Title Withheld

SJ Shoemaker
Word Count: 1,475
1/9/2022

Preface

As of late, I’ve been working on the focal point of writing. What information is put front-and-center and what is ephemeral? How many details are presented and how long does the piece linger on each of them? With this story, I wanted to experiment with focal point in a slightly different way. Timing. When is the information given to the reader?

A title can describe the content of the work, it can home in on the critical moment or item in the piece, or it can convey the intended emotion take-away from the subject matter. A good title will do more than one. Regardless of which direction an author takes with their title, it tells the reader something important about the piece. The downside, all words come with baggage and connotations. If the story is a retelling, for instance, it may cause the reader to recall their last experience with the tale instead of focussing on the story they are currently reading.

To that end, this story has a title. But reading it would change your interaction with the material. So, I have chosen to withhold its title until afterward.

Story

Left. Right.
Left. Right.

I walk and walk and walk until my legs are numb and my spine crumbles from within. What I wouldn’t give to sit for but a moment. Just a second to rest my legs. My feet. I shun the thought. If I stop here I will never stand again. I must press on.

Left. Right.
Step. Step.

I shiver ceaselessly. When did the heat dissipate? What drove it from the mountain and forbade its return? There, the air itself was enough to blister the skin. I remember the waves of heat which warned against my approach with every step. Warnings I pushed aside with every fiber of fortitude I possessed. Until my departure home. The flames licked at the back of my neck, and my lungs rejoiced at the ease with which they filled with cool, unrestrictive air. But now, in this nowhere between origin and destination. What I wouldn’t give for a blister. For a breath that does not enter unpermitted and stab my insides with frozen daggers. Where has the heat gone?

Step. Step.
Squish. Squish.

Liquid oozes beneath each footfall, crystallizing as quickly as it pools. Pricking my soles–long-since numbed–with icy needles. Does it flow from the jagged gravel underfoot or from the foot upon the gravel? I cannot tell and will not stop to investigate. Either way, the answer will not help me now. I must continue forward, toward the peak. Flee the way I came.

Step. Squish.
Left. Squish.

He knew. When I made my offer, he smiled–laughed even. Traveled all that way, an impossible journey. Handed him that blank check. Asked him to name his terms, whatever they would be so long as I gained my prize. He sat me down, pried the boots from my feet. With laces tied together and draped upon my shoulders, he bid me walk without ceasing. He knew the agony. The extra weight. The pounding reminder upon my chest with every frozen step. Was this pain steep enough a price?

Step. Step.

He knew the thoughts that now occupy my mind. Did he also somehow extract the heat from this trail? Drench the stones in an extra shower for my benefit–to my detriment? No, but he would have me think it.  He would will me think him infinitely more powerful than in reality. This is not his domain. He has no power here, no control, no spies. I could sit myself down anywhere and put my boots back on. This climb is long. So long. And it would save me so much pain. If I would just stop. He would never know. How could he?

Step. Step.

But I can’t. Not with her behind me. His power has no reach here, but his wit is as endless as this path. His final stipulation. She would follow. Walking as ceaselessly as I. Silent. Not close enough to hear, but perhaps enough to see. NO!

Step. Squish. Step.

I cannot look behind. I cannot. She’s there. I know it. Walking at a distance. Pacing herself. Neither approaching nor fading. Always staring at me. I cannot hear her, but she is there. Her walking. Breathing. I hear not. Stumbling. Struggling to keep on her footing. I hear not. Speaking. Something!

Step. Step.

“I know you’re back there!” Nothing. Just echoes. Footfalls. My own. I am alone within my mind. Lonely and tired. Desperate for something–anything to draw my focus. And I can feel the nagging thought again. What if… 

Step. Step. Right. Left.

I walked this path before. It was easier than. The descent, a fleeting memory even as I strain to recall each moment. Each detail. My feet did not ache, cold did not seep in through my toes, I never faltered or stumbled. These markers do not exist in my memory. I wore shoes and paid no considerations to any other possibilities. There was no threat or danger to follow. Without her behind. No fear of glancing Right. Left.

