Stand Still

• Samantha Micallef, Grade 10, Clare Catholic High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'Write As Rain 2014' competition

I am standing incredibly still.
My balance is off. I am on a pedestal, about a foot off the ground. My shoes aren't helping, either. Three inches of heel wasn't the best choice for today.
A sharp prick in my back makes me inhale sharply. There's a tug on the fabric of my clothing, and another stinging jab. It takes all of my willpower not to make a noise.
"Jumpy, aren't you?" snickers the woman behind me. She's an old hag, with very grey hair, big glasses and old clothing. She pricks me again, and I cringe a little, still not trusting myself to speak.
I try to convince myself that she isn’t doing it on purpose, because, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know she isn’t. But the frequency of the jabs makes it very hard to believe.
I look across the room and spot the woman responsible for my suffering. Why did she do this to me? My sweet, loving mother, who I would trust with my life, has put me in this position. Balancing a foot off the ground, repeatedly jabbed and teased. She knew that I have been dreading the day this would happen. And yet, she went ahead and put me here anyway. "It's okay, sweetheart," she says. "It will be over soon."
I grit my teeth. The pressure on my back ceases for a moment. Just when I start to hope that it's over, the hand returns. Two blades appear in my peripheral vision. "Just keep still, and you'll be fine," the old woman wielding the scissors snaps at me. Yes, I must stand still. Very still.
She circles me, snipping around my ankles. I hold my breath. I don't trust her one bit. My heels are aching in my very impractical shoes. I wobble a little on my feet. The flat side of one of the blades slides over my foot. "I said, keep still," the old woman chides me. I say nothing. She is right. I must stand still.
The door opens in front of me, and a cold gust of wind almost knocks me over. None of the women in this room would forgive me if I were to fall. So I do everything I can to remain upright. To stand still. "There," the woman snaps at me. "Done. You can quit whining now." With relief, I step off the pedestal. The agony is finally over.
I stumble over to my mother, the traitor. She grins at me. "Your aunty will be happy," she says. "The results are very impressive. Turn for me." Obediently, I twirl in a circle. "Can we go home now?" I ask. "Oh, don't make such a big deal," she tells me, laughing. "Was that really so hard?" "That was the worst experience of my life," I tell her flatly. "It was torture. I'm never getting a dress fitted ever again."