#FashionVictim

by Amina Akhtar

  Frankly, all my work still didn’t feel like enough. Sure, there had been Cassie. And Zhazha. And poor, dumb little Mulberry. Lisa. Sad Diana, who nobody knew but who had impacted La Vie so much. And, okay, Celia, but she was kind of alive still. My death would hit them hard, but I was sure some people (cough, cough, Evie) were expecting it. I was, after all, Sarah’s main rival. So I needed one big coup de grace before I died. La Vie’s deathblow. A final mood board.

  I wanted to reach each and every employee at La Vie, from the interns to the sales team, from the credits assistants to the stylists. Publishing has always been about the numbers. Metrics! We need metrics! A splash. Numbers were what mattered the most. If you don’t reach the largest audience, you’re a failure. And sometimes the answer was right in front of you. I wanted to slap myself, it was so obvious:

  I was going to kill everyone.

  * * *

  I went about assembling the parts for this penultimate act, something for La Vie to remember me by. To curse my name. Or Sarah’s, actually. All this work only to have the credit go elsewhere. It kind of sucked, but it was either this or be a credit hog locked away. Still, I’d know who did it all. That’s what mattered.

  My tools: a couple boxes of plastic tampons, a dropper, glue, an X-Acto knife, tweezers, and fentanyl. I had other poisons I liked better, but fentanyl was just so easy to get. (Dr. M wrote prescriptions like they were candy. He was the best.) Besides, I had a surplus in my apartment that needed to be used.

  Someone was always on her period at work. The staff was 95 percent women. And for whatever reason, La Vie didn’t offer free tampons (though everyone knew that tampons should be free to the world; it was a basic human right). Every week another editor or assistant went wandering the halls asking if someone had one to spare. Keeping boxes in your desk was the norm. We’d pilfer from a drawer whether the owner was around or not. Bloody vaginal emergencies were important.

  And that’s how I thought of it; the idea was just staring up at me when I went to the bathroom one day. Poisoned tampons.

  So there I was, spending an evening carefully slicing open tampon wrappers, sliding the cotton plug out of the applicator without damaging the plastic, adding a tiny amount of fentanyl to the cotton—enough to do damage but not warp the material—sliding the tampon back into its applicator, and then gluing the packaging back together. It took me thirty minutes to do my first one, but by the end, I was averaging eight minutes per tampon. The mistake pile had to be redone, and I went through two boxes to get thirty-six wrappers to look just right. But my masterpiece was ready.

  The next day, I left the box of perfectly gorgeous tampons in Sarah’s abandoned desk. Most of her belongings were still there, though people had already stolen a few things. Slowly, her pens, notepads, and other supplies had disappeared. It was only a matter of time before the rest of her desk was reabsorbed into the office ecosystem, feeding the rest of the fauna and flora that made up our sad drone lives. If anyone “borrowed” Sarah’s tampons, they’d learn to keep their hands, and vaginas, to themselves. They’d die in waves, over weeks. Then again, staff turnover at fashion magazines was notoriously high.

  “Hey, Anya. What are you doing?” Dalia asked as I sized up Sarah’s desk.

  “Oh, just wondering if we should return some of the personal items to Sarah.”

  “Why? She can’t use her lip gloss collection in prison.” She laughed at her own joke.

  “Because it’s her stuff.”

  At my various schools, whenever someone would leave—whether because they were lucky enough to reintegrate or they’d given up, gone crazier, or landed in jail—their leftover belongings were never returned to them. Most of the family members didn’t want the sad mementos we kept. Other girls would descend upon the dog-eared books and magazines like assistants at a sample sale. It was soul crushing.

  Sarah deserved to have her things returned. It was only right. And going to her apartment gave me the perfect opportunity to stash my mood boards, right where the police would find them. Just the key ones: Mulberry, Cassie, Lisa, Zhazha, Celia, the entire staff, and now, one for me. (Mine included photos of me with cutouts of knives.)

  I found an almost empty box in the supply closet, dumped it out, and brought it over. It would suffice for most of Sarah’s things. Three pairs of shoes (minus the boxes), two bags, six lip glosses, two bronzers, Band-Aids, tweezers, a small mirror, and a framed photo of Frou-Frou. Lisa’s long-dead phone and the mood boards. I picked everything up with a plastic bag.

