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The Shoe

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He was sitting at the cliff's edge. It was just a boost that he wanted—a push of the subconscious.

The water looked blue beneath. Crystal clear. Crystal translucent.

The gap to the rocks below was measured psychologically. He would have stood on the third-floor balcony if he had been in his swanky office complex now.

This was not his office, and the only difference was that there was no balcony.

He recalled that sometime earlier, he left his employment. He had a menial job slogging for a customer whose only cause was that work and property were cheap on his workstation. But not a lot, he was paid. When studying, he used his brains, but not a lot. His life was like most colored white, educated, wage-earner classes created by the nation to put it quickly. No, the problem wasn't his professional life. There was another thing. Something more profound than that. Anything of deeper origins. His life seemed ineffective. He looked useless with his income. He appeared to be pathological, his clothing, shoes, watch, and everything he owned. A few months ago, his life was not terrible.

Most of the time, it was incidental to his office. Every morning he had to survive the torture room sight and sound known as the "public transport in Malaysia." In the first 10 minutes of the journey, every perfectly ironed shirt was hopelessly crumpled. Every day his nose was hit by strange tasting hair oils on random heads and shoes. Every day, before he began to work, he used to shine his shoes that changed the trip to the office.


On average days, the number of feet that have labeled his shoes could be around 10. It went up to 20 in a couple of days. Despairingly, he had given up polishing before he quit his job using the services of the poor boy next to his office, who had not only mended shoes but polished them and brilliant with them, in an enhancement arrangement. He's been a guy whom he sees every day. He had messy hair and two pairs of clothing he wore alternating days. His fingernails were filthy, and his lips dry. He didn't look any better from any picker who wants to take a picture outside Malaysia and show it back home to his mom. However, he had wide brown eyes. The eyes were terrific. These were wonderful.

Their initial contact was directly associated with the industry. The kid cleaned and paid him for his shoes. For the first six months, no word was exchanged. Their meetings eventually became casual. It took quite some time, but occasionally chitchat accompanied smiles. The contact length was only limited to only five minutes a day, so he used to hit his place of work just before his shift began.

For the first time, two weeks ago, the boy had an invitation. At the point, their occasional chitchat had been crisp conversations with more substantive knowledge exchange. His proposal at the beginning seems unusual. It was a new conversation. It involved capital.

The boy asked him to loan some money to him.

He had nevertheless promised to give it up. "Why are you looking for the money? "The boy had inquired.

The boy didn't respond, but presumably saw the edge of his eye drop and waited for his cheek to rise in length. Before that could happen, the boy had rubbed his eyes with his filthy hands.


"I guess I must go to see a physician," said the child.

"I coughed a great deal lately. Much blood is there. The boy said, crying, I'm terrified.

He remained still there. His confidence in the story was not absolute. Many similar tales from many urchins he encountered on the roads had a similar pattern, though somewhat tweaked. He was saying to himself, “Unbelievable.”

"Even at night, I'm terrified. I have none I can call my own in this country. I'm lonely. I'm terrified. Help me, sir.

"Yes, all right!" Yes! As if I heard from someone about your social class for the first time.

"Let me see for yourselves what I can do. Don't think about that. Don't think. Everything will be all right. For you, I'm there. Tomorrow's I'll get you to the hospital. "He told the boy to caress his hair gently.

The boy appeared to quiet his words. He felt he took care of it.

He found it all out. He did not instantly break the boy's heart by showing him to believe his claim, but he could not fall into his pit and let him get out with what he felt was flagrant extortion. The second door to his office, one on the other side of the house, he began using from the next day.

He began to load his perfectly cleaned pairs of shoes into a plastic bag and take them while on the go to work, where he struggled to wear sandals and then turn to shoes when joining his place of employment. While he was very confident that the boy wasn't there back then, he skipped the first gate at the end of his shift to make sure that the boy could never see him again. In his efforts to escape the boy, he felt he did very well.

However, it was a different day from all the days before. In a small panic, he had to turn over to his shoes before entering the office from the second gate, and he was running out of time. He then noticed the crowd by the first entrance. It seemed weird. Any officers used to be there and what seemed like a pre-independence ambulance. He was partially out of curiosity and somewhat because he went to the audience.

The environment around him froze what he saw. The boy, soaked in blood, was on the ground. His tattered shirt, his lips, and his jaw all round were with blood. His body had open wounds. Blood oozed and coagulated out of them. It looked skinnier than two weeks ago when he saw him last. He looked dead and pale. He looked dead. As if in transit, he stepped backward.

That afternoon he left his work and leaped off the cliff that night.

© 2020 Michael

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