The Purple Dress

She remembered the colour over everything else.

Not the smell of the bedroom. Not the sound of passing cars outside. Not even the shape of his face. Just the purple. Deep, dark velvet. She had chosen the colour because she thought it was beautiful—now the sight of it made her sick. It lay only a few feet away, just out of reach. Even though she now hated the dress, part of her wanted to reach out and touch it, just to make sure that this was real—that she was still alive. She couldn’t. Nothing worked. Not her hands. Not her legs. Her body didn’t belong to her anymore. Just like the purple dress, everything about her was tattered and torn. With her face pressed into the filthy shag carpet, she felt a trickle of blood slip from the side of her mouth. She couldn’t move. Instead, she lay on the ground, a crumpled mess, staring at the purple dress until finally darkness took over. Over the years, the details of that night faded, almost like it was nothing more than a bad dream. But she never forgot the purple dress.

Two years later.

She sat on the edge of her bed. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, now slightly clinging to her skin from sweat. Her hands were folded so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had begun to ache, the bones showing white. The mirror that sat across the room from her reflected a version of herself she no longer recognized. Her eyes were too wide. Her shoulders were too hunched. She hated it. Hated that when she looked at her reflection, the person she now saw was a stranger. Before the night of the purple dress, she used to enjoy looking at her reflection. There was nothing significant about her appearance, but it was hers. It was her slightly crooked nose. Her brown curly hair. Her deep blue eyes looking back. Nothing felt like hers anymore. The white wooden doors of her wardrobe lay open in the right-hand corner of the room. Hangers of plain coloured clothing were arranged neatly, all similar in tone.

She didn’t own anything that colour. Her wardrobe was all soft neutrals. Safe shades. It was better that way. Boxes of unopened gifts—pieces of clothing from her mother to help take back control of her life—were stacked neatly on the shelf above. As long as she didn’t open them, the colours would remain inside. And as long as she just avoided anything purple, then she would be safe. That was how things had always been since that night. But that day, the memory had begun to take root in her thoughts again. It pushed everything else aside, forcing her to remember, and when she closed her eyes, she was there. Not the moment—not fully. Her mind refused to replay it in sequence. Even when the police questioned her afterwards, the bruises and blood still fresh, she couldn’t form a coherent timeline of what had happened. Everything was a mismatch of painful pieces.

Instead, the night offered flashes: the brush of fabric, the touch of his unwanted hands on her body, the feeling of the world tilting off its axis. And always, always, the purple dress. Time had become unreliable. Morning and night lost all meaning. Sleep often led to dreams, and those were too dangerous. Food made her nauseous. She tried to avoid anything that might remind her of that moment—but the memory didn’t need help finding her. It arrived uninvited. Always uninvited. She didn’t know how she’d managed to survive up until now. After the night of the purple dress, even something as simple as breathing felt like an effort. Each inhale and exhale felt forced, like her body had forgotten why it was still bothering to keep her alive. She’d wanted to die. Most days, she still wanted to die. Yet, despite everything, she was still here. Was there a reason for that? Was there a reason the purple dress haunted her more than anything else about that night? After all, it was just a dress.

One afternoon, several months later, she stood in front of a rack of clothes in a small secondhand shop. She was alone. Friends always offered to accompany her whenever she went out now, but she wanted to do this alone. Her hands trembled as she pushed hangers aside, fabric whispering against fabric. It felt dangerous. Until now she’d done all of her shopping online. That was safe. Online allowed her to avoid the risk of running into the unwelcome colours. She didn’t know why she had come. Maybe she was tired of being afraid of shadows. Maybe it was her mother’s pleading eyes as she took in her sickly frame and hollow eyes. Or maybe, she was just tired of being afraid of something so simple as a colour. And then she saw it. A dress. Purple. Not the same. No, this one was softer, lighter, the shade of twilight rather than bruises. It didn’t glow with menace. It just… existed. It looked almost sad as it hung off the frame. Her chest tightened. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She felt the memory clawing inside her, trying to force its way out. She almost walked away. Almost. But something held her there.

Carefully, as if the dress might shatter, she reached out and touched it. It was soft under touch. She ran the silky fabric through her fingers. Her heart hammered inside her chest, but she didn’t pull back. It was a dress. Just a dress. Just a colour. Just purple. Her reflection caught in a nearby mirror as she held the dress up. For the first time in months, she looked at herself directly. Really looked. She still saw the fear in her eyes. The hurt. The internal bruises on her soul that hadn’t healed. Those hadn’t vanished—they probably never would. She would have to learn to live with that. But there was something else, too. A quiet, steadying presence, whispering to her. It's just a dress. After that night, she had let the dress define her. She exhaled slowly, her grip on the hanger loosening, just a fraction. Inside the dressing room, her hands shook as she removed the dress from the hanger and slid it over her body. She paused as it settled over her skin—nothing happened. There were no hands. No screaming. No pain.

A voice outside the door came then, asking if she needed help. She took one last look at herself and slid the white curtain back. The shop assistant smiled. It was bright and friendly, the kind of smile that felt honest. Her eyes took in the dress; the way it sat just below her knees, the way the straps fell across her shoulders delicately so. She told her that she looked beautiful. She told her that purple was her colour. For the first time since that night, she believed it.

Purple.

The colour didn’t own her.

It didn’t get to define her story.