  “Bad vibes,” I muttered.

  Dalia watched me for a moment and then shuffled off. She had given her two weeks’ notice, and would soon be free of La Vie. Of Sarah. Of me. I envied her. She was moving on to the retail world: Barneys. To oversee accessories buying. Her boss was Aiko, the head buyer. One name only. She was the source for everything I bought. I wanted to take Dalia’s place. Maybe later.

  “I loved my time at La Vie,” she said when she told me, “but my future is elsewhere.” We both knew she’d put up with too much shit here. “Besides, with all the murders . . .”

  I’d actually hugged her. It felt weird.

  When I was done with her desk, I emailed Sarah and asked her if she’d like us to send a box of her items. She called me right away.

  “O-M-G, Anya, I didn’t kill anyone. You have to believe me,” she said instead of a greeting.

  “Sarah, um, that’s great. Listen, I really shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “You have to. This is really scary. Jail is bad. I don’t want to go back!” She sounded terrified. Joy radiated through me.

  “So what do you want me to do with your things?”

  “Who cares about them! I just want to see my friends. Can I come over maybe? Wait, I can’t. Can you bring my things to me tomorrow and we can watch TV?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

  “Please? I’ll order food!”

  I sighed. “What time?”

  “How’s eight?”

  “Fine, but I’m still not sure this is smart.”

  “Oh, it’ll be great, you’ll see! We can do manicures!” She giggled for a few seconds too long. She was cracking.

  I knew Detective Hopper would be pissed at me if I went over, but I felt sorry for Sarah. Besides, she was an integral part in my plan to die. I had to see her. I could show her my new toy: a selfie stick. She’d be totally into it. A way to take more photos of yourself? How could she not love it? Besides, she had technically bought it. Well, her credit card had. I wondered when she’d realize that she had lost it and that I was running up charges. Oh, well, I would leave it at her apartment tomorrow.

  * * *

  My new Cornejo dress did look pretty fucking spectacular. Such a shame I wouldn’t be able to wear it again. You can’t wear something after you died in it. That was so gauche. Besides, blood was a bitch to get out.

  Black and white with gold d’Orsay pumps. It was kind of perfect. My hair was in loose waves, and I kept my makeup natural looking, with hints of pink. I wanted to look innocent and sweet.

  I picked up Sarah’s box, the selfie stick, and the folded-up mood boards. My Uber was waiting, I had to go. It was now or never.

  Sarah was overly excited when I arrived. It was as if two dogs were jumping on me, not just her and her tiny, overstimulated pom.

  “Anya!”

  “Jeez, Sarah, calm down.”

  “Sorry, I’m just excited to see you.” Her eyes were wide, and she was grinning. Jesus, she meant it.

  “Look, I really shouldn’t be here . . . La Vie will get pissed, and the NYPD—” She dug her nails into my skin. That was going to leave marks. Good. For once, I wasn’t worried about evidence. “Do you mind?”

  “Anya, please. I haven’t seen anyone. And they’re going to send me back there. Please don’t leave me alone tonight!” Were those . . . tears?

  Had I finally broken Sarah Elizabeth Taft?

  “Okay, I’ll
stay. Let’s just get inside before anyone sees.”

  She smiled, relieved. I should have felt sorry for her. But pity was a useless emotion. Pity and guilt, ugly sisters who should never exist. Sarah had taken my promotion. She’d betrayed me and everyone else. She’d threatened me, her friend. Blackmail is never a good relationship foundation. Sarah had wanted to be the star of La Vie. Well, I was going to make sure everyone knew her name forever.

  “Where can I put this?” I nodded to the heavyish box I was carrying.

  “Oh, wherever. You didn’t even need to bring it, but I’m glad you did. Seriously, Anya, thank you.”

  Sarah could change moods and personalities faster than anyone I’d ever known. Dr. M would have had a field day with her. Imagine all the sessions, the dream journals, the medications. The bills. The man could have retired on Sarah alone.

