pain in my shoe
It’s 5 a.m., and here I am again, pacing outside in the damp, mist-soaked fields of this illustrious backwater gothic school. The place is all looming towers and slanted peaks, its cobblestone paths so moss-covered and jagged they’re practically begging to ruin any pair of hooves without proper iron shoes. Of course, here in this antique society, hoof-irons are mandatory. Not just any hoof-irons, either—there are specific ones for cows, sheep, and all the rest. As if it's not ridiculous enough that we have to walk around in these little iron prisons, they insist on wool or cotton padding to soften the metal. So thoughtful, really.
In the old days, they hammered these shoes directly into our feet with nails—quaint, isn’t it? Now, they’ve “improved” the process by adding an adaptor that digs into pre-drilled slots. You latch the adaptor with a metal bolt that clicks disgustingly into place, like a little belt buckle for your feet and into your bone. The ‘benefit’ of this innovation? You can swap out hoof-irons, accessorize, keep up with the latest mutilation fashions. Ten different sets of designer foot-torture, because why would you stick to just one? what are you, poor?
I suppose I can’t complain too much; the iron does keep our hooves from turning into deformed messes on these cobblestones, and I’d rather not walk like a cripple in my old age. Still, feet were meant for open fields and soft earth, dirt and grass, or maybe even the dry, dusty grounds of some far-off desert. Sheep hooves used to be tough enough for all that—or at least they were back when we didn’t live stacked on top of each other in filthy city blocks. Now, we’re so delicate we need metal reinforcements just to hobble down the street.
Thinking back to that awkward girl from earlier, I smirk. That’s probably why she was walking like a newborn foal—she must have had new hoof-irons. A gift from her doting parents, I’m sure, delivered in time for her precious first days of school. Such an amateur. Clearly, no one had taught her how to walk like a lady in those things. Even if I dress and act a little boyish, I studied the art of performative womanhood inside and out, became disgustingly good at it. Unlike the rest of them, I understand it all too well.
The sky is still a hazy dark gray, only a faint glimmer of dawn on the horizon. 5:10 a.m. Great. It’s going to be a while before the day actually begins. A light rain has started up, soft at first but gaining strength by the second. Every day here is drenched in sky-tears, a constant mist soaking everything it touches, turning the ground into a muddy, miserable mess. The rain here has this way of seeping into your bones, this murky black water staining everything in its path, just to seep back into the ground and poison it a little more.
That’s Crane Hill for you. This decrepit school-town is an ancient castle perched on the side of a hill, and the “town” around it is more of a collection of decaying stone buildings than anything else. They say the place is nearly 20,000 years old. Feels like it, too. It’s built out of these dark, worn stones, blackened by the soot we churn out every day to bake bread or keep warm. This place is a cycle of death—plants, animals, whatever—we burn it all up and consume each other in a never-ending feast. The only thing more constant than the stench of burning is the suffocating smell of mildew and wet earth from the rain. Death and rain—this place is drowning in both.
I came here on my 110th birthday, fresh and bright-eyed, back when I thought this city might offer something other than stale bread and gray skies. That was...what year is it now? Oh, 20211. Lucky me. And even now, two weeks into the new semester, half the students still haven’t even arrived. They’re probably too ‘noble’ to suffer this place any longer than necessary.
The early-morning shops are starting to open up, their cracked wooden shutters squeaking as the owners drag them open. I catch sight of the first shipments of raw materials—the ones they bring in before the students are awake, so no one has to see what really keeps this school running. The owners of these creaky, ancient shops have been here since before I was born, and they know me well enough by now. I suppose I could help them. It’s not like I have anything better to do at the moment. Besides, the buzz from that coffee’s making me jittery. Need something to take the edge off.
The smell of freshly baked bread mingles with the scent of wet stone, and while I can admit the scent is comforting in a way, I’m not exactly a fan of bread or eating in general. Food’s a necessary evil for me, an obligation to keep my body moving, not something I enjoy. Still, I head over to the bakery, where the shopkeeper nods in greeting, waving me over.
“Ah, morning, Sableth! Good to see you,” he says, lifting a box off the delivery truck and placing it behind the counter.
I pick up a box of my own, not really paying attention as I carry it inside, setting it beside his. I go back to the pile for another one, and this has sort of become my routine. They think I’m helping out of kindness, maybe out of some goodness in my heart. But in reality? I’m just bored and jittery, and carrying boxes gives me an excuse to inhale the dry, dusty smell of flour and stale air that drifts off them. Helps take the edge off my headache, too.
Sometimes, when the shopkeeper isn’t looking, I might sneak a few painkillers from the delivery guy’s stash. I have a taste for them, you might say. But last time, he caught me in the act. And it seems to have made him...concerned.
As I pick up another box, I catch him watching me out of the corner of my eye. He walks over, pulling me aside with a look that’s half pity, half lecture mode. “Hey, Sableth,” he says, lowering his voice. “Are you okay? You really shouldn’t be taking that stuff, you know?”
I raise an eyebrow, giving him a dry, unimpressed look. “And why exactly is it any of your business?” I put my hand on my hip, tilting my head to give him a look that says, Are you seriously trying to pull this on me right now? “What, you worried I’m gonna get addicted or something?”
He nods earnestly, which only makes me roll my eyes. “Well, yeah, actually. Look, I know it might seem harmless now, but it’s not. Addiction’s no joke, trust me.” He looks a little sad as he says it, and I can tell he’s gearing up for some long-winded lecture about his own life choices. “I used to be hooked on painkillers, too, y’know. My family spent money we didn’t have to get me into rehab, and even now, it’s hard not to slip up. It’s a struggle every day just to keep it together.”
I listen, my expression getting more and more bored with each word he says. When he finally finishes, I let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. “Wow, another public service announcement from Mr. Minimum Wage.” I put my hand to my heart, feigning sincerity. “How inspiring. Look, I get it—you broke your addiction, and you’re a better person for it or whatever. But honestly? If it was that easy to quit, maybe that addiction wasnt that great to begin with! maybe you should find a better one next time.” I give him a pitying little smile, leaning forward as if I’m explaining a basic fact of life to a child.
He stares at me, completely floored, his face a mix of shock and disbelief. I turn away, not really caring, and go back to stacking boxes for the store owner, leaving him there to contemplate his life choices.
The rain has turned from a drizzle to a steady downpour, drops splattering against the glass of the shop, but I was warm, here in someone else's light. But it was only temporary; all the comforts I found were temporary, so I tried not to get attached.