle, and bottom, with ruffled sleeves going all the way across his elbows. The design was far too elaborate to just be a dress for a casual affair, skirt billowing around his legs, and… 

...why were there…

...accents of…

...red?

Following the crimson seeping through the unprotected fabric, he recognized the dress in an instant. The holes on its sides made it unmistakable, carrying the liquid to lower heights. His Mary Jane shoes served as their final resting place, and, he could feel long hair still pulled into a fresh bun. His stomach metaphorically ripped itself out before being replaced in a reverted state.

Florence started rushing back, flailing in circles as he screamed like a banshee. His fingernails scraped along the smooth fabric, attempting to rip it off, or just rip it in general. 

"No, no, no. Get it off. GET IT OFF ME! No!"

Florence kept repeating this over and over again, wrestling with a skirt that would not undo itself from the whole. It became redder and redder by the minute, waist twinging as more blood fell down his legs. It was a miracle he didn't trip over himself from the ferocity of his actions, limbs going every which way.

Florence was so preoccupied with this that he didn't notice when the "doll" stepped out of his display area, standing beneath the light that Florence had wandered from. 

"Florence," A familiar, authoritative voice called and Florence froze.

Florence's grip remained on his dress, eyes widening at the once dead, now alive man standing just in front of him. 

Listening to it, the voice was more static filled, and he was much grayer looking than Florence had remembered. He remained still, not breathing and yet, the life was evident in his face.

Florence could feel his own breathing slow, pupils dilating. 

"Why don't you just relax? After all, there's nothing to be upset about, is there," the man asked, voice coming out like rain. 

His mouth moved to speak and yet the words felt disconnected from the motion. They were always too slow, or too loud to fit into those subtle movements. 

Florence had calmed down enough to remember where his pocket knife would be stored, grabbing it out from the strap of his stocking and pointing it toward the mysterious stranger.

"That remains to be seen. Just what exactly are you? I know you're not Max. You might look like him but he...he's not like this!" he said, causing the man to laugh.

Yet, his laughs were humorless, lips refusing to move more than what was required for a light smirk or a smile.

"I've never seen you this angry before. You don't sound very certain either."

The man began to walk over, the collar of his pea coat waving behind him and making him blend in with the murky scenery. 

Florence put his hand up, about to tell the man to stop but...wait, what was he going to say? It was on the tip of his tongue yet, no matter how hard he tried to find the words, his mouth wouldn't budge, just gapping. The only thing that filled his head was static. Quiet, crackling, soothing.

The man approached Florence, taking Florence's hand and giving it a tender kiss before kneeling down in front of him. He smiled up at Florence who was just stuck staring into that eyeless void.

Florence's heart began to pound once more when the man casually lifted up his skirt. However, Florence soon realized why as the man examined the scratch marks on his sides. And, also, that he'd worn pants underneath, though the man had to lower them some to see.

"Let me help you, dear," he said, and Florence's breathing slowed even more, sniffling.

"Okay."

His eyes widened, unsure where that response came from when his head felt so fuzzy. His confusion only increased when the man attended to his wounds. 

The man's touch felt...like silk. Translucent, soft silk, blowing gently in the wind and causing his canvas of skin to be cooled. But it wasn't an unpleasant coldness, warming up from Florence's own, balmy skin that'd become heated in his panic. 

It was as if this man, this thing was truly nothing more than a suggestable piece of fabric. The cloth would wrap around your body, so easily and so harmlessly moving with your joints. An outfit couldn't hurt, so why not try it on, letting it squeeze tighter, and tighter, and tighter until all circulation was cut off? But, it was so soft, so smooth, that the closeness would feel like a blessing in disguise.

Florence's body froze at the sudden visuals and thoughts, only now realizing they had overcome him. As his vision cleared, he looked back at the man with a flutter of anxiety rising in his chest. The man hadn't done anything, having successfully cleaned up the blood, and finishing up by applying bandages onto the cleaned cuts. But still. 

As the sensations came back to Florence's body, he realized his hands had gripped onto the man's shoulders, quickly pulling away. This was an action he soon regretted as he realized the squeeze had helped with the pain.