  I walked beyond the foyer and glanced hesitantly around. It was a mess—and that was being kind. Clothes were piled up everywhere, dog toys strewn about. The pungent smell of stale dog pee hung in the air. Frou-Frou wagged his tail, waiting for a treat. I should have brought him a tampon to gnaw on.

  “So what have you been doing with yourself, Sarah?” I asked, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. The smell was worse the deeper you went into the apartment. It was like something died in here. Fitting. I was pretty sure food was rotting away. I handed her the mood boards, and she absent-mindedly took them, not even looking at them. She put them on the counter next to the box.

  “Oh, nothing really. It’s hard to go out—the paparazzi are everywhere. Did you see them outside?”

  “Uh, no, no one was out there.” Was she delusional now? Hallucinating? Maybe I had pushed her too far.

  “Oh, well, they usually are.”

  “Can we open a window? It’s a little ripe in here.”

  “Is it? Sorry, the cleaning lady quit.”

  “Do you have any perfume you can spray? I think the dog peed or something.”

  She sprayed some Le Labo Jasmin perfume, which sat on the room funk, adding a spicy level to the ammonia-scented air. I tried not to gag. The buzzing noise started up.

  “There!” She smiled, satisfied. She breathed deeply.

  “Maybe we should go out?”

  “No. I can’t.” She pointed to her leg. I looked down at her ankle bracelet and nodded. Old Sarah, my Sarah, would have bedazzled it. “And anyways, I look awful. My highlights aren’t done, and I don’t want any more photos in the paper. Daddy said he was going to cut me off if there was one more—and then I’ll have to use a public defender!” She started sobbing.

  “It’s fine, really. I just need to get used to the smell. Don’t worry.”

  “Are you sure?” She wiped her nose. A La Vie woman would never use her hand to wipe. Gross, Sarah.

  We moved to the living room to watch TV while Sarah babbled almost incoherently about what she was going to do once she was found not guilty. Her lawyer planned a not guilty defense by reason of insanity.

  “You do understand what that means, right?” I said.

  “That I’m not guilty.”

  “No, Sarah, it means you’re incapable of being found guilty because you’re insane. They’ll send you to an asylum.”

  “Oh, I know. Isn’t it great?” She beamed. “Mommy said I could go to one of those places and rest, like Passages Malibu. I mean, I am, like, totally exhausted.” Her fake cheery voice almost drowned out the buzzing noise. I wondered if it was coming from her voice box. What if she was a bot? That would explain so much. “And then you and Jack can come visit me!”

  “I don’t think it’s like that—”

  “Anya! Stop being so damn negative!”

  “You’re right. What do I know? Your lawyer obviously wouldn’t steer you wrong. Um, I’m going to get some water.” I debated leaving. Maybe I could just make a run for it. She was already being tried for Celia. That could be enough. Surely I could come up with a new plan. Nothing was worth this.

  No, I had to do this. I’d come too far. Sarah had to fall, especially if she wanted real fame. She had to become a Dateline special with Lester Holt, not just a Wikipedia entry. Keep going, Anya. Don’t turn back. I had to finish her. I had to end this. I closed my eyes. I could picture her locked up, her hair matted and her highlights grown out. She’d get puffy from all the carbs she’d have to eat. The vision motivated me. Pushed me on. I remained calm. Everything was going to work out just fine. I would have done my breathing exercises, but I didn’t want to choke on the stench.

  “You know, you keep saying you’re going to be found not guilty. But what if they find you guilty of the other murders?”

  “The other murders? I’m not being tried for those.”

  “Not yet. But what if they find evidence linking you to those?” I had taken my hunting knife out of my a plastic bag in my purse. The same knife I used on Cassie. Bought with Sarah’s card. I carried that and the selfie stick, which I dropped on the floor.

  “How could they when I didn’t do them?” She smiled, showing all her teeth. It was her beauty pageant smile. All rich, pretty girls have one.

  “I don’t know. So many bodies have piled up. Celia. Cassie. Mulberry. Zhazha, Lisa. And, well, me.”

  “You? I never tried to kill you.”

  “Yes, you did. Tonight. You stabbed me. I nearly died. And you had something against all of us.”

  She laughed nervously. I laughed with her, then louder, throwing my head back and cackling.

