The Devil’s Clothes

Art by Vasu Arora

I recently confessed to my priest that, under certain circumstances, I dressed with the devil last night. The clothes in my closet didn’t fit me anymore, and the stores in town couldn’t keep up with my tastes. For all my years, day in, day out, I warded against those sexy deals of wealth and power, only for her to get me with the new Prada collection.

Unlike Cashmere and Cotton, the devil’s fabric was incredibly thick and rough, with tiny thorns on each thread. I tore and scraped my arms and legs to fit into her sinful attire. The aroma had notes of old perfume; patchouli and petrichor, the woods and rain overwhelming my nose. Wearing it, I really couldn’t tell where the skin ended and fabric began. The threads hugged my ribs, suffocating me as I tugged at the hem. The feeling was a buzz, being too much for my nerves; yet it brought out that defiance to pain. It wasn’t mundane but miraculous, ecstatic and asphyxiating. I couldn’t help but hold back tears; It was fashion, and it was all over me.

That night, I slipped out of my apartment wearing the Devil’s clothes like a martyr, the fabric still biting into my skin. Like a low-lit mouth swallowing bodies whole, the club’s entrance gagged when I stepped inside, every eye flickered toward me like moths to a flame. The impressions weren’t just mine anymore – they belonged to the clothes. The comfort was a casualty for the etiquette, the devil loomed over me while wearing it and it had become massacre masquerade. 

When you wear something so pristine, the platitudes you receive, God... The compliments became bills and smiles became invoices. The velvety seams around the lumps of my body had the peculiarity to contort when those strangers gazed at me, and, if they kept staring, it would tear a ligament to justify my worth. It was nothing like my old clothes, with its distinct stains and blemishes. It wasn't sentimental anymore, just practical. I’m too damn young to give into this nostalgia, yet I can't help but miss that lipstick on my cuff.

I wondered if I could change back, to fit into those comfortable clothes, but the devil’s clothes gave me the apples of so many eyes that I hesitated to the thought of losing them. When you have something so endearing, more affectionate than a lover's validation, I couldn’t help but cling to them and never let go. I hugged the clothes wrapped around me, pressing the thorns deeper in. I would never lose those eyes, I thought as puncture wounds bled all over me. As I pushed and pushed, the fabric stained dark red, leaking gore onto the floor.

The fabric was ruined, and spectators averted their eyes from the flagrant puddle on the ground. I longed and never received, and the devil’s Irony hadn't spared me. “Sinners have no respite,” the priest told me, but I disagree. In the tatters of my clothes and blood, beneath all these loose threads seeking attention, I’m just flesh and bones.

Ethan (Randy) Choi