An Old Pair of Shoes: A Short Story by Alyanna Poe

I wanted to end my life. Not in the sense of suicide, but in the sense of ending everything I was and everything I did and starting anew. 

Have you ever scrubbed a pair of dirty shoes? 

You think, “These will never come clean. These are meant for the trash.”

But you get out some soap and baking soda and a toothbrush, and fifteen minutes later, the shoes are unrecognizable. 

They are new again.

I was the dirty shoe, and I desperately yearned to be a brand new pair.

I don’t believe in reincarnation, so death was out of the question. 

I don’t believe plastic surgery or a spiritual retreat full of silence and LSD were the answer, either.

Rather, I stepped out of my body.

Not literally, but mentally and emotionally.

Who am I? I asked myself.

The mirror handed me many answers. I was dirty. Unshaven. My hair was full of split ends and knots. My teeth were yellow with coffee stains. And the dark circles around my eyes could have hosted an auto race. 

I wanted to end this person.

I wanted to be a shiny pair of shoes.

Full of a sense of purpose, a nice smell, and comfortability. 

A funny thought popped into my mind as I looked at my reflection.

You could carve away your skin for a new pair of shoes.

I shook it away. Stupid intrusive thoughts. 

They mucked up my life. Made intimacy hard. Made sleep impossible.

My first step was to rid myself of the intrusive thought.

I started laughing at them. This is thought to rid them of their power. Their sting. Their absolute control of that mushy computer in my head. 

I started by mentally laughing at them.

This didn’t work.

You’re a piece of shit, my mind insisted.

I mentally giggled, but it still hurt. Still left a lingering pain in my chest.

So, I chuckled.

This chuckle turned into a cackle. 

I’m sure my neighbors heard through my open window. 

I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt. I fell to my knees and curled up in the fetal position, laughing and laughing and laughing.

There was a bit of clarity upon my silence. The laughing ended abruptly, and all I could hear was the clock ticking from the wall in the kitchen.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock had purpose. It always has. It always will. 

I did not. 

I sprawled onto my back on the wood floor, looking up at my cobweb infested ceiling.

What was my purpose?

I thought and thought and thought until the sun went down. Then, I thought some more until the sun came up.

Then it hit me:

I can clean shoes.

In a frenzy, I got to my computer and searched, “The city most walked in.” 

The closest city to me was San Francisco.

I packed the few belongings I wanted to keep, really only the necessities, leaving behind all of my bedding, towels, clothes, and knicknacks. I wouldn’t need them where I was going.

I wouldn’t need them to be who I was going to be.

I left my keys with the front office of my apartment building. 

I sold my car online quickly. They picked it up within an hour.

The old me drove a little car.

The new me wanted a pickup truck.

So, I sold and bought a vehicle all in a few hours.

I drove to San Francisco.

I rented an apartment.

I rented a space downtown.

I set it up to clean shoes.

And wham-bam, I had a business.

Some people dropped off their shoes. Others waited in the waiting room in their socks. 

I polished leather. I scrubbed dog poop from soles. I freshened stinky insides with baking soda and fancy perfumes.

And one day I looked in the mirror.

I saw a new pair of shoes.

Not a real pair, but me.

I had scrubbed and polished myself, doused my body in perfumes, and very suddenly, I realized I was anew.

I was fresh.

No one in this little town knew me as a paranoid, depressed, obsessive compulsive freak.

I found all the distraction I needed, not in laughing my intrusive thoughts away but in finding purpose.

I killed myself that day.

Not my body, but my personality.

I killed who I was and scrubbed away the dirt to find a shiny new me. 

Isn’t that all I could ask for?