  “Anya, you’re so funny.”

  “I know. I have a wicked sense of humor.”

  Have you ever stabbed yourself? Not just cut yourself—anyone can cut themselves—but really, honest-to-God stabbed yourself? Plunging a knife into your body isn’t as easy as the movies make it look. But I had to do it. I had to die, and I had to die in Sarah Taft’s apartment.

  I took a deep breath, holding the knife in my left hand. No hesitation. They can tell when you do that, you know. One deep, purposeful plunge. Shove it like you mean it. One, two . . .

  “Holy motherfucker!” I yelled. Sarah screamed.

  Don’t ever let someone tell you being stabbed doesn’t hurt. It’s painful as all hell.

  “What are you doing? O-M-G, O-M-G!” She kept repeating that idiotic acronym.

  I hated her more than life right now, which was okay since I was pretty sure I was going to bleed out. I pulled the knife out of my flesh, groaning the entire time. Yeah, I was definitely going to die. I looked at Sarah. “I did it all for you. You could have loved me. But no. You had to be a fucking bitch about everything. You took and you took and not once did you think about me. Did you?” I spat the words out. “You did this. You made this all happen. It’s your fault!”

  “But . . .” She didn’t finish her thought. Sarah still didn’t realize what was happening. She didn’t get it. Not because she was dumb, but things like this didn’t happen to people like her.

  I knew this part would suck, but I had to do it. I lunged, landing on top of her. My abdomen seared with pain. I held the bloody knife in my right hand and stabbed her before she could move away. And then I felt wetness as the knife slid into Sarah. Shit, did I go too deep? I wasn’t supposed to kill her. If only she were more cooperative. I should have drugged her the second I walked in, but I wanted to watch her realize she was going to die. Or almost die. See it in her eyes. All of this could have been avoided if she’d only loved me back. We were officially broken up.

  “You’re the killer,” she whispered. “It was you!”

  “Duh,” I replied. “I wouldn’t pull the knife out if I were you. You’ll bleed out before anyone can get here.” I grinned before pulling my head back and smashing it into her nose. Cartilage crunched. She’d need to get that fixed.

  Sometimes, when you hurt the ones you love most, you’re really hurting yourself.

  I smoothed her hair a bit. “I deserve to be at La Vie. I deserved to be your friend. To be you.” She didn’t stir. Sh
e probably had a concussion.

  I didn’t have long before I passed out. I had to keep going. I had to finish this. I felt blood in my hair—was it hers or mine? It didn’t matter. Sarah’s eyes were closed but she was still breathing. Good. I got up and grabbed the selfie stick and Sarah’s phone, took a photo of myself looking dead, making sure to get some of my blood on the stick.

  The photo was the best one yet. Eyes nearly closed, blood seeping—I looked like someone had just stabbed me to death and was taking a kill shot for a trophy. I looked like Bloody Sarah had struck again. I uploaded the photo to her Instagram account leaving it logged in. Each tap was slow and excruciating. Time stood still. This was the end.

  I picked up Sarah’s hands and wiped my blood onto her. It was a holy communion. With my blood, she would be reborn as Bloody Sarah. She didn’t move, except for shallow breaths. I set the selfie stick in her right hand, curling her fingers around it.

  Finally, I lay back down, gasping as I positioned myself, and called 9-1-1 from Sarah’s phone, being sure my bloody fingerprints were all over the screen.

  “Sarah Taft. Stabbed me. Help,” I panted. For real. This wasn’t an act.

  I closed my eyes, 70 percent sure I was going to die. I was okay with that. Sarah was still passed out, I’d be fine. Even if she did manage to get up, what was she going to do? Kill me? I started laughing, holding my side in pain. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  * * *

  My aim was better than I realized. While I needed thirty stitches in my side, I hadn’t nicked any organs. All my prep work with Cassie had made me a stabbing pro. I did need some blood though; I bet Sarah’s apartment looked like the set of a horror movie. The doctors said it was lucky I was such a fighter. Sarah could have taken out my liver or intestines. It was the fat on my stomach that saved me. See, Celia? Not being skin and bones was good for you. #Neverplankingagain.