The Shoe

The shoe sat in a lump of clothes in the middle of the room, buried under the layers of excessive clothing. The only visible part of the shoe was a lonely shoelace vainly trying to pull the rest of the shoe out of the pile. The shoelace itself was hacked up and worn, for many times it had been on the receiving end of the pavement. The plastic tab had long since been discarded after it had been cracked from neglect. The lace crept back to the body of the shoe, featuring a suede overcoat imitating emeralds. The tarnished fabric was covered in scuffs from dragging along the mud puddles and hard concrete. The sole had been crushed flat and painful from the years of walking ingrained into them as well as the tread. The shoe sat and waited for nothing because there was nothing for the shoe to have. Its destiny was not to be determined by itself, but by whomever considered it a friend and sometimes enemy.

Clothes began to fly dramatically from the top of the pile as he began his search for his shoe. In his haste, he picked up the object of his desire and flung it with the rest of his refuse. The shoe slunk to the ground, injured in feeling discarded. He left his search of the room for later and ran out to begin anew somewhere else. The shoe sat in its new home, waiting for nothing. The weight upon it was less now; there were fewer clothes on top of it so it could breathe easier. The drama of being crushed by an overwhelming force had been reduced, but the shoe experienced a pang of anxiety. The falsity of this emotion flowed over it as he grabbed something, anything else instead and left the shoe once more, as he had before and would do again. The door clanged shut and the shoe was alone, not even a pair to keep him company in his misery.

Above it the light blinked slowly, covering the room in a dim layer of pale light. The gloss of the shoe reminisced about past reflections; unable to convey any new messages. The only memoirs it could send were now ones that had only been done before. The shoe had lost its creative interest after the days of adventure. The only thing left for the shoe was mindless destruction at the hand of the family pet. The shoe mingled at the idea and became shocked at how degrading it had become. Once this idea had passed, the cycle was complete. The shoe, though intangible, had died that day. No longer useful in the realm of the living, the shoe became nothing less than a memory that no one bothers to remember.