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Justice Served

Dawn DeBraal

    Everett is a freak. He’s been working at Bentley’s clothing store for about three months. He dresses and undresses the mannequins at night while the store is closed. He talks to us about his life and longings. Sometimes he even kisses us or asks if he can touch us. It’s all so unsavory.
    This negligee is the third outfit he put on me this month. I am a model size four. He is slightly taller than me and holds me longer than necessary. Inside my plastic prison, I scream, but he didn’t seem to hear me or care that I don’t want to be touched. I am at the mercy of his addiction.
    “Allison, dear, we are putting on the lace nighty tonight just to see how you look in it. I know you will be fantastic, but I don’t want to imagine you in it. I’d like you to try it on. Let me help you take off that skirt.” Everette exposes me in the front window yet again. Cars passing by beep and give him the thumbs up while he pretends we are making out.
    Why he doesn’t understand how inappropriate this is, is beyond me. He seems to take pleasure in my shame. That is not a good relationship. I am imprisoned in this body as much as he is imprisoned in his. He can’t help that he is short and extremely overweight and that his hair has flown south. Sometimes he has to remove one of his wayward hairs from my outfits. He plucks it from me, inspects it closely, and blows it out of his fingers.
    Everett pulls the nightgown over my head and cinches it down ever so sensually. If I could react, I would. He makes my skin crawl.
    An orange and black Camaro pulls up to the stoplight and lays on the horn, giving Everett the thumbs up, but another muscle car pulls up on the left of the Camaro. A white Barracuda where a guy lifts a pistol and shoots into the Camaro.
    The bullet travels into the driver’s side, missing the driver, and runs through the passenger side window, spiraling in slow motion toward the storefront window. An explosion shatters the glass. It is not safety glass, the building is old, and large stalactite pieces fall out of the window frame, hitting Everett and slicing his body nearly in half.
    Everett is lying in the window front with the chunk of glass protruding from his belly. A look of shock on his face while he pants in panic. Blood is oozing over the outfit he just removed from me. It’s the most expensive skirt and top Bentley’s has, and the manager will not like this one bit.
    “Allison,” he cries, “I’m not going to make it.” He grabs my thigh, touching the negligee, staining it red with his bloody hand. It is a bit overdramatic, and I do not pity him. He has taken advantage of me for several months. It is fitting that he is shot showing off, making me look like a whore.
    I am not a whore, and Everett is not a skilled lover. I watch as his eyes roll back in his head and hear a siren in the distance. I pray they won’t make it in time to save the man. This is the last time he’ll touch my body and say inappropriate things to me. I may be a dummy, but I have feelings, and Everett is a freak.

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