Sarah creative writing, story

Making Friends with Chocolate Milk

Creative Writing

My first friend in life was a girl my age who lived in the big white house behind my big beige house. When we were both playing in our back yard, I would plow through the garden to see her through the fence. My grandfather cleared a spot so we could mumble gibberish in our diapers. 

She moved. The spot grew over. 
 
My next two friends were my neighbors Christopher and Ryan. Ryan had tall skinny legs, short curly blonde hair, thick glasses, and emblemized cartoon characters. He was older than me, which is a big deal when you’re five, but he was mentally disabled, so we were the same age. He loved to play hide-and-seek in my back yard and drink Yoo-Hoo. “Yoo hoo!” he would shout, tapping on the sliding-glass door, “Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo!” 
 
I don’t remember the first time I met him, but I didn’t think twice of his disability. I thought he was goofy, and he was always smiling. He was never sad or mean or rude and was always up for anything. Every idea I had was fantastic to him. We had fun watching cartoons, playing games, and eating lunch together. 

The only problem was as I grew older, he stayed the same. 

My mom was working as a waitress at the Sheraton and her boyfriend’s mom, later my step-grandmother, would watch me at her town home, which later became my house. Both homes were separated by my elementary school, and this is where I spent the first twelve years of my life. 
 
Her house always smelled like macaroni and cheese, and we watched cartoons like Little Bear and Gnomes as she read all the words off the screen to me. One day she put in a VHS tape called, Gone with the Wind and said it was her most favorite movie of all.  

We picked blackberries out back and I ate lots of tapioca pudding and Super Mario fruit snacks while she braided my long red hair. 
 
It was a cool summer morning, and I was in the front lawn when and she brought my tricycle out of the garage. I peddled down the sidewalk, waiting for her to holler at me if I went too far, which I did, because there was a little blonde girl at the end of the sidewalk also riding her tricycle. 

“Sarah!” she hollered. 

I turned around and peddled back, telling her about the girl. She walked me her house and we met her mom and that’s when I made my first real girlfriend. Her name was Kiri, and her mom was a nurse named Teal, like the color of their siding. 
 
They had an end-unit, which was one-story, and Kiri and I would play Pretty Pretty Princess in her bedroom or hang out in the play shed her grandfather built in their over-sized backyard. 

Tyler climbed the tree in Kirk’s side-yard; it was the tallest tree in the neighborhood, and he was destined to climb it. We climbed every tree in that neighborhood, but no one climbed as high as he did that day even though he fell out of it. 

He’s unconscious. 

Trevor runs in to the house. Teal runs out of the house in her scrubs and white keds, “Is he breathing!” she screams. We were always climbing trees, even pine trees, but this one spit him out. 

Kiri’s parents divorced and they moved in with her grandparents babysat me from time to time. 

We sat in her new split-level living room playing the Little Mermaid on the Nintendo and built forts in the basement, which always smelled like fresh laundry. It was spectacular like an old, confusing, cluttered maze of pipes, alcoves, boxes, records, an over-sized green chalkboard and a ballet floor with a railing and mirrors. 

We danced to Michael Jackson on the television, played ballet to the music on the radio, and ate lunch in a make-believe restaurant. 

When her family took me camping in the summer, we backed down the driveway in their station wagon chewing Zebra gum as I waved goodbye to my mom who never let me sleep over anyone’s house. We pulled-up to a motor home by a lake full of tad poles, walked to the carnival and went on all the rides. 

When Kiri’s dad died, the world got a little darker. 

Life went on and we invented and played a lot of games: bike games, tennis games, hide-and-seek games, knock-knock zoom-zoom games that took us peeling off through the alleyways for shelter: running past houses, turning corners, dipping under tree branches. 

We stop behind a white fenceless house and the blinds on the windows abruptly flew open. We froze and held the breaths we were trying to catch, staring. Nothing interesting happened and they slowly closed. Trevor and I looked at each other perplexed and stood up. We took a few steps forward to look and the blinds flew open again as we jumped in surprise. Then they slowly closed again. We took a few steps closer, and the blinds flew open, but we expected it and didn’t jump out of our shoes as they slowly closed one more time. 

For an hour, we moved closer and backed away as the blinds flew open and slowly closed until we walked away with our heads turned staring until the house was out of sight. The following week, we took a trip down the alley again, but this time nothing unusual happened. It was just a plain white house with the blinds closed. 

I experienced my first language barrier when Jessica, her little sister, and her family moved onto our street, “How do you say ‘moon’ in Spanish?” I asked, pointing at the moon. “Luna. La Luna brilla,” Jessica said. Never mind that my step great grandparents had a thick Gaelic accent because it came out to me clear as plain English. 

Her parents invited me inside once for ice cream on a cold day, but it took too long to thaw, so we played in her sand box in winter jackets. She was very quiet, but beautiful with long, shiny black hair and round, dark brown eyes. Her mom let her play with red lipstick and wear pretty shoes. Her little sister constantly rode circles in the driveway on her tricycle with colorful plastic strings dangling from the handlebars while she bit her pretty nails to the bone. 

My second language barrier was when two young Indian girls moved in next door to Erika and Heather with their parents. We had to remove out shoes when we came into their house through the garage. They didn’t have much furniture and slept in the family room. 