The man's face or, what Florence could see of it, hadn't reacted to the touch. Florence slowly returned his hands when it seemed the man wouldn't notice. The band-aids showed some resistance against his coat, though they remained in place.

"You're being so brave," the man mused, in spite of Florence's actions.

Yet, even so, Florence supposed he had no reason to worry. The man had not moved to hurt him in all this time, and Florence's wounds were about to be mended, doing his best to ignore the sting. If the man had really wanted to do something, he would have struck when Florence was at his most vulnerable, most likely not even letting Florence know of his presence beforehand. Unless…he was enough of a sadist to…no. 

He shouldn't think about those things right now. He was being fixed, that's all that mattered. He couldn't let the pain drive him crazy, fighting back the urge to grab onto his sides at their constant, sharp pang. 

He stuck his head up, putting on a brave face and, eventually, it worked.

Once the man was finished, he returned Florence's skirt to its place around his ankles, doing so carefully to make sure no parts of it remained hitched. Once it was all comfortably draped down, bloodstain remaining and bright against the milky palette, the man pulled away with a smile.

"Does it...still hurt," he asked, not pausing out of hesitation but in an unnervingly relaxed manner.

His voice made Florence feel that fuzziness again. Or, had the blood just had more of an effect on him than he initially thought?

"A-a little."

Florence, now with all his senses soon returning, slowly processed what had just happened. Then, his eyes took in the figure, a shadow all along the top of his face, remaining as peaceful as a windless night. Florence stumbled back. The sound of his steps weren't as sharp as they once were, soaked beneath him. 

"It's quite alright, dear. You don't have to be afraid. That dress can't hurt you. After all, it's such a comfortable, soft fabric. Is it not?"

Florence gripped onto his skirt, only to find that the fabric had somehow become less coarse underneath his fingers. His eyes narrowed in understanding, muscles tensing.

"S-stop that!" Florence said, continuing to step back and the man made no attempts to follow him.

He just stood there with that smile of his, hands folding behind his back.

"I am merely stating the truth. You feel safe in that dress. You're so wrapped up in all of its comfortable coils, covering you entirely as if it were a blanket. It's kept you safe all this time, it even went so far as to be injured for your sake. So, what reason do you have to fear it?"

The man hugged onto himself as if to mime the sensation, hands making a graceful arc as his fingers thinly slid along his sleeves. 

Florence slowly came to a halt, arms wrapping around himself, and fingers beginning to play with the sleeves of his dress. It felt as if it was hugging his body more in a sort of warm embrace. The man took a gradual step forward. 

"It's a shame, isn't it? To sully a wedding dress, especially on purpose. I wonder what that says about your marriage to such a person?"

A couple more steps. 

"Tell me, do you still dream of marriage, Florence? Of your special day, with someone sweet, perhaps? Or, do you only see wedding bells in your nightmares nowadays?"

And a few more.

"I don't know what you're saying," Florence said, tears beginning to prick at his eyes.

Another step and he was right in front of Florence, leaning in to stare into Florence's face. His eyes remained unseen, but Florence could just feel it. God, he really looked so much like him, the man waiting for Florence to finish inspecting his features before speaking.

"Do you ever dream of marrying me?"

Florence's cheeks became heated. 

"W-what," Florence stared at him before shaking his head, "Of course not! I mean Max is...he's sweet, and lovely, and I care about him a lot. But I'll never put myself through that again. I know better than that now."

Florence brushed at his tears and the man tilted his head.

"Hmmm, that doesn't sound right, does it? And that again is awfully vague," he said, tapping his chin teasingly, "In truth, you dream about me quite often. Almost every night, when you do dream, that is. We do many things together. Surely it wouldn't be too far-fetched to propose that one of those things might be a marriage?"

Florence's hands gripped harder onto his sleeves, falling silent. The man's smile faintly opened, standing up straight. 

"It's only natural, we see each other every day. And yet, you hide from that, you deny your dreams. All those little desires so wonderfully gift packaged in bottle-sized snippets for you to enjoy."

He tilted his head, smile widening and hand gesturing towards Florence.

"Did you think it'd never catch up to you, dear?" 

In response, Florence had just stared. He'd woken up with a start shortly after.