Step. Step.

I walked this path before. Even still it seems wholly new. Longer. Steeper. Narrower. More treacherous and unforgiving. And SO much colder. I can’t move my toes. But I mustn’t stop. Mustn’t look behind. Mustn’t–

Stumble.

Before my nose, the trail slides away. To where? I cannot see. Down. Deep down into the abyss below. My hand’s purchase vanishes into darkness. But the earth–stones beneath my knees remain steady. A tingle spreads in confusion across the sole of my foot before freezing away. Was it broken? Had my skin torn away with the path edge? I remind myself again. Cannot look. I mustn’t glance behind. I have to get up. I have to Step. Step. Left. Right.

Step. Step.

If she is to stop or reach me, either lot and my journey will be for naught. My only reward for doing the impossible would be two sore feet. What would I say to my friends and family? How would I face them and explain I defied the gods and rewrote fate only to fail at the end. “But my feet hurt” I would shout over humiliating laughter. Could I bear it?

Step. Step.
Right. Left.

Would I lie to them? Fabricate a tale where my request was denied? Perhaps I never even found Him to make the request at all. No, it was a trick. He placated me, soothed me with his clever tongue. We were in agreement, shook hands, spoke the words to bind the contract. But when I turned to go he spat. When I left his kingdom, forbidden to e’er return, his promise was broken. That’s what I’ll tell them. They’ll believe that, Right?

Left.
Step. Step.

No. I was never one for tall tales. Honesty indeed carried me so far as here. They would know my heart in an instant. I could never lie. But could I face them if…? If. Yes. If I keep walking. If I continue to ascend without ceasing there will be no if. I must keep my mind on something else. Him. I will focus my anger, my hatred on him. If he wants my thoughts, he will have them.

Step. Step.
Right. Left.

Now Him, He can lie. Deception is his main tool of destruction. And the phrase reappeared. “What if…” Deception is the foundation of his every word. This path between binary worlds is not his domain. It belongs to no one. He has no power here, I’ve said it myself. What if the consequence of a mistimed glance, moments rest is another of his lies? What if the danger of her approach exists only in my head?

Right. Left.

My feet keep moving in rhythm. The endless march forward does not halt. Why not?

Right. Left.
Step. Step.

I know why. Knew the instant I asked. The premise entails not only the question but its complement. Neither more compelling than the other. Deception is the foundation of his every word. The foundation. What if the consequences are not his lie.But rather…

Right. Left.
Right. Left.

“Who are you running from?” His voice bounces within my skull and nearly escapes into the world around me. You know very well who, I silence the thought.

Step. Step.

“There’s no one behind you.” LIAR. I cannot give purchase to his deceptions. It was a mistake to focus on him. I must keep walking. Think of anything else.

Left… or was it Right.

Step. Keep Stepping.

“Oh, I see him.” HER. “Her? If you insist.” I insist you leave me. No more doubt. No more what if. “What if I lied? What if your practiced tall tale about a broken promise is not as tall as you think?”

Step.

My leg tightens, slowing my pace by half a step. I cannot look behind. I cannot stop. But if I slow for but a  moment, if I strain to listen for a sign of her. I might hear… nothing. I might.

Stumble.

I stretch forth my leg. Forward. Outward to catch my flailing body as it tumbles away from the narrow path. The mountainside catches my foot before it can manage to sprawl beneath my free-falling weight. My head dashes against the rock and my tumble is redirected outward, toward the abyss. In a panic, I scream, reaching for anything before I fall backward into the dark, And I find something. An arm. Two.

Left. Right.

The familiar face of a woman stares at me. I look at her. Fear in her eyes. I hear her breathing heavy and uneven. A moment ago I begged her to speak, but not that she begins to, I wish for anything else.

“Orpheus”

I just had to keep my feet moving. I just had to keep walking.

“Eurydice”

The only time He was ever honest.

Step. Step.

With boots upon my feet, I walked home empty-handed.

The Regret of Orpheus