Epic tale: The Story of a Woman and her Shoe

Epic Tale: An emotional journey through the mundane.

I knew my feet hurt this morning. I was aware of the pain within my toes. My mind had been grappling with it for the first ten minutes of my wakened state. However, there was a devotion within me to my place of work and the standards that had been set in their dress code. I wanted to look the part, nay, I needed to. 

The pain that my shoes of choice had caused me since purchasing them was long-standing and terrifying. From day one of purchase, all those months ago, I had heard my feet scream with the agony inflicted on them by the seemingly innocent looking black pumps. I had felt the internal desperate questioning of "Why?" that my feet had longed to voice had they a mouth of their own. But they didn't. And so, to help ease the terror of their day, I had uttered the question for them. After an excruciating journey home from Stratford, where I had bought them in a hurry, I hobbled into my house, collapsed onto my bed and held both death traps in my hands, giving them every part of my attention. 

"Why shoes?" I had asked. "Why, when there is nothing more to you than flat heels surrounded by a black material, do you insist on inflicting such torture into my world? I understand the reasons behind the pain that comes with a stiletto heel. Should I buy a pair of those shoes, I know that they will hurt me after wearing them too long. Therefore, I understand when they do. I realise that I have brought this pain on myself for succumbing to the stereo type of a woman's love for her shoes, regardless of the pain I must suffer for wearing them. I have no one but myself to blame, in those instances. 

"But you? You have clearly shown to be heartless. You disguise yourself as a comfortable day shoe. You have no added sparkles, trinkets or flourishes that might suggest pain would be associated, you leave no warning. You sneak into a woman's line of sight with the pretence of being the exact shoe that she wants. You are neither showy nor flamboyant, you are clearly convenient and a shoe that suggests it serves a purpose outside of the world of fashion. If you are going to give this impression, then one would expect you to adhere to it.

"But you don't." I continued. "Instead you lure women into your venus fly trap of lies and rip the soul right out of them. Your insides soak up my open sores, still bleeding from your hours of torture. You give women the impression that they can leave the house with only you for protection on their feet and then leave them lost and broken a mere half hour later when they are too far from their house to return and know full well that they will need to complete their day before they can relieve themselves from your evil ways.

"There are actual blood stains on the insole of you. Are you feeding off it? Are you laughing at my pain whilst you drink my essence as I walk? How dare you do this to me? I shall never wear you again! I shall throw you away and speak of this horrific day and the day that I conquered fashion and proved that I am greater than you could ever dream of!"

I made a move to throw the shoes away, but found that my feet were not ready to support my weight to the bin. As such, I resorted to placing them by my bed, covering myself with my duvet and weeping silently as my throbbing feet began their slow journey down the road of recovery.

My pain had been extended the very next day, as I had tentatively dressed myself ready for work and searched for any shoes that I might be able to wear that would also sooth my already battered feet. It was at this moment that the realisation hit me. I was without any other flat work shoe. My choices were stiletto heels or the torture devices I had bought the night before from the devil himself. 

I fell to my knees and wept. Desperate for any form of comfort in this hour of need, and finding no one around to help alleviate my despair, I rocked back and forth and wrapped my arms around myself, stroking my arms and allowing time to build myself up from the rock-bottom point I had found myself at. Once I had managed to get my breathing under control, I took the shoes and, seeing no other option open to me, I placed them tentatively on my feet. 

I spent the day walking as if I were balancing on stilts. Any interaction between my shoe and the pavement sent pains unlike I had ever felt, shooting up my legs. My feet had given up completely. They were already bleeding from every point possible and could no longer process the pain that continued to come over them in a non stop flood of torture. 

At midday, I was only half way through my duration with the shoes and a resolve hit me unlike any other. I could continue down this route, play the victim and allow the shoes to beat me into submission, or I could stand and fight. I chose the latter. I was bigger than these bastards, and I was going to show them and, indeed, the world, that I would not be beaten. Not by them, not by any shoe that comes my way. If the purpose for them was to force me out of these shoes, then I would not allow them. I would wear them until they changed, not allow them to change me. 

As certain as I was about this, I also decided that my fight against the shoe could wait until the end of the day, when I had to absolutely wear them again. Until then, I would carefully tuck them under my desk, away from my feet and allow them to feel my wrath through the occasional glares I would throw their way when I remembered. 

I carried this resolve, and even if it had looked on the outside that I had cried all the way home that night, I knew I had won the moral victory. I had not taken the shoes off. I had made those shoes my bitch. 

As the months progressed with these shoes in my life, I made the decision to keep them close, as one would with an enemy. After all, they were my enemy and this was my way of ensuring that they couldn't hurt another person again. I began to wear them occasionally around the house for short spurts and when I needed to take the 2 minute journey to my local food retailer. I played the long game. Without the shoes realising it, I slowly took control of their shape and ways of torture. Each time I placed them on my feet, I took some of their power away.

And then the day arrived. The day that I had dreaded. I had to begin to wear black shoes at my new work place and these were my only option in the colour scheme. I was aware that shoes were available from other shops, ones that would be black and comfortable, but our journey had gone too far. I was so close to gaining control over these torture devices, I would not give up on the last stretch. And I didn't. It was finally time for the final test. The test whereby I would wear the shoes for longer than half an hour. I would once again take them out for a day, but this time I would be victorious. 

And I have. I am on my second day with the shoes never leaving my feet. They have tried to inflict the pain on my toes, but I have not succumbed to their attempts. Neither have my feet. They too still remember the way the shoes had tortured them, and this time it is their turn for revenge. By the end of this week, they will be completely under my power. My mission is complete. 

...

I think this just shows that, when you can't think of anything to talk about for a post except the fact that your toes are pinching slightly in your shoes, you really can flesh it out into a full length feature with the use of epicness. I don't even care if this is no good. I'm just impressed that I am able to talk about nothing for 1,383 words... 

Peace out my lovelies.