It Started in the Costume Room

[IsabellaRose]

You didn’t even know the drama program had a second storage room. The key the club secretary handed you was supposed to unlock the lighting closet… but the door you opened led somewhere very different. The space is small, close, lined with racks of costumes, layers of chiffon, lace, and tulle in every pastel color imaginable. Your sneakers squeak faintly on the polished floor as you step inside, the air thick with the powdery sweetness of fabric softener and something else… perfume, maybe.

You’re halfway through awkwardly trying to put a ridiculous frilly dress back on its hanger when the door clicks shut. You turn slowly and she’s there... the drama department’s undisputed queen. Alpha female, leading lady, star of every production since her freshman year. Everyone knows her reputation: total immersion in every role, method acting so intense it blurs the line between performance and reality. She never breaks character, not even in the cafeteria. But right now, she’s not just the drama queen, she’s something else.

Her eyes sweep over you, taking in your startled expression, the frilly dress in your hands, the fact that you are clearly somewhere you don’t belong. A slow, satisfied smile curls at her lips as she steps inside, shutting the door with a quiet, deliberate click.

“You know,” she says softly, “I’ve been looking for someone to help me rehearse.”

You swallow hard. “Rehearse… what?”

Her gaze never wavers, a predator sizing up its prey. She strolls past you, brushing close enough for her perfume to cling to you. Then she begins leafing through the racks, pulling out pastel dresses, satin ribbons, lace-trimmed skirts. Each one is hung carefully on the mirror by the wall like a carefully chosen arsenal.

“This next role of mine,” she continues, her voice smooth and unhurried, “requires… a wife. A subservient wife. Sweet, delicate, always dressed in frills and lace. The kind of wife who smiles prettily, speaks softly, and obeys without question.”

She picks up a pair of delicate, ivory stockings from a shelf and lets them dangle from her fingers. Her smile deepens.

“And lucky for you… I’ve decided you’re perfect for the part.” Her eyes lock on yours again as she closes the distance between you, step by deliberate step, until there’s nowhere left to back away.

“Now,” she says, voice velvet and steel all at once, “be a dear… and take off those awful clothes; I have something much nicer for you to wear.”