Bloody Two Shoes

(I don’t often write prose. But this phrase popped into my head and was too good to waste! This is so far unedited ;)

Perfection masked her turmoil.

But that was nothing new. Her perfect looks; her perfect skin; her sweetly perfect smile.

All her life they had shown the world a perfect image.

Behind blue eyes.

She didn’t smoke.

She didn’t drink.

Don’t ask ‘what did she do?’

You don’t want to know.

She also had, according to her friends, the perfect marriage.

But like everything else, it was just an illusion. Painted faces hiding pain and anger.

And she took refuge in her shoes.

Hundreds of pairs.

Shiny and expensive; cheap and tatty; flat, heeled, comfy or tightly pinching. It didn’t matter. She never wore most of them, anyway. But buying them was her release.

She stored them tidily, on impressive shoe racks in walk-in wardrobes. She had married well – he was wealthy with pure white teeth.

And a cutting tongue, as precise as a surgeon’s knife.

The final pair of shoes were deep red. That was the problem. Blue or yellow, green or pink. Any other colour, really, and she might still be free.

Usually, he just tutted, having reluctantly allowed her this one failing. But these shoes had caught him in a bad mood. He had just screwed up a big deal and in she walked, shoe box in hand.

His rage had been unexpected.

His voice, low and menacing told her untold truths about herself. Confirming her hatred of what she was.

But this time, for reasons unknown, she did not sob and crumple on the floor. She stood her ground.

It was just a bloody pair of shoes!

They made her feel worth something!

He spoke back. Softly, with menace. Another pair of bloody shoes! To add to the unending rows in her wardrobe.

He stepped toward her and reached out for her neck. But this time she wasn’t passive. Her hand reached back, to the side. She wasn’t reaching for anything. Just something. To keep him away. The brass candlestick, still unused, seemed to leap to her hand, like iron filings smothering a magnet. She brought it round swiftly as his hand touched her neck.

The crack was dull, followed quickly by a thud as he fell to the floor. Blood streamed from his head. She was mildly shocked. But not worried. Head injuries always bleed a lot.

This would bring things to a head, she thought, marvelling that she could still think in puns at a time like this.

Picking up the new shoes, she slipped them on, sliding the box under the bed with a slow swing of her leg.

Glancing down she saw the pool of blood, already starting to congeal on the wooden floor.

Then turned on her heels and went shopping.

Of course, more shoes were bought. And a hat. And a red coat.

Back home, the police car waiting outside caught her off guard.

Her husband, they said had called an ambulance; briefly conscious before passing out again. The crew had called the police.

Perhaps he had fallen and hit his head, she suggested. Was he drunk?

But the blood-stained candlestick disproved her theory.

Burglars?

The police woman shook her head. It seemed not. There was no sign of forced entry. And he was in the bedroom. He must have known his attacker. Who, it turned out, was also his killer. He died later that day, following a bleed on the brain, caused, not by the candlestick blow, but by the thud of his head on the bedroom floor.

She swallowed dryly.

Her statement said she had spent all morning shopping.

Of course, her finger prints were on the candlestick. But, they would be! It was her candlestick.

Nobody had seen her come and go.

Maybe she would have been safe.

If not for those bloody shoes!

She told them she hadn’t been home.

Yet they found the shoe box; hiding under the bed. The receipt!

The receipt told them she had bought the shoes that morning.

She couldn’t explain.

Her lawyer told her not to speak.

She couldn’t explain.

The perfection was falling away.

And the shoes.

The bloody shoes!

The bloody red shoes!

The tiniest of specks, visible, perhaps, on yellow, blue, white or green.

But not on blood red shoes.

Fifteen years.

For manslaughter.

Her high heels didn’t click on the tiled floor as she walked down the prison corridor.

The headlines had stuck.

Already the wardens called her Goody-Two-Shoes.

The inmates would later do the same.

At least, now, she could be herself.

She snarled as they led her to her cell.

An inmate shouted through a grill:

“Welcome to paradise, gorgeous!”

No subtle innuendos followed, as she turned to respond.

“Fuck off!”

(Not based on this song, as the title came from a conversation I had. But once in my head, the song references would not leave! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o41A91X5pns )