Creative Writing thingy Draft 1

okay, the beginning is very similar to the thing with the shoes that I posted before, but there are some changes. And then it goes on. the ending obviously needs work and it's completley unedited, but here you go.

You come through the door and I can’t help but feel sorry for the shoes on your feet. Their original color is indiscernible, with so many holes that your mismatching socks are plainly displayed. Those are well loved, devoted shoes, and you’re here to replace them. I feel sorry for them, but at the same time, I try to let you know that I would be just as loyal. I wouldn’t fall apart, either. My sole is firmly attached, and I’m made of a durable, dirt resistant material.

Your eyes skim over me, and come to a rest on little miss Purple Jazz beside me. Don’t be stupid now. You don’t want her. She will deceive you. She will lure you into a false sense of security and then attack. She’ll rip holes in your skin, and the blood will never wash out. Purple Jazz is weak and spineless. She offers you no support. She only wants to hurt you. Don’t touch her. Don’t.

You pull Purple Jazz out of her box and take off the old, worn out shoes. Your feet, clad in mismatched and torn socks, slide into her. You tie the laces and stand up. I know what you’re thinking as you test her, walking down the aisle and back. She looks good. She feels nice. You smile, and sit back down.

Now your eyes land on Purple Jazz’ price tag. Your smile vanishes, and you sit still for a moment, thinking. You’re counting something in your head. You frown, and take Purple Jazz off your feet. You scan the shelves in front of you, and frown deeper. Then your eyes land on the neon tag announcing my recent humiliation. I’m seventy percent off. Your eyes brighten, but fall a little when they settle upon me. Hesitantly, you pull my box off of the shelf. I am so excited that I have trouble not jumping right onto your feet.

You set me down, and pick up Purple Jazz again, gazing at her longingly. Come on, I told you not to be stupid. I’m half the price and twice the quality, and I’ve been waiting so long for someone to care for me. What’s the point of being shoes if nobody walks in you? If nobody’s feet keep you warm? Just try me on. I’ll be the most comfortable thing you’ve ever Worn.

You sigh, and pull the paper out from inside of me. Your toes tickle me momentarily before finding their place and settling down. Your heels find a perfect resting place in my soles. I feel your muscles relax, and your weight shifts. You have a gentle, agreeable walk, and I exert no effort in not pinching you. We’re a perfect fit.

“Can I help you with anything?” Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie has appeared. She glances at me, and says, “I have a pair of those in blue. They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned.”

You shrug. “Do you have any blue ones left?”

“No, I’m sorry, the brown are all we’ve got left. Ugly, right?”

“Yeah, they’re horrible, but they’re cheap, and ridiculously comfortable. I’m trying to decide between these and them.” You gesture back toward Purple Jazz.
Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie grins at Purple Jazz. “Oh, I love those shoes. They’re so cute.”

“I know,” you say, “I’m in love with them. But they’re a bit out of my price range.”

You look back and forth between Purple Jazz in her box and me, still on your feet. Katie waits. Finally, you say defiantly, “Oh screw it. I’m getting the purple ones.”

“Oh, good choice. I can help you at the till if you’re ready.”

You put me back on the shelf, and walk away with Purple Jazz in your arms. Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie smiles brightly at you, and says something I don’t hear. I watch you pay, and hope your feet bleed for weeks. You’re an idiot. We were perfect for each other. Another price slash is coming, and I don’t know if I can cope with the shame. A familiar despair fills me.

*

The sound of the door opening as a customer entered the shop used to entice a thrill of competition and anticipation in me. I can remember sizing up the shoppers; I would analyze them and pick out ones I’d prefer to be Worn by. It was exciting. I would do my best to stand out and be noticed.

Nowadays, I’d rather hide inside my box and not be seen at all than be seen on the discount table. The mortification that comes with my drastically reduced price tag is almost unbearable. I am a loser. All of my friends were sold months ago and yet here I sit idle and useless; it is the ultimate disgrace.

My depression is so deep that I take little notice of customers. Sometimes they pick me up and check my size, or tentatively test their feet in me before carrying on, but I don’t bother trying to win their affection. Numbness is all I feel, and my self-pitying thoughts distract me to the point of complete isolation from reality. The injustice is just intolerable. I harbour no illusions of being beautiful, but I’ve watched uglier shoes walk out the door. Every foot that has ever been inside me feels my magic and begs me not to leave. My talent for comfort is indisputable; why is the world letting that talent go to waste? It’s not fair, and it doesn’t make sense.

*

A squat woman wearing all white carries me farther from the discount table than I’ve been in weeks, and it startles me out of my reverie. Before I can so much as gain focus on the pink sneakers on her feet, she slides me across the check-out counter. My shock prevents me from thinking at all as Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie pulls at my tag and runs the scanner over it. A cheerful beep resonates right to my soles; I hardly dare believe it. The squat woman pays.

Without more than a polite “thank you” to Katie, the woman takes me in my box and hurries out of the shop. My tongues are tingling. I can’t believe it. She didn’t even try me on. She didn’t even take me out of the box! I want her to open the box so that I can see out; I haven’t been out of that shop for a year and a half. Is she going to put me on? Where are we now?

I feel a sudden drop, and the box stops moving. The woman has set me down. I hear something roar beneath me, and then the inertia of travelling again. Music crawls into my box and as it vibrates against me the truth sinks in; I have been bought. It has finally happened. My entire existence has been leading up to this moment. The rush of joy I feel is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

After what seems like an eternity of rattling and sliding around in my box, the movement stops, and after a brief pause, the woman picks my box up again. She carries me a short distance and up an incline before once again abandoning me, this time on a flat, immobile surface. I listen intently as sounds of her moving about the room fill my box. Is she going to put me on? When do I get to start working?
“Hi Mom!” a familiar female voice chirps some time later.

