So, I originally planned on having a short story version of “World is Mine” out a lot earlier, but screw that yo, Tailor Shop is much more interesting to write. Oh, I guess you’ve never seen me write short stories before. Consider this fanfiction if you must, and it probably might as well be plagiarism, but I give credit where credit is due. This half-assed story is based off of Akuno-P/Mothy’s “Enbizaka no Shitateya,” and I changed the setting since I, admittedly, know little about Japanese culture. I wrote half of this groggy in the shower, so hopefully this all works out.
The Tailor Shop of Enbizaka
Tucked away in a little street off the market, tucked once more into a town tucked into the middle of a cloth of green plains, a tailor shop housed busy fingers. Her white fingers, rough and callused from years of shearing, numb to countless needle pricks, danced across the cloth, tickling its undersides as she charmed the thread to her bidding like some poisonous snake.
The Tailor of Enbizaka was a young woman not yet of thirty years of age. She was well-regarded as a skilled seamstress; her suits were refined and distinct, her were dresses elegant and light, her were mends strong and subtle. Her wit was quick but well-minded, and her words charmed even the most demanding and picky of customers into a light conversation. She had a face to match her charm, and would easily be happily wed, sewing up clothes for her unborn child and singing a lullaby with her sweet, sweet voice.
That would be the case.
The Tailor of Enbizaka was unhappy. Her beloved, a handsome young man she had so fervently lusted after for so long, was never home and left her alone at home, without a pregnant belly to sing to, without a child to sew clothes for. It was well known that he often solicited the emotions of other women; she wouldn’t be another victim of this womanizer, would she?
He was so handsome, his smile so bright, reassuring. The way he glanced over at her, his hands as he reached out, his eyes, his face, his lips, his arms, his stride, his chest, his clothes, his sweat, the way his lip quivered, the little twitch in his eyebrow, the inconsistency in his step, the way he blinks, why can’t he be here now?
The shears twitched in her hand, and the blades snapped together with a click. As she squeezed, her pretty face soured into a scowl, such an ugly scowl, and her white palms stained an ugly red. She dropped the shears, red with blood, and began to gnash at her thumbnail, stretching her neck as though she were going to bite her own thumb off. In her tantrum, she happened to look down upon the cloth she soiled, a wedding dress she had just started. The commissioner, a pretty young woman, if not a little odd looking, had hair like blood, the Tailor of Enbizaka remembered, and suddenly, with a shock, she realized the expensive material was completely ruined now. She looked around at the bloody floor with a panic, and at her shears and palm. Hastily, she bandaged up her hand and left the grotesque studio, snuffing the lights and locking the door.
There he was! The Tailor of Enbizaka’s heart bounced with elation, and she watched from afar his smile and the way he called out. But he didn’t call her. Who is that bitch in the red? Why is she laughing so easily with him, when he won’t even come home to look at me? It must be that red coat, such a nice coat.
Why? She asked. Why? Why? Why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhy. WHY.
The Tailor of Enbizaka committed her first murder.
The image of the dress engraved in her mind, she followed the Red Coat Girl when she parted ways with him. She must be some harlot, the Tailor of Enbizaka reasoned, some whore with a life inferior to my own. How far off the Tailor of Enbizaka was, how wrong she was as she picked up those red shears from that ruined wedding dress.
How nice that Coat is, the Tailor of Enbizaka would say, but such a shame that there’s a tear in it. And then she would plunge her shears deep, and mend the stitch in her own life. And quietly, the Tailor of Enbizaka would mend that tear, her fingers running through the familiar feeling of cloth like a child through a soft blanket. The Tailor of Enbizaka smiled serenely as she wiped her tears away.
The next day was no better. There he was again, on the old bridge, his sad face graceful yet heart-wrenching. And there, once again, another woman clutched his arm, her eyes full of a genuine, pure love. From her age the Tailor of Enbizaka guessed this was just some town admirer trying to console a sad man, until his eyes returned the very same love, the love that the Tailor of Enbizaka had never seen before. The Green Scarf Girl reached up and wrapped her green scarf around his neck, and the two watched the river flow, sighing steam into the cold, heavy air.
Why? She asked. Why? Why? Why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhy. WHY.
The Tailor of Enbizaka committed her second murder.
This scarf is so soft, the Tailor of Enbizaka would say, but the end here is fraying. And then she would plunge the shears deep, and paint that scarf red. And quietly, the Tailor of Enbizaka would clean the scarf, and run her skillful needle through the material like good sex, over and over until all was well. The Tailor of Enbizaka was calmed by this quiet tailoring as she wiped her tears away.
All was not well, however, as the next day the Tailor of Enbizaka stood agape at her beloved with a young girl. She is too young! the Tailor of Enbizaka cried, and she watched as the two picked out a yellow hairpin. It seemed this time her beloved was trying to console this young girl by buying her gifts with a smile, and they laughed with each other as they checked the mirror. He had never laughed like that with the Tailor of Enbizaka, he had never smiled like that, he had never given her such a fine gift like that.
Why? She asked. Why? Why? Why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhy. WHY.
The Tailor of Enbizaka committed her third murder.
What a cute hairpin, the Tailor of Enbizaka would say, but look here, the ribbon is coming undone. And then she would plunge her shears trough that small body and once again force her beloved to look at her. And quietly, the Tailor of Enbizaka would pluck the hairpin away and retie the knot with an experienced tug. The Tailor of Enbizaka watched her handiwork with satisfaction, and wiped her tears away.
And the next day, the Tailor of Enbizaka’s efforts paid off; he wandered the streets alone, looking tired and lonely, his tears streaming down his face. She ran home and put on the coat, the scarf, the hairpin, now her beloved’s only true love, the ideal girl for him. But when she ran out to meet him, she did just that.
“Oh, nice to meet you,” he said in between sobs. “I’m sorry, everything’s a bit of a mess.”
Why do you greet me like that? the Tailor of Enbizaka screamed. Why do you never come home to see me? Why do you fool around with those girls instead? Why do you leave me alone?
Why? She asked. Why? Why? Why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhy. WHY.
The Tailor of Enbizaka committed her fourth murder.
Out from the red coat’s pocket the red shears flew into her master’s hands, ripping the cloth with its honed blades. As the Tailor of Enbizaka’s hands flew forward, those murderous shears caught the scarf, ripping it in two. And as the shears plunged deep into his chest, his arms, his face, his lips, his shoulders, his legs, the hairpin was knocked away. The Tailor of Enbizaka leaned to cry on his mutilated chest, and fell onto her own bloodthirsty shears. She coughed up red blood and died in the street with him.
Tucked away in a little street off the market, tucked once more into a town tucked into the middle of a cloth of green plains, a tailor shop housed two wedding dresses. One was stained with blood, but stood on display. The other was eventually picked up by a brave client, who, before leaving, leaned her head against the condemned store’s display window, cursing conflict.
After a tearful mother sent away that client she arranged for the sale of the shop. Her daughter, so promising, had fallen in love, and this regretful mother denied her that joy, forcing her daughter onto the shear and needle. From so young the Tailor of Enbizaka took up tailoring, from so young her mother left her to tailor and sew and cut. When the Tailor of Enbizaka fell in love, she never knew how to deal with it, never knew to think rationally, and went insane with it, thrived off those fleeting feelings. The Red Coat Girl, the Green Scarf Girl, the Yellow Hairpin Girl… They were all the beloved’s sisters.
The Tailor of Enbizaka yearned simply for love.
