When the Shoe Fits

Flash Fiction #40

The day after. Zara had left her red shoes, size 38, on the bench. She didn’t want them anymore. Maybe it had to do with the headaches. Maybe the pills were the issue. Maybe both.

Someone would take them. Anyone. Any minute now. Glancing at my wristwatch, I realise I am late for my morning coffee. There. Someone walks up to the bench. I ready my camera, and at the last moment, with indignation, head inclined, the passerby passes me by, cloak drawn tight, and the shoes remain behind. Not her size, perhaps.

I decide to move on towards the invigorating, hot black liquid that awaits down the hill in the usual place. The shoes might still be there on my way back, and I mull over the probability of such an event. Would they take the pill as well? Surely, they would throw the substance away and not ingest it. Who knows what’s in it?

And we’re off to the races. Imagination is running wild. Tomorrow, it would make the local news: Girl found dead next to poisoned red shoes. The killer is still at large and considered armed and dangerous. They’d call her Zara Shoestra. OK, that’s plain silly.

Not looking where I was going, in my absentmindedness, wondering what ludicrous moniker the press would come up with, I almost ran into a girl wrapped in a red velvet coat.

For a split second, I swear that I could smell the scent of cinnamon and freshly mowed grass, and I’m back in the small town where I grew up, a little girl by my side; we’re walking hand in hand, bare feet on the grass next to the roadside, on our way into town. Emily wants those red shoes she had seen the day before, so into town we go, two little kids, to get those shiny red shoes. Not a care in the world. Not yet, anyway.

The concept of money is still foreign to us, and grown-ups usually treat us nice, smile and give us things, sweets and presents, and this wouldn’t be any different, we thought. All we have to do is tell them what we want, and we shall receive. An assumption that would soon be proven wrong.

The shopkeeper, a lady who knows our parents, is quite surprised when we march into the shop, determined to acquire footwear, but what we would soon acquire instead is a set of red ears.

A phone call later, our mums came to take us back home, quite agitated, with much ado about nothing, or at least we didn’t fully appreciate the lesson being taught, especially seeing as we remained shoeless. The scent fades, and so do the memories, and I’m back in the present, suddenly craving Big Red chewing gum.

The girl’s bare feet make a pitter-patter sound on the asphalt behind me. Is she following me? A hot and cold sensation runs down my spine, and I turn around abruptly, staring into the puppy eyes of a stray dog, its tongue hanging low, tilting its head inquiringly, watching me for a moment, then it turns and waddles off towards the bench.

Strange, I think to myself and continue my descent towards the black gold. Then I start to worry about the dog. What if it swallows the pill? No, no. It wouldn’t. Would it? Besides, it’s probably harmless. No, I should have thrown away that pill. Who knows what nasty stuff is inside it? What if a child finds it? What if a child swallows it? Oh, bollocks. With a sigh, I turn back, hastening after the dog.

Back at the bench, the shoes and pill are, of course, gone. So is the dog. I feel quite silly and am more than late for my morning coffee, emphasised by a ding from my phone. A message: Where R U? I type a quick ‘Soz omw’ as a reply, shrug and leave. I would tell them about the Red Shoe Pill over coffee, no doubt, embellishing some details for dramatic effect.

Near the café, something to the left catches my eye: someone is standing at the corner of the street, wearing a red cloak, looking at me—the girl from before. I can’t see her face. Her hood is drawn deep over her head. The dog is sitting next to her, wearing the red shoes. Wait. What? I blink and look closer. The dog is gone, and the girl holds up something small, red and yellow and is about to swallow it.

Her hood falls back; black hair spills around her white face, which I still can’t see. All I see is the hand holding the poisonous drug inching closer and closer towards the opened mouth that strangely resembles the shape of a cup. Everything is moving in slow motion, like you always see in these exaggerated dramatic action scenes on TV, only it feels so real. I’m terrified the girl will die if she swallows that pill, as irrational as it may sound.

I frantically wave my hands and want to shout, but no sound crosses my lips. The poison disappears into the gaping black hole, and just like that, the girl is gone.

Next thing I know, I find myself sitting here on a green sofa, holding a cup of coffee in my hands, telling you about this mystery girl and her red-shoed dog.

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