“Oh hi dear,” returns a more mature version of the same voice. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply

“Hang on, don’t disappear yet. Take a look on the table; I’ve bought you some shoes.”

A new rush of excitement fills me as you shuffle closer to my box. “Shoes? Wow Mom, why?”

“They were ninety percent off and I’m sick of those ratty ones you complaining about those purple ones pinching your feet.”

The face of a pretty young redhead peers into my box; it’s you! You catch sight of me and grimace slightly, throwing the lid onto the table. “Oh Jesus, Mom, they’re hideous!” You pull me out of the box.

“Don’t be ridiculous Carlee, they’re very nice. Try them on.”

Rolling your eyes, you loosen my laces and pull me one at a time onto your feet. I try harder than I’ve ever tried before to be comfortable, caressing your toes and supporting your arches, giving your heels room to move. “Oh my god, they’re comfortable!” you shriek, jumping to your feet and giving me the long awaited sensation of being jumped about in. I wonder if you remember that we’ve met before.

Her mother smiles. You look down at me again; you make a face and then shrug. “Thanks Mom,” you say, and together we leave the room. I feel a secret thrill of triumph and carry you to a room with walls plastered in shiny paper printed with faces and type, where you sit on a chair and go on with your life as though nothing significant had just happened. I sit quietly beneath you, embracing your feet with all the tenderness I can muster. Months of depression and self-pity fade away.

*

My days are different now. Most of them start when you pull at my tongue and loosen my laces. I’ve become friends with all of your socks, who know just where to rub as you slide them inside of me. Throughout the days I protect your feet from nails and shards of glass, from puddles and mud, and later from snow and ice. More than that, I carry you where you need to go. Down a cracked and uneven sidewalk to a clean and suffocating building that you call School. I provide support all the way up your legs and to your back, bearing your full weight everywhere you choose to take us. Your soles have moulded mine so that they fit into each other with absolute precision. We are inseparable.

This life, it’s everything I hoped for all those long months in the store. It is more than what I hoped for. Back then I had no idea what the true meaning of being Worn was. How was I to understand what it truly meant to be shoes when I’d only been Worn for a few minutes at a time by shoppers with little interest in Wearing me? After three months of experience in the matter, I am enlightened. The satisfaction that the steady beat of your footsteps bring me is beyond words. Just sitting under your feet, feeling the blood pulse through your veins is enough to elicit a profound sense of fulfilment. I couldn’t have asked for a better Wearer. You avoid manure and rarely drag your feet. You take care not to smash down my heels as you pull me on. You defend me when your peers call me ugly. You lead a trying life, tormented constantly, and I do my part to make it easier.

*

Today, you are restless. I bounce up and down, up and down for the better part of an hour as you unconsciously fidget in the corner of the room with all the numbers. The constant motion of your muscles is entrancing at the same time as unsettling; I can feel the nervous energy seep right through your skin. Admittedly, I don’t pay much attention to the human interactions and commitments of your daily life; I’m more concerned with the fluid connection between my soft leather interior, fused with your skin by the socks you rarely bother to wear in a matching pair. It is rare that exactly where we go or what our purpose there is concerns me. My purpose is to provide support, balance and protection; the rest is up to you.

But today, you are restless. The motion of your incessant squirming and jiggling hammers this truth home with every passing second. For a few rare moments, I wish that I could do more than be your shoes. I want to put a stop to whatever is troubling you. This is of course impossible. I am very good at being shoes, and have no illusions of ever being anything that I’m not. I just care about you, that’s all. I am loyal, just as I promised to be.

A familiar beeping tone fills the room, and your full weight is above me immediately as you bolt from your chair. After a momentary pause to gather your books in your arms, I am being pulled out of the room; you stop just short of running as you rush to exit the School.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A loud voice halts you in your tracks.
You say nothing.

“Don’t say we didn’t warn you, freak.”

I feel your knees tremble above me. One second you’re on top of me, watching as seven angry figures surround you. The next I’m flying up into the air as your face skids across the sidewalk. You’re five foot two and barely weight a hundred pounds, and you’ve got seven girls on you, kicking, stomping....

“You’re a freak, just like your mother.”

“Don’t talk about my mother!” Your words are muffled and thick with the blood in your mouth. Wildly, I am thrown forward, making contact with the hard surface of one assailant’s shin.

A furious struggle ensues. I am tangled, twisted, in a storm of other shoes, of violent kicks and punches. Blood splatters, beading on my surface as the crunching of a nose sounds under the rubber of my outsole. Screaming.

Left right, left right; I flail helplessly, and then come to a stop. I feel the blood pulsing through your veins stronger than ever before, but your muscles are limp and motionless. Everything I am struggles to fight back as I block out all sound.

I am being pulled off of your feet with none of the care you ever showed. My laces are ripped undone, then tied together, connecting my left with my right. You lay unconscious on the ground beneath me as I am flung through the air. The rope of laces that join my two parts snags on a thick metal cord strung high in the air. Helpless, I dangle over your unconscious form on the sidewalk as your attackers hurry away, laughing.

Time stands still.

*

Sometimes I see you, coming to and from the school. I watch from my prison, strung from the wires in the sky. You wear dark blue shoes now, and I don’t know how much you like them. Your face has healed slowly, but I sense an underlying nervousness in you that was never there when you Wore me. I try to camouflage myself when I see you glance up. You never look at me for long. I am lifeless, dangling reminder of the worst day of your life: nothing more.

Kids throw rocks at me on sunny days. Ten points if you get one inside of me. A hundred if you can knock me down. But they never knock me down. I am left to hang, sun-bleached and blood-splattered, a half-forgotten symbol of my own delusions.