Like a slinking shadow, the smell crawled through the air, around corners, through doorways into my senses. A stench. Burnt, rotten, the stank of a memory I wanted to forget. Alive in the darkness, its origin story, a wasteland of fashion monsters of dye. But what was it that was haunting me? Is its origin or its nightmare of an olfactory bouquet?

It began one innocent day, the day I met the monster of rust and cotton. On an innocent bolt it dared to rest its head, in the middle of the broad day, have it no decency? It was a fabric unlike any other. It called to me. Upon its skin was a color shift, a creasing of sorts that changed it from a monotone to a cacophony of lighter wrinkles depending on its movement. Oh, little fool you were then, innocent, blind. Dreaming dreams of Japanese raw denim and its way of embossing life on its fiber with wear and time. This was no Japanese denim. This cotton twill, was its foil, a disappointment wrapped in the innocence of Hobby Lobby’s fabric aisle. A devil creeping.

But our devil wasn’t creeping, it was clever. It hid its true form, pretending to be normal, a kind soul of twill and natural fiber. A fabric you can count on for pants, jackets, a workhorse, a staple. These were my dreams before the nightmare began.

Maybe it achieved consciousness? An impatient menace, you waited in my fabric cabinet as we packed up and slumbered in our storage unit as time passed by. Did you act out because you thought you were forgotten?

How could I forget how we met? It was one golden summer day, a day full of promise. A new life began in 2×4 frame and carpeted meadows that roam my floor. A washer and a new dryer. As I invited you out of your slumbering resting place, your weave was rough, and a little stuffy, but I thought nothing of it.

That was your warning sign, a marker of what you are. We walked together. I carried you down the steps. I wanted to keep you safe. Gently I washed you with my hypo-allergenic laundry soap. There were no corners cut. I welcomed you into the fabric family but this was no ordinary wash. Something changed about you in that water. You became a monster. Swampy. A whiff smacked me across the face.

In horror, I smelled the washer. A stench emanated from the room. What could it be? My mind raced – did something crawl into the washer and die? Shaking off the fear, I placed you into the dryer which was a deal with Winifred Sanderson. A cauldron of heat and dry air transformed you into a thing of scent not even a dog could love.

With the dryer’s final squeal, I plucked you from your transformation machine. A stink with strength. Fortitude and funk. Your form was different. Your threads were softer, malleable, and even toned. But your evil had spread, and with fear, I pulled towels from the dryer. They became one of your covens, in a soft amber tone. The smell, it was pungent, accosting.

Lost in thought I carried you upstairs and contemplated my fate. Was it the washer or perhaps the dryer? That old, squeaky dryer. What kind of mayhem did the dryer succumb to in its former life? Was it contagious? I shook the thoughts from my mind and tossed the towels back in the hamper, encrusted in a stench that made me question whether they were washed with soap or copper pennies.

But you, the problem, the evil in rust and twill, you, I placated with Febreze and time. I brought you back to my sewing studio and waited. Instead of getting to know the Febreze and fresh air, you woke me up to the stench of your fibers wafting from the room. You evangelized your rancid agenda and spread it throughout my room. A beast of smell, there you sat proudly, smirking at the work of your hands.

You were an enemy beyond my wildest dreams. A creature lurking in the depths of the nose. An odor I could taste, it lingered, it languished in my mind into paranoia. And that was what it was living with you after your second wash, you monster.

I tried to live with you, accept you for your true form but the stench of your dye was a war cry of all that comes from you. You lead the charge of fashion’s destruction of our peace. Rust is your form. Toxic, destructive, you had to go.

I thought you were going to win. Even with you out of my room, your smell lingered. A nightmare with no end. Burnt, acrid, copper pennies, a smell that dries out the senses like the desert of Fury Road. Why must you torment me?

You gaslit me. A smell that lived on. The towels held on to your evil. Third wash, a scream at the growing wall of your fortress. A sinister scent crept, it jumped from the towels to anything washed them with. An evil baked in. Will this nightmare end? What do you want from me? An enemy without logic but hungry for conquest.

The stench was set into the fiber of your being and I played right into your trap for revenge. Foolishly I gave you more to feed on, as I looked in sadness at the towels helplessly smelly lying on the floor. Could they be saved? How far would your campaign of olfactory pain carry on?!

Your rusty threads were a root system taking hold of me. I could feel them choking me in my dreams. A smell that could not be forgotten. A creature unwilling to die. An assassin of fiber. Mutated from fast fashion’s evil realm.

One day, when io began to lose all hope, a bright light, like a sword dropping from the heavens came to me. A plan. I hurried before you could imprison me forever in your devilish arms, running towards the light. I had to dispose of you and your ground zero stank.

With all my might, I held back your reach, your scaly hands from taking the towels with you. A splash of white vinegar. A bottle of vinegar. I drowned your sinister stench, I killed it in the name of all that is good and pleasing, fresh air rejoiced for the freedom to exist again.

Although you are dead and buried somewhere far away, I worry you’ll come back with your creeping stench. Rusty twill of my nightmares…I think you might be alive.