My name’s Missy, and I’m a 32B.
When I turned 30, I felt it was time to boost my health, so I decided to take up jogging again. I’d been on the track team in high school and looked forward to savoring the boost of “runner’s high” and the pride of achievement as my physique grew stronger.
Of course, one necessity for a wannabe female athlete is the almighty sports bra. I knew from painful experience that regular bras just don’t cut it for athletic exertion—the damned straps are murder when they dig into your shoulder blades.
I went to a store called Hex Athletics and, within minutes, found the bra I wanted. It was an audacious cherry red. I grinned proudly as I toted the bra to the cashier. I even mused about taping white adhesive “racing stripes” to it.
The first clue that anything was amiss came when I got home and removed the bra from its package. The moment it was in my hands, my skin tingled with a sizzling buzz. I tried to dismiss the sensation–just static from the new fabric, I thought. But even after I placed the bra on my bed, the electric feeling didn’t go away; it clung to me, prickling down my chest, my arms, my spine…everywhere.
Weird, I thought, shaking my head as I returned to the living room.
I spent the rest of the day skimming a Running For Dummies book I’d bought. Then, before bed, I decided to try on my new chest-armor to make sure it would fit in the morning. I pulled the bra over my shoulders with a bit of a struggle, but it slid in place easily. I crossed my bedroom and studied myself in my full-length mirror. A smile crept to my lips.
I blew a kiss to my image in the mirror. “Sleek and on fleek!” I cheered. “Not a bad bod for the big 3-0!”
But then, the bra… tightened. It squeezed around my chest, pressing the wind out of me in a whoosh. My heart pounded. I yanked and twisted, but the bra only clenched harder, digging into my flesh like claws.
Then I heard it—a faint, scratchy whisper as the bra’s straps slithered against my shoulders: a sibilant “Missy… Misssssssyy…”
It was mocking me! My heart thudded harder as I struggled for breath.
It felt like invisible fingers were lurking inside the fabric, squeezing tighter and tighter, pressing down on my ribs and crushing my lungs. My breath puffed out in desperate gasps. I clawed at my crimson torturer, desperately trying to pry myself free; but the fabric was alive like a serpent, writhing and shifting under my quaking fingers.
My lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. My vision blurred. Black spots danced in front of my eyes as I struggled harder and harder to inhale.
The bra whispered again–louder, closer, as if a voice were rasping in my ear: “Missy… Missy… MISSsssssyy…”
Then I remembered: my sewing kit was on the nightstand! I stumbled toward it, wincing with every step. I grabbed a pair of scissors from the basket and hacked the bra from my body. I flung the red demon across the room with a shriek, my chest heaving as precious air flooded my lungs.
But the thing wasn’t through with me yet! It undulated like a cobra, slithering toward me across the carpet.
I screamed and bolted to the kitchen, where I snatched up a pack of matches and can of lighter fluid. I raced back to my bedroom, doused the spandex beast in fluid, and set it ablaze. Even as it popped and sizzled, it continued to torment me with a hissing “Missy… Misssssssyy…”
I heaved a sigh of relief as the flames died down, leaving behind a pile of smoking ashes.
I inspected myself. Red welts and bruises circled my ribs, like marks left by invisible claws.
I hurled a curse at the smoldering heap of ashes: “Damn you!”
When I was sure the ashes were cold, my jittery fingers gathered them up. I charged to the kitchen and tossed the monster’s remnants into the trash barrel, slamming the lid down hard.
I breathed a grateful sigh of relief; I felt like a survivor.
The bra was dead but not forgotten. Every night since the…incident…I’ve felt a strange stirring around my chest as I lie in bed, like phantom fingers caressing me. And in the black of night, I still have nightmares about that scratchy whisper:
“Missy… Missssssssy…”
Instead of jogging, I decided to take up bowling instead. Something tells me it would be better for my health.