Work Sample #1 Suspense/Subversion (My Shoes)
Pretty much by accident, I saw the couple walking out of an apartment.
I hadn’t been watching them on that particular day, although that was something that I used to do often. I had moved onto bigger, better things. Almost immediately, however, my heart rate had picked up; I could feel it kicking wildly against my ribs, feel my pulse straining in my throat. I was about to burst. The rush of adrenaline forced my feet to move. I had told myself I wasn’t going to do this anymore. That I would get help from a professional and talk to the people who had tried to help me before. I had a family and a life and people that cared until I got so wrapped up in this… I didn’t know what to call it. I never had.
I just knew that there was this pull in my head, in my heart, in my soul that told me to follow them and watch them.
Ihadtowantedtoneededtowantedtowanteditlikeloveneededitlikeairitwassoimportanteverythinghin gedoniteverything—mylifeherlifehislifeourlives.
The couple was on a date. They were dressed nicely, probably going somewhere a bit more sophisticated than I was used to by now. He wore a suit. She wore a black dress that clung to her hips in a way I guarantee she knew would drive a man crazy. Regardless of whatever fabric is hugging her figure, I kinda think you can tell what a woman’s endgame is by the shoes she wears.
Anything above five inches and she probably wants you in her bed. A shoe made of patent leather with a heel anywhere from two to four inches means she wants a committed relationship. Flats mean she either never had or no longer has interest in you; the date is out of pity or maybe a convenient opportunity to break up.
Ratty old gym shoes?
She’s probably not into you—never has been; never will be.
This one is wearing sensible, black heels. Two inches high. Pointed toe. Matte leather. A professional shoe.
She wants to look nice, but she’s not sure about him and she’s definitely not intending to let this guy’s hands crawl under her skirt.
She has great legs. I almost feel bad for the guy.
Men are a little more difficult to read, in my opinion. Or, at least, you can’t read them by shoe.
I’ve been told there’s a look someone gives you when they’re interested. I’ve never seen it and, to my knowledge, I’ve never made it.
I wonder if he was making it at her?
They turned into a well-lit doorway, and then disappeared behind a slab of expensive-looking oak.
I waited a bit, before following them inside through a more subtle entry point: a side door, probably only there for employees, but not well-guarded.
The place he took her to—I was right: it was pretty nice. There were candles in blown glass seated on crisp, white linen tablecloths, and the scent of fresh cut flowers and roasted garlic lingered in the air. With the low light from the flickering candles, it was a highly intimate setting for a date made even more so by the corner booth that the couple had seated themselves in.
A table out on the floor wasn’t for someone dressed like me however, with a dark hoodie shadowing my face and baggy jeans riding low, I was more fit for the bar. It had a decent enough vantage point that I could see the couple’s table and there, they didn’t care so much what you looked like as long as you could pay for your drinks. Although, the bartender did look at me funny when I asked for ice water.
I find it’s better not to order something with alcohol in it when you’re following someone—liquid bravery it may be, but sometimes bravery can make you stupid. When you’re stupid you screw up: create an outburst or cause a scene. Police get called.
That’s never a good thing.
I don’t like police.
What have they ever done for people like me?
As their date progressed, I continued to observe. His hand lingered on her shoulder and knee occasionally, though she didn’t lean into his touch. They ordered Italian food that made my mouth water and he kept plying her with glass after glass of 2007 Sassicaia. By the time the check came, she was more than tipsy and he wasn’t too far behind.
Which, for my purposes, was excellent.
But I was patient if nothing else.
I would wait until they left to make my move.
They chatted for a while at the table as he paid the bill, then got up to leave, skipping dessert at the restaurant with the intent of indulging in another kind entirely, gathering their belongings with cheery smiles, boisterous laughs, and hooded eyes.
Not for long, if I had anything to say about it.
Sliding from my bar stool and leaving a wad of cash, I hurried out the door behind the couple into the late night air.
Once I hit the pavement, I sped up, adamant that they wouldn’t get away from me. “Hey!” I barked.
They stopped and turned to look at me.
Heart thundering against my breast as I stepped forward, I tore the hoodie away from my face and fixed my gaze on the woman.
I could see the terror in their eyes, for two very different reasons.
I licked my dry lips, parted them:
“He raped me in college.”
Her eyes blew wide and she took a tiny, wobbling step away, confused as she looked to her date for answers.
He scrambled to respond, “No—Madeline, I’ve never seen this woman before in my life, I swear—“
“—Your name is Eric Phillips, you have a brother named Devon, you were born July ninth, you were in a frat, you’re from Rochester just like every other fucking guy at our university, which is, not-so-coincidentally, where you raped me after getting drunk four years ago.”
A deep, cleansing breath followed. “Then Mommy and Daddy paid for the best lawyer money could buy and you didn’t spend a day in a cell.”
Unpitying, refusing to back down, I glared at my rapist as his jaw clenched.
Madeline occupied herself calling a friend to come pick her up, staunchly unreceptive to Eric’s pleas that she just listen to his side of the story.
Enough people had done that during his trial.
Satisfied that I had presented the Apple of Discord neatly on a plate to the couple, I turned on my heel, leaving them to deal with Eric’s just deserts in whatever way they saw fit.
I remembered that night too clearly for my own liking.
It had made for a great, albeit useless, testimony.
I had been on a run over by the frats—late at night, because the temperature was cooler then. I’d worn leggings and a Game of Thrones t-shirt—and my ratty tennis shoes because it had just rained. The light drizzle had left its fresh scent behind along with a few puddles, which I had inadvertently splashed through on my journey. I remember the chilled air burning in my throat as I tried to catch my breath.
Then Eric had stumbled onto the sidewalk. I thought he was sick, so I stopped to help.
Then he launched himself at me, attacked me, tore at my clothes, bit whatever skin he could reach, wrestled my leggings down to my ankles, and took from me.
And when it was over, he just left my bleeding, prone body like a broken toy on the concrete, and zipped up his pants.
He hadn’t even bothered to take off my tennis shoes.