The crunch of a snail under my shoe, in the darkness. The crack of the shell. The squish. The ooze.

It hurts me at the back of my teeth, a shooting pain through a nerve in my gums.

I can’t pull my foot up fast enough, I can’t rewind, the damage can’t be undone. I’ve hit the squishy interior of the snail’s sluggish insides.

Flattened and twisted them into the ground. I feel the mush on the sole of my shoe for the next few steps. Carrying a crime scene on a slippery sole. Death on my shoe. Smeared guts. A twist and wipe rids me of it.

It happens walking at night, on rain-slicked ground, when I can’t see where I’m stepping and the snail can’t see who’s stepping. I’ve always felt bad for the snail, but now I know what it’s like. Retribution. Karma. I now know how it feels for my outer shell to be cracked, for my insides to feel exposed.

He stepped on me.

He walked with me for a few steps too, his sole slippy with my mush. I wonder if his soul is slippy with me too. If he felt the crack and ooze of me under his gaze as he spat his hate-filled words and then walked away. My shield taken with him for a few steps before he realised he
was still carrying me. A twist of his shoe, like extinguishing a cigarette, and I’m discarded…

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