Picking up my phone, I send Trent a message.
My shoe has a hole in the sole. Could you drop off some money so I can go buy another pair before I go to work tomorrow please?
I wait for Trent’s reply. I can see he’s read it, but he’s not responding. I turn the TV on and flick through the channels, but nothing catches my interest. I wish I still had my copy of The Crucible, it was always something I could get lost in, becoming totally immersed in the characters and living in their lives. But Trent threw it out one day, saying it was taking up too much of my time. Standing, I go into the tiny bathroom and draw a bath, deciding maybe it can relax me.
As the water runs I go into our bedroom and strip, and as I finish the ping of a text message comes through.
Line it with cardboard. When the other shoe gets a hole, I’ll find the money to buy you another pair of shoes.
He wants me to walk to work tomorrow – and it’s bound to rain – with a hole in my shoes. I reply with:
It’s going to rain tomorrow. My feet will be soaked by the time I get to work.
Virtually instantly he says:
Then you best take an extra pair of socks with you. No is no. I’m turning my phone off now. Don’t bother me again.
I put the phone down, and take myself to the only comfort I have. I sink into the bath and let the warm water embrace me. Relaxing into the bath I begin to wonder about so many things. Here I am twenty-five years old, and I have no identity. I don’t know who I am, or even what I’m supposed to be doing. I have no love. No love for life, or Trent, or even myself. Is this God’s way of proving to me I’m worthless?
I keep mulling over the day’s events. They are like a cyclonic storm whirling all around me, as I stand in the eye of it and watch life drag me further under the constant, heartless doom that haunts me. Is my destiny only to exist and never live? What kind of legacy can a girl who never was, leave behind? Never was pretty, never was smart, never was anything?
I never was meant to live. This isn't a question. This I know absolutely.
What’s the point of breathing?
I cut five cardboard strips that will fit into my shoe. This way I have spares in case the heavens open up and my foot becomes drenched. I’ve also packed an extra pair of socks so if my feet become saturated, I won’t end up catching a cold.
Trent will be even angrier if I get sick and can’t go to work. I have some vacation I can take, but I know he wants me to save that for when he’s sick and needs looking after. Me getting sick isn’t an option.
The walk to work takes me just over forty-five minutes, and when I get there, I change the strip in the bottom of my shoe and my socks. I still have half an hour before I’m due to start and I do something I’ve never done before. I get the courage to go to the Bank of America, where my pay is direct-deposited, and see if we have the funds to withdraw fifty dollars to buy a pair of shoes.
The moisture that got into my shoe from the walk to work has caused my foot to rub on the inside of my shoe and has given me a blister on my little toe. I’ll risk the wrath Trent is surely going to explode into once he learns I’ve taken money out of the account, because I need a new pair of shoes. I’ll go in on my break, and see if I can buy something appropriate I can wear to work, and everywhere else.
I have to be mindful not to be greedy and spend too much money, because Trent says I can’t frivolously spend. If he does get angry at me, I’ll tell him I’ll walk to work for two weeks, which covers the fifty dollars I’ll withdraw for the shoes.
I take the little ID I do have and walk down to the bank. Waiting second in line, I get called quickly to the teller.
“Hi, I’d like to withdraw fifty dollars please. I have my account number, and here’s my ID,” I say sliding over what I have.
She types in the number I give her and she chats with me about how busy her Thanksgiving was, and did I have a nice time. I lie, of course, and put up the exterior everyone expects. “Did you say you wanted to withdraw fifty thousand? Because that will take me some time to get organized,” she says with a gentle smile.
“Fifty thousand?” I ask. “Goodness, I wish there was that much in there.” I smile.
She peers at me from on top of her glasses which are perched on the tip of her nose and she tilts her head to the side. “There’s more than that, Mrs. Hackly. Here you go. This is your account balance.” She swings the computer screen around so I can see the balance, and there’s in excess of eighty thousand dollars in the account.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I think you’re showing me someone else’s account,” I swiftly say, blocking my eyes so I’m not intruding on anyone’s personal information.