Murder is Afoot

In the morning we were good friends, my shoes and I. I laced them with great care, happy to have them on when I stepped on to the sharp, icy concrete and made my way to the car. They protected my toes from the harsh corners I oh-so-often missed on my way into the warehouse. They even gave me the proper amount of cushion to stand and walk on the hard floors as I slaved through my work day. By lunch, we were starting to grow a bit tired of each other, but in tandem, we rested for an hour as I fulfilled my basic human needs, and they stretched out on a worn down ottoman.

This day was no different than others really, I stood after lunch, returning myself and my shoes to another few hours of honest work. At first, they nipped a bit at my feet, but eventually they gave up and allowed me to finish the task at hand. 

It was around 30 minutes to quitting time, when my shoes started really throwing a fit. Now, admittedly, these were new shoes, I hadn't quite trained them the same way my Ol' Sneaks had been trained, but I thought we at least had an understanding. I convinced my toes to try and reason with them, but to no avail. Unfortunately, they just wouldn't listen. I spent the next 30 minutes in agony as my feet progressed into a full on war with the shoes that I really had believed I could trust. The bottom of the shoes began to flatten against the hard floor, providing no support for my fighting, tired soles. 

When the clock struck 5, I moved faster than I had ever moved before. Against the will of my rebellious shoes, my supportive legs carried me to my car. Despite the pouring rain and ominous darkness, I sped. I tried not to cry as my feet and shoes made it almost impossible to press the gas or pump the brakes. Against all odds, I made it home, and my super-human speed continued all the way to the front door. Even my hands started to betray me as I fumbled at the lock. Finally, the door swung open and I fell to the ground, ripping the ravenous shoes from my feet. I apologized to the soles of my feet that had all but given up on me. My hands, as angry as me, began to tear apart the shoes. First the laces, then the tongue, my strength could only do so much. Standing, against the will of my feet, I made my way to the kitchen. 

Thunder struck outside, too close for comfort. My hands were tight on the shoes, afraid they might get away. I looked for resolve, and when I found it, my throat let out a maniacal laugh. I had no intention of finishing my day with murder. But as the shoes fell to pieces at the will of my hands and a pair of kitchen shears, all I saw was lightning and all I felt was relief.