Beast

Same Walk, Different Shoes

“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project that Ben Wakeman organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

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TW // threat, abuse

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1.

“…and how did that make you feel?” She asked, again. Am I obliged to feel anything in court-mandated therapy?

“Angry.” I lied. I’ll give her something to work with, to make the multiple certificates on the wall actually mean something; make her earn her money.

“And why do you think that is?” Dr Choi’s stare was focused and firm.

“Dairy?” I immediately realised the joke was ill-judged and deserving of the eye-roll it received.

“Can you try to take this seriously?” The doctor said, tapping her pen on her pad in an irritated rhythm of triplets.

I showed her my palms in apology. “Okay. Shoot.”

“Where does the anger come from?” She repeated after a deep breath.

“They are evil. Cannot be trusted.”

“Men?”

“Yes.”

“Some are. But there are many that are good, normal people.”

“I’m yet to meet one.” I said as I felt the anger rising again at the denial of my feelings. Let me be angry, I am allowed to be. You can’t just convince me I’m wrong. We’re way past that now. I know I am right.

“Do you think you have put up your barriers so high that you prevent anyone getting in.”

“I see that as success.” This instigated another deep exhalation. Too flippant; play nice. At least pretend to care, it might make this go faster. “I can be resistant. I’m back on the dating apps…”

“Oh really? That is progress.” Dr. Choi lit up. Too easy. “Any bites?”

“Some.” Tim from Tinder, Greg from Accounts, John from the supermarket…

“Good.” Her smile was patronising. “I wanted to re-examine something you mentioned in the last session. Erm…” She flicked back through her notes. “The playground incident.” I was suddenly cold, vulnerable. I glanced at the door out of habit: always have an escape plan when you feel threatened. My palms began to sweat, and I clenched my fists, pushing my nails into my palms and focussing on the pain. “Please, Susannah.”

Just tell the story and get out. Go back to your normal life and leave all of this behind. Two more sessions of this and I am done.

“I was seven, nearly eight.” I started after a deep breath of my own. I stared at the floor as the words tumbled out; eye contact would only reveal her pity, her sympathy, and further induce my rage. “I was in a playground, reading a book. I didn’t go to the beach with everybody else because I needed a break. Needed some space.” I paused, waiting for a question or an acknowledgement of some kind to carry on, but just received a blank stare. “I must have been sat there for an hour and then I just knew that I should be scared. It was like it was suddenly cold, or the sky had gone black, or something. But I looked over and I saw the man. He just looked at me, but it was enough. He was horrible. He was so scary. His eyes were black, and his mouth was open and he leaned against the playground fence, as though he could squeeze through it somehow. But he just stared at me. Those big, black eyes and wide-open mouth, like he was mid-scream; it was horrible. He managed to get his leg through - he had big black boots on - and he just kept pushing and squeezing. He was trying to get inside, to get to me. My heart felt like it stopped. It felt like the longest time of us just facing each other. Like wild animals. And then I just managed to find myself and I jumped up and was gone. I ran and ran and ran. I don’t think I’ve ever run that fast. I just ran to our apartment, to my room and lay down and cried. It was awful. I never saw him again but every time we were near the park, I’d check that spot where he’d stood to see if… but I never saw him again.” A silence spread in the room, filling all the gaps.

“And-” Dr. Choi began.

“-how’d it make me feel?” I cut her off with more venom than I’d intended, and she raised her eyebrows, allowing the quiet to further drag out my response. “I felt small. Weak. Violated. It took me years to even look at a man without feeling a grip of fear. He destroyed my trust. Now I’m here.”

“You’re here because-”

“-because I snapped.”

“You punched a man. You don’t think these two events are related?”

“He nearly crashed into me!” My voice rose in incandescence. The same, accusing tone had been used by the judge, and the prosecution lawyer. And my mother. Why can nobody see I was the victim?

“Would the reaction have been the same if it were a woman?”

“Sure.” The lie hovered between us, and a thin smile found the doctor’s face.

“I think this is something we can unpick in our next session.” She said, making a final note on her pad and checking her watch. I exhaled with the relief of the session ending and as a means of releasing some of the tension that recalling the events in the playground had stirred up.

It means nothing. It’s inconsequential. I’m over it.

2.

