As Feet Grow Weary

A Story by Ben Taylor

I walk--and as you watch, you can see nothing other than the self that I endeavor to be, the one I wear as a sleeve, as a face. The scuff-marks left on the street lamp stained sidewalk are left ignored or unnoticed, but they say more of me than the two straight rows of teeth ever will--for it is the bottom of my shoes that hides that which I am loathe to betray. All the filth I have traversed, all the crimes I have fled from, have all left their residue on the soles of my freshly polished shoes. This permanent dirt is lodged in the cracks and lines of my once-removable feet, and shows itself only to those that I cease my wanderings for; that is to say, not many.

For although my company is often enjoyed, it is not often tolerated for longer than a short moment. It is as if the slightest scent of what lingers beneath my feet betrays me, and I am left alone, wondering if I am so obvious.

Through constant exposure I have grown not immune, but hyper sensitive, to the malodorous presence of my inadequacy. It pervades my appetite, changing it to revulsion, and drifts from dream to dream when I find myself in a somnambulant state. Even the best of my dreams, however, never take me far from where I wander while conscious.

A street lamp sputters and stutters as I pass. It hasn't been daytime for weeks--at least, I suppose, my footprints are less noticeable and, therefore, less obviously obscene.

I always did prefer hiding.