Rosalinda twirled in front of the mirror, reveling in the beauty of her new dress. The light glistened off of it, sparkling like rubies.
A lot of work went into that dress. Rosalinda made it herself; the materials alone were worth an immeasurable amount. No monetary price could be put on her work of art. It was the culmination of five years of searching for just the right fabric, from just the right source.
Following the curves of her body like a second skin, the dress was the epitome of comfort. She felt no seams, and the weight was perfection: heavy enough to be comforting, but light enough to allow total freedom of movement.
Rosalinda turned to her date for the night and said, “Well, Francisco, what do you think?”
His head lolled at an angle and his mouth hung wide open. A grin split his face from ear to ear. Francisco had never seen such a beautiful dress.
And he never would see it. His dead eyes stared at the little red dress made from his blood.
Rosalinda had made the perfect little red dress … Such a shame that it would be dry, brown, and flaking in a matter of hours.