The air outside was stuffy with the humidity of late summer. The sky was a vivid blue. People milled absent-mindedly and I eased my way through them without any clear direction. Therapy clouded my mind - the opposite of what it was advertised as being able to achieve - leaving me with a rising nausea and a sense of being off-balance. The modern world claimed it as the ultimate cure, the ultimate means of releasing oneself from a broken past. But it just made me feel weak and limp, like an under-watered plant; sagging, abandoned on the windowsill. I walked in the vague direction of work, willing each step to do its bit in unclouding my mind, in allowing me to gather my thoughts into some semblance of normalcy, something tantamount to stasis.

It was four blocks to the office - my office - which should be plenty of time to shake away the therapy-induced negativity. There was something about this session that made me feel on edge. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It wasn’t the recollection of what happened in the playground - it couldn’t be because I have managed to make my life a success in spite of it - but maybe it was the way she had responded to it. The soft, saddened eyes and the patronising pout. I am not pathetic. I am a beast. I will continue to be a beast, no matter what. No matter what you say about my past. It means nothing. It is over. What matters is now.

The office building glittered in the sunlight, and I paused in front to regard its splendour. It would never cease to amaze me and to make me proud of what I had achieved. The business has grown and grown and the premises had followed suit in order to accommodate the sheer volume of employees. I worked so hard for this. I deserve every square foot of this. I don’t need a judge or a therapist to tell me what it is a product of; what the events of my past have done to impact what I have become. What if I just worked hard, and was smarter than those beside me, smart enough to reach up and up and eventually become the “Leading Lady of Tech” and the “AI Darling.” This is mine because I built it. Because I am a beast.

“Good morning, Ms. Reid.” The receptionist nodded her head as I passed, and I smiled warmly back. Heads turned as I walked in. Just as it’s supposed to be. I could feel the swell of excitement every time I arrived; I am the leading lady. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Ms. Reid.” My assistant said at the door to my office.

“Yes, Clare.” I smiled at her. “Come in.”

“Coffee.” She said as she placed it on my desk. Just perfect.

“How are you?” My headache had faded with the recalibration of being at the office, with the reassertion of being in control, of being active, not passive. Not buffeted by events, but responsible for them. This place felt like home, and it soothed me. This is the centre of my universe.

“Okay, thank you.” Clare said with a smile. “You?”

“Better now, thanks. Any messages?”

“Your 10am cancelled: flu. You have a coffee date with Nigel at 9.30. There is a financial presentation at 4pm.”

“Nigel?” I asked with a frown. The name was present in my head but untethered, floating.

“Yes, the rep from last week’s mixer, you asked to have some face time with him about a potential collaboration…?”

“Oh, Nigel. Of course.” I relaxed and smiled. Nigel, the laughing man. I remember. The conversation had flowed well, he was bright and engaging and seemingly interested in me. He could be a future conquest; worth at least a little effort.

“Anything else, Ms. Reid.”

“No. Thank you.” I said, checking my watch and noting it was 8.35. “Send him through when he gets here.”

3.

“Nigel. Welcome.” I stood and shook his hand.

“Ms. Reid.” He said with a short laugh. “Great to see you again.”

“Likewise.” He was tall and strong but the laughter was an expression of nervousness that irritated me; it seemed dishonest, covering something up. It felt insincere.

“I’ve had some thoughts about the collaboration.” He began as he took a seat across the desk. “How wedded are you to the name?”

“The name?”

“Yes, do you think it’s punchy enough?”

“Of course. It’s my name… If you’re getting cold feet…”

“-No.” He held up both hands. “Not at all. It’s just I’ve played it past some of the guys at the firm and-”

“-what guys?” I could feel an anger rising and I squeezed the arms of my chair to calm myself down.

“Look.” He said, shifting forward in his seat. “I just think there are some details that we could discuss.” His movement was quick, and it caught me off guard. I squeezed the arms of the chair all the harder and watched his face as it seemed to flicker, to change in front of me. His mouth snapped open, and his eyes turned black.

“No.” I said aloud as my chair skidded back on the carpet.

“What?” He said, tilting his head awkwardly to one side. “You gonna run again?” He was suddenly on his feet and leaning forward, as though pressing against an unseen force, his black-booted foot trembling and his lips twitching.

“No. No. NO NO NO.” I jumped from my chair and ran from the office as fast as I could.

4.

I put the key in the door of my town-house and shouldered it open; it was stiffer now, swollen by the thick air of summer. The house was quiet and the sound of my echoing footsteps, as I walked through the hall, made the building feel smaller.