Then there was the quiet girl, who never spoke at all; she power-walked home from the bus stop in sixth grade. We didn’t know she existed until our first day of school while we watched her bolt past us, books-in-hand, down the hill into her house, shutting the door, and looking out the window at us; staring. No one knew her name and when we knocked on the door for her to come out, her dad said she was studying.  

She was always studying. 

My first day of middle school was horrifying; walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, an hour earlier than normal, toward my bus stop. I had never been on a bus in my entire life: my elementary school was directly behind our neighborhood. 

Walking down the sidewalk in my best clothes dragging an empty book bag, Heather slides open her bedroom window and waves; she’s getting ready for her first day of fifth grade. I met up with Erika and Heather out front of their house so Erika could show me where to stand. I wished Heather was here – little Heather, we called her – big Heather was mean to me. Earlier that year, she threatened to kill my cat, so we weren’t the best of friends. I spent more time with her older sister, Erika. 

Erika and Heather’s dad lived In Pittsburgh, so they were gone every other weekend, and when they were gone, it was quiet. They lived on our block with their mom, stepdad and younger half-sister, Ashley, who once drank rubbing alcohol. Their house always smelled like food, but Heather said it’s because, “my mom burns everything.” 

We played cab driver in their abandoned Sebring. Her mom drove a rusted van and was occasionally religious. “I can’t be your friend anymore,” Heather said to me one day while riding bikes around the block. “What?” I asked. “My mom said your parents listen to devil worshipping music,” she said, referring to alternative rock; and this was before she threatened to kill my cat. 

Erika didn’t know who the Spice Girls were, so we put the cassette in my boom box and danced around my bedroom. We collapsed from exhaustion, “Show me more.” She said, breathing heavy, “That was fun.” 

Erika accused Heather of eating her deodorant. “Look, teeth marks,” she says, tilting the baby-powder fresh tube at me. “Why would I eat your deodorant?” asks Heather. She told me your period comes out of your butt. I told her she was, “Full of it.” Her stepdad walks past her open bedroom door, and she asks for him. He steps in the room and asks what we’re up to. “Does your period come out of your butt?” She asks. He’s stunned, “Sure.” He says, walking away. 

They both shaved their legs, I didn’t. They talked about sex with their mom, I was afraid to. 

They had the craziest stories. 

Their house was haunted by a colonial soldier who ate breakfast with them, and his body was buried in the woods across the street. During a sleepover, we were lying on our bellies on the carpet, and they told me a ghost story about Heather’s daybed. Claiming a young girl was murdered in it and that their mom bought it cheap at a yard sale. Heather starts screaming and is halfway under the bed with her hands grasping the feet, pretending to get sucked under. It scared the shit out of me. 

We pinned sheets to the ceiling around her bed and jumped up and down to devil-free music and filled water balloons, tossing them out of the window at the teenagers passing by. 

The teenagers were a group of older kids in high school who smoked, cursed and caused a lot of trouble. If we were playing outside and they walked by, we ran indoors. Unless you were with Trevor – he instigated them. 

Standing at the foot of his driveway discussing video games, a drunk girl stumbles down the street in a jean jacket. Trevor asks if she had a rough night. She’s waving her hand around, “You little shit!” walking up the drive-up at us. 

We dart for the front door. “Lock it!” I yell. She pulls a whole cabbage out of the rock garden, roots and everything, and chucks it at the glass door as dirt explodes all over the front porch. 

I’m stunned. 

Trevor is doubled over in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. “Your mom is going to kill you,” I said. 

They broke into my neighbor’s house while they were away on vacation and threw a party. I woke up to red and blue lights flashing in my window. My stepdad called the cops every time they broke bottles in the playground behind our house. I sat and watched through the window as a police cruiser crept over the hill through the field with his lights off as they scattered, running past our house down the alley. They almost shot me with a pellet gun one afternoon. I didn’t see anyone at first but herd, “Shoot her. Shoot her,” as I look around. I see two boys standing behind a chain linked fence a few yards away pointing a gun at me. 

I took off down the street. 

These were all white, middle-class suburban kids; mind you. The Valley was a very strange place. Tyler was escorted home by the police one night for starting fire to the dumpster behind the 7-11 and I walked in one three people fucking in the woods. 

Erika and Heather’s mom called the police. We sat on the curb eating cherries, waiting to see what would happen. The police pull up and go into the far end of the woods where the trail is, and two half naked people come darting out of the front of the woods and run down the street. I’m not sure what happened to the third person, but the police took off, on foot, after the others. 

Earlier that day, two people came to Erika and Heather’s house asking their mom if they could have to sofa at the curb, claiming their grandmother wanted it. She said sure, and they carried it off. The police found it, unfolded in the woods on cinder blocks. 

One summer week, we had so much rain it flooded our streets. I’m leaning against the windowsill, watching the water and my stepdad wander out of the house, trudging through the water in scuba gear, opening all the manholes with a crowbar. Lawn ornaments and chairs were swept away. 

In the winter, we held team snowball fights, blindly tossing them over Ben’s wooden fence hoping to nail someone in the face. When my stepdad plowed the street, Heather and I dug a snow fort in the biggest pile of snow we could find. Just as it was getting dark, we sat inside it giggling. I hear chains coming down the street and