All in the Dress

Sam Nieves

(tw: mentions/references of SA)

Sputters of gunshots echoed through the frozen forest, the falling frost from above nipping at the woman’s half-exposed, hidden figure. She exhaled puffs of clouds below her nostrils, nearly considered a whimper had she not put more effort into stifling her voice. Splinters texturing the redwood harshly pricked against her arms back of her shoulders, threatening to puncture her. She was shivering, refraining to sigh in a way that would express the lack of heat, as well as her location. Dresses were never fit for weather like this.

Her eyes focused on the area in front of her while her ears strained to hear behind her. Deep snow crunched under the heavy footsteps behind her, occasionally followed by more gunshots – causing the woman to flinch as some have punctured her tree – and the repetitive, automatic message from the radio attached to their hips, crackling in unison.

“BEATRIX MCCOY, you are under arrest for… MURDER involving… JEFFERSON MCCOY. Turn to the… GUARDS effective immediately.”

“BEATRIX MCCOY, you are under arrest for… MURDER involving… JEFFERSON MCCOY. Turn to the… GUARDS effective immediately.”

Beatrix shuddered in disgust. Beatrix Clarke looked down at her right hand, a three-carat blue diamond reflecting the sun against her cheek. It was gorgeous, she had to admit, fitting for a man Jefferson would’ve been. 

She never knew his name, let alone his existence until yesterday. It’s rare anyone will ever know their Match before they come of age. That’s how it goes. It’s Tradition. The Authority decides that for them, depending how well a female excels in the Academy and how well a male excels in the Academia.

Beatrix was decent in the Academy – she was surprised to have even passed, expecting the Authority to handle her – and got “lucky” Matching with Jefferson McCoy, the highest ranking man in his sector's Academia. Was it luck, or daddy’s Bits allowing Jefferson to have his pick of the litter?

An hour ago, the freshly eighteen-year-old Beatrix was sent off to prepare for a man she couldn’t picture. Her bridal “suite” – not much a suite, but a dressing room – was blinding, the snow outside only adding to the reason for her squinting on entry. White walls, white tiled floors, white loveseat sofas with white round tables on each side, white rose bouquets in each with white lights shining against her. White, white, white. The only item that stood out was a white, rounded rug in front of the three-way mirrors, with the Authority’s logo colored dark gray in the center. How normal.

Her mother was envious. Her own betrothal wasn’t as honorable as her daughter’s. Oh, the honor to wear tight corsets that harshly thinned her waist, the stinging aftermath from wax strips.

Honorable, my ass. But Beatrix could never say that, a mental apology to the Authority following her thoughts. Her tongue was at risk if she dared speak out. Ladies were never allowed to say such things.

The room cleared after about thirty minutes that may as well have been thirty hours with the nagging and ordering around. Beatrix sighed in relief when she was finally met with silence, looking at herself in the mirror. She was used to wearing dresses and makeup, but this woman in the reflection was unrecognizable. She reached behind her to loosen the corset, despite being warned multiple times never to mess with the dress before the ceremony. A bit of breathing room couldn’t hurt, right?

A knock on the door echoed behind her. Beatrix perked up, harshly pulling the corset strings from surprise. She thought it may’ve been her mother. She switched one hand to continue gripping the strings, the other reaching for the doorknob to open it while mentally preparing a lie to excuse the lack of a thin waist. To her surprise, a man, clad in a fancy tuxedo of very fine material, a boutonniere of small, white roses pinned against his suit’s blazer pocket. Tradition says the groom is the only man allowed to have white flowers in his boutonniere. This must be Jefferson. My husband.

“You’re not as thin as I thought,” he commented.

Beatrix ignored his statement. “You can’t see the bride before the ceremony. It’s Tradition.” She examined him from his curled, auburn hair to the freckles on his face.

“Tradition doesn’t matter much when you have the Bits to make people blind.” Jefferson countered smugly, gesturing down the hall, over his shoulder. The two Guards who supposedly protected her from the male gaze until the ceremony. The Guards who lazily stuffed the Bits in their back slacks pockets. “Let me in. Before someone sees me.”

“Why should I?”

“We’re Matches, aren’t we?” Sure. “Might as well get familiar with each other.”

Beatrix’s eyes narrowed, but she allowed him inside, closing the door behind him. Jefferson barely scanned the room before landing on her hand, still troubled with tightly holding the corset strings.

“Need help with that?” He offered, already extending his hands.

 That smile made her uneasy. Through those pearly whites, she could tell he had bad intentions. She shook her head, scrunching her nose in disgust as she turned away from him. Jefferson followed, his steps echoing against the suite’s tiles.

“Yeah, no thanks. I don’t need any–”

And then his hand brushed against her rear.

“Don’t fight it.” Beatrix strained forward, but Jefferson pulled her back by her strings, daring to bring her closer to him. “This is your duty as my Match. As my wife.”

As badly as she wished to, she couldn’t scream for help. Not when he could spin it, and the Guards could arrest her for tempting him into lust and breaking Tradition. Even if he was smart enough to conjure that lie, the Guards were bribed already. His Bits were truth enough.

Then, she remembered she was her father’s daughter. Her father was one of the few that broke Tradition from his defiance of our perfect society the Authority built. He fought the Guards off when they came for him. He wouldn’t let them touch him, and she wouldn’t let Jefferson touch her.

Jefferson barely lifted the hem of her dress before Beatrix raised her high-heeled foot, then thrusted the narrow heel backwards into his leg. She knew she did good damage when he screamed. He buckled backward and pulled her down by her corset strings, but his pain gave her enough time to pull away, rising and shoving the now untied corset off her white gown.

Jefferson screamed again. “You BITCH! You’re fucking crazy!” He cackled like this was a victory. “The Authority will refund me for a pathetic girl like you!”

“Really?” Perhaps if Jefferson hadn’t spoken, Beatrix wouldn’t have grabbed one of the vases in her suite, pulling out the flowers without caring if the thorns pricked her fingers. Her eyes locked with his, not a single feeling located in them. Pure indifference. The incapacitated groom noticed the lack of reaction, grunting as he attempted to sit up. Beatrix noticed his leg struggle to bend.

“Y-You think you can get away with this?” He stammered. He’s getting nervous. “When the Guards find out, we’ll… we’ll all spit on your grave.”

Beatrix swung the white vase against the table, shattering it enough to keep its shape but its edges were jagged. This was more for show, really, to threaten him to take back his actions and words before it got worse. “Last chance, Jefferson.” A part of her wondered if she was going too far. No, she convinced herself, he tried it once, he’ll try it again.

“Don’t! Wait!” Tears streamed down his face now. Pathetic. He was so confident before, and now he cowered and struggled to crawl away. “Y-You know what the Authority does to girls like you… it’s supposed to be your job to take these kinds of things…”

That did it. Beatrix grounded herself as best as the gown allowed, and swung down onto his freckled face. It hit, his head slamming against the tiled floor. A lot harder than she anticipated, actually.

Loud knocking made her drop the vase and look around, the shatter reverberating around the suite. Her thoughts were racing, and the muffled yelling of the Guards behind her didn’t make her feel any better. Her eyes met the shut window, and without a second thought, used the vase again and swung against the glass. Beatrix’s eyes shut before she forced herself out, the broken glass scratching against her shoulder before she made it to the snow on the other side. She tossed away her heeled shoes after, ignoring the cold around her. And thus came the call of the Guards now trailing behind her:

“BEATRIX MCCOY, you are under arrest for… MURDER involving… JEFFERSON MCCOY. Turn to the… GUARDS effective immediately.”