The echoes sound like the product of big, black boots.

I shivered. Fuck therapy. All it does is make everything happen again. It rips the scab and brings back the pain, the fear. All to prove some tenuous point about cause and effect. Leave the past where it belongs. I am done with it.

I placed my keys in the porcelain bowl and entered the kitchen, tapping on the flashing answer machine, cringing slightly at what it was about to emit. The room was well lit through tall glass doors that opened on the sprawling backyard. I feel safer when I can see more, and the toughened glass helps.

“Hey, Ms. Reid.” Clare’s voice rang out of the answer machine as I removed my shoes. “I saw you leave in a bit of a state earlier.” The wine glass sang as I filled it. Relax. Just relax. “I hope you’re okay. Nigel was a bit freaked out, but he said these things happen. We all get emotional, he said.” She paused, distant. “I am just checking in. You seemed distracted today, so… I’m here if you need me.” The line clicked dead, and the end of message was declared by a robot.

His mouth hanging open as though mid-scream.

I sipped my wine and stared into the shining amber liquid. Fuck Nigel. He’s on the list. And poor Clare, seeing me like that. It’s a shame I’ll have to let her go. She’s too… familiar now. Damn that therapist for dragging it all back up. I didn’t want to relive the playground. I got rid of all that and now she’s dragged it all up again. That’s why I pressed it down and stuck a cork in the top. I’m done with it. No more. It’s gone. It’s dead to me.

Mr. Fluff meowed loudly and snapped me from my distracted sipping of wine. He marked infinity around my ankles and looked up with eyes wide

and black

and hopeful for food.

“Okay, mister.” I said, kneeling to rub his ears. He pressed back into my hand lovingly. Now he I can trust. He is reliable, faithful. Sweet. I moved across the kitchen, slurping wine as I went, and opened the cupboard beside his bowl. Empty. Again, he meowed.

“Okay, little guy.” I placed my wine glass and moved to the back of the kitchen, towards the garage door. “It’s coming, I promise.” I called over my shoulder. Mr. Fluff circled his bowl and licked his paw distractedly. The garage light came on automatically as I opened the door, and I moved inside. The bare concrete floor was cold on my naked feet, and I shivered. Floor to ceiling cupboards covered one wall. I moved to the first that contained the cat food. A muffled moan made me stop in the middle of the room. In a moment I saw his face again; his wide-open mouth and eyes like deep pools of black. I took a breath and composed myself, slowly turning to the corner from which the noise had emitted. The light didn’t quite reach that far, creating a section of shadow, but, at its centre - barely visible - was the clear outline of a person.

“Who are you?” I said, my voice trembling more than I had hoped. There was no response. My fear began to rise - just like it had in the playground - and I took a small step in the shadow-dweller’s direction. As my eyes adjusted, I could better make out the form; panting and scared. “John?” I said in a half-laugh. “How did you get out?” The man flinched as I grabbed his arm and lifted him up to his feet. His hands and feet were still bound, and he struggled to stand. “Was it Mr. Fluff that let you out?” I giggled but he kept his head down, eyes away.

“Please let me go.” His voice cracked as he spoke and he sounded pathetic. I rolled my eyes in irritation at his piteous form.

“No, no.” I said, leading him to the opposite corner and the basement door that was hanging open. “Let’s get you back with the others.” I led him down the short flight of wooden steps and into the basement below. They all looked at me. Scared, weak, broken. I eased John down on the wooden bench, beside Tony and across from Tim. They had barely touched their food. No surprise that they look so rough then. “Let’s all stay down here and play nice. You can’t be trusted out there.” I pointed up to the world above. The men struggled to avoid my eye as I looked at them, just as it should be. “I will be down later with some more food. But use the time you have to think about the wrongs you have done. Not just to me, but to all women.” I left them in silence, closed the door behind me and grabbed the oversized bag of cat-food on my way out of the garage.

“Sorry, Mr. Fluff .” I said with a laugh as I poured his food into his bowl. The cat paced around me and meowed brightly as I did. I leant on the counter and sipped my wine and watched as the cat chewed hungrily at his dinner. “At least I can trust you, Mr. Fluff .” I said, refilling my glass. “You will never let me down. It’s me and you against the world, I guess.” I took a sip and then a deep breath. “But how does that make me feel?” I laughed and the shiny, white surfaces of the kitchen laughed back.