No one had heard from us since last year’s New York Fashion Week.

 

            Tenderly had the identities unravelled, and gently deadening were the fingers that made limp the knots, loops, and clots of consciousnesses that bundled in our brains. Finished faultlessly were their ends, so much so that the missing threads were so innocent, so unsuspicious where fresh bristles had filled their holes. Where there is art in the mind, smears and foreign oils can create new pieces. Paroxysmal smudges. Smears too violent. Desperate. Ferocious. Palms and nails stir into the canvass a new composition of thoughts, but sometimes, sometimes too excited—

 

            The plaster caves in.

 

            The paper broken through.         

 

            Hypnosis can be a dangerous thing – especially when the artist is you, and you’ve forgotten where your boundaries end and the air begins…

 

            For that was what made people like fashion designer Alistair Crivelli – him, combined with the best artists of his generation – worthy of every measure of success the fashion world afforded them. Everything, from passports to online profiles had been erased by individuals too knowing of what went behind making a muse, crafting a fantasy of a human being. These were magicians of a colder making.

 

            And who was better at disguises than those who specialised in making art of the human body?

 

            Designers. Cosmeticians. They designed the alluring. They marked the fascinating. All strewn and knitted and folded from things that could never be mesmeric — hollow eyes, sallow flesh, hunger — every desperation and greed that fuelled the industry.  

 

          It was a thin line they balanced. 

 

            And as sickening as it became, they never became too dizzy to fall off.

 

            For men like Alistair Crivelli had walked that line for the better portion of his career. He’d been idolised for his designs and drawn the most stubborn of eyes to gawking, the stiffest of breaths to awestruck sighs. His label could be found in every high-end store from Paris to Brooklyn. He dominated too effortlessly. He knew no distinction between those who wore his range, and those subjects to his kingdom of influence. He called himself an illusionist – melded hypnotic elements with fashion to create pieces that were nothing less than stupefying.

 

            But as diverse as he was in his clothing and accessory wear, it was the shoes that had made him famous.

 

            The crystal bottoms.

 

            The heels that stood five inches tall and fractured ankles and necks and reputations.

 

            His shoes were famous not only because of their beauty, but because they gave its wearer a different kind of status. A vainer recognition. Longing gazes. Obsessive praises.

 

            A hypnotizing presence.

 

            Alistair Crivelli knew the risks of wearing his creations and therefore followed the unconventional practice of handpicking his own models. He was careful. He was specific — obsessive even, in who he selected. Those however, who he settled on, would settle well. They’d reap the benefits. They’d see unparalleled success as a result of being bound to — ah, contributors to his esteemed fashion shows.

 

            And those who couldn’t?

 

            Those who failed?

 

            Those who tripped and fell — made an embarrassment of the envied crystal heels?

 

            They would be punished. They would disappear. And no one would know where they went. Not a soul, not even ourselves, would know what became of us:

 

            Svetlana, Marìa, Ji-eun, and Kadija.      

 

            And yet, everyone craved to be the next versions of who we were.

 

            He’d selected us when we were barely past the age of sixteen. When age was so far from worry and dreams were mere fickle impossibilities, not imaginations made real with the stroke of a pen, the seal of a contract. He’d promised to make us idols at the price of nothing but our loyalty to only his label. We’d do the promotional videos. We’d play the part at his shows. Our social media would sell the personalities of Crivelli’s creations. We would carry his name on our backs. The brand would be our weight to hold—

 

            We couldn’t afford to break.  

 

            We couldn’t embarrass the hand that made us.

 

            The origins and processes behind his clothes, after mere months in his employ, were made known to us. How he crafts them through words and ancient patterns known to fold the substance of memory. Did the public know that his private shows are funded by drug lords? Do they know that children bruise their fingers to sanguine stubs to sew his buttons? 

 

            But there remained a price of guilt we paid for this knowledge. Equally so, there was a price paid to him if we didn’t remain silent about the truth. Alistair had done this before. He’d manipulated. He’d offered opportunities to those who threatened him and made them spectacles, only to build them up to fall…

 

            No one had survived falling in those crystal bottoms. Not even the public asked questions. Did they even care? Perhaps they couldn’t. Perhaps his hypnotic vice was simply too powerful. Every year, it seemed, he’d select new princesses to replace those who’d betrayed him. And just as quickly, they would vanish from the face of the planet.

 

            This year would be different.  

 

            But this set of models, in preparation for this year’s annual show, had heard the rumours. We’d been subject to the whisperings of the fashion world. We’d become suspicious faster than most, and in addition to being afraid of the implications, endlessly restless, and tired of Crivelli’s strange, exhausting, requirements… we would find the missing girls.

 

            Our names: Jamison, Hadah, and Yuan. We would not be dissolved.

 

            “Do you think it’s true?” Yuan had whispered. Her voice had been too delicate, as if afraid of fully accentuating the syllables. It wasn’t because of care to the freshly smoothed gloss on her lips, but because of the fear impressed onto her tongue.

 

            It made her fellow sisters tense in their chairs.

 

            “What’s true?” Jamison asked, feigning to knew what Yuan was speaking of. The other girl had stiffened. Irritated.

 

            But the cosmetician doing Opal’s eyes had looked over her shoulder discreetly, and the model in front of her had pushed her foot to the half-closed door — watching for unwanted eyes, anxious for prying interests.

 

            “Everyone knows about it. It’s an open secret – so, be quiet.” She’d said.

 

            “Really?” The other had whispered.

 

            An unconcerned ‘mhm’ was all the response offered.

 

            “But—“ Yuan would hiss, directing a panicked gaze towards the unprepossessing cosmetician. “You’ve been working with Crivelli for years. You know the implications, who he works with… you see exactly what he makes us do. But you’re still… you’ve been still here. Alive. Why—“

 

            “Because I don’t threaten to expose. The more you think you know, the less you believe will actually be true. There’s no point in discussion.” Crivelli’s invasive air was always under the atmosphere’s current. It should’ve been enough to make us silent…

 

            Only that it wasn’t.

 

            “Do you think he’ll do it today?” One asked.

 

            “Do what?” Another whispered, too quiet to be heard, but a response came nonetheless.

 

            “Make us fall.” The words were mangled by a hard, strangled swallow. “Do you think he knows that we know? Do you think he knows that we’re tired of what he does — that we’ve had enough? Constantly tired, always in danger. Doing things, taking pictures that — that we shouldn’t have to—“

 

            “Yuan.” Someone sharped.

 

            “What?” Annoyed. Fearful. Uncontrolled.

 

            “Shut up.” Hadah hissed. “Do you want to get us heard? He’s already requested that the heels, on impromptu notice, be changed to his latest design — the ones he said he wasn’t sure he’d finish in time for the show.”

 

            Jamison’s eyes widened, her gaze shifting conspicuously to the wedges lined up neatly behind their dressing room door. “Does that mean the entire selection has changed? Are we not wearing those?”

 

            “No.” Was the slightly uneven response, as if the girl’s voice had been run on confused, spangled notes. “Not the clothes. Just the shoes.”

 

            “We’re doomed.” Yuan whispered.

 

            “That’s enough.” Was the unconvinced insistence of their cosmetician, and again, turning Hadah’s chin towards her brow pencil, glanced for any activity shuffling at the closed door. “You haven’t done anything. You girls haven’t violated your contract. The change is a coincidence to your suspicions — as long as you keep quiet, you’ll be fine. He’s probably paranoid.”

 

            “It’s what he does to all of them,” Jamison said. “We know all about it. I don’t know how he does it, but he makes some shoes for us only — in case we find out. He keeps them in secret places, I’m sure of it. And then, he gives them to us to wear when he thinks we’re going to ruin him, or want to run away, break the contractual agreement… he makes sure we fall on the runway. He makes us disappear. He… he must hypnotize them, somehow, into falling. They can’t help it. It’s too easy for him. He can just tell the press that—“

 

            “We broke an ankle.” One finished—

 

            “Too humiliated to want to continue our careers.” Another added.

 

            “Would rather quit temporarily in the time recovering from the injury — be absent from the rest of his tour…”

 

            And never be seen again.

 

            The unspoken sentence filtered into the air, making it more saturated with the thoughts unsaid that’d been forced in before it. It made us wary of each-other and fearful of ears that’d surely never been there. Crivelli’s ears. Strangely enough, it made us feel guilty. There was a shame that pricked their cheeks — and it wasn’t the cold.

 

            For Crivelli had given us success.

 

            He’d afforded us fame.

 

            He’d promised us fortune.

 

            And for the past several weeks, we’d been contemplating to expose him.

 

            They’d been conspiring to do this knowing that they’d given themselves to whatever horror that befell them in this industry, willingly, and indeed, given up normal realities to what their fans called a living fantasy:

 

            Dreamwake.

 

            It was what he called his latest range.

 

            Unrealistic, this success. Wrong, that we were adulated as ephemeral goddesses. All a lie, that they were living every woman’s dream.

 

            Dreamwake by Crivelli was a nightmare that nobody could see.

 

            And so, as time edged nearer to the show’s opening, the sounds of elite guests and observers gathering outside the London Fashion House where the most distinguished of critics and influencers all became sycophants for invitation, our conversation resumed.

 

            “What do we do?”

 

            A shake of the head. A tired, unsure shrug.

 

            “We have no choice.” Hadah said.

 

            “We wear the shoes.” Jamison whispered, and the cosmetician, as if disturbed by the discussion, looked away, saying he had to retire to the bathroom.

 

            All of us knew it wasn’t true. We’d long suspected that he too, was under Crivelli’s spell.

 

            “No.” One said.

 

            And it didn’t matter which.

 

            Because by the end of our resolve, we’d agreed on what to do next.

 

            “We’ll go out, wearing the shoes, together. We’ll walk slowly and expose him to the world — we won’t fall. And if we do, we fall together. We’ll make sure everyone knows that what Crivelli gives us has never been a dream.”  

 

            And that was what we did.

 

            For indeed, in the blinding glare of the lights, the pulsating beats of music that throbbed throughout and within the entire scene, we went out together—

 

            Clean was our first step.

 

            Smoother was our second.

 

            And as they began to build their confidence…

 

            Down we went on the third.

 

            Tumbling, cracking, folding bodies over and under each-other. Air would escape from the crowd as a deafening gasp drained the room. The curtains would flitter restlessly. The medics tore through to assist the injured—

 

            As if waiting there. Too patiently. Too eagerly.

 

            As if prepared.

 

            But, as the cosmetician knew, emerging from the bathroom, with a strange flint to his gaze and new labels grasped within his fingers, we would barely remember the details.  

 

            As we were wheeled away on ambulance stretchers, Crivelli made his way to their dressing rooms.

 

            We would go back to sleep, and in our dreams, piece together a different life and hope that those who replaced us would have better luck exposing the truth.

 

            Emilia, Joan, and Paola would awake from a twisted slumber, the cycle return once  again to the beginning of another sleep…

 

            For no one had seen Jamison, Hadah, and Yuan since Milan’s Fashion Week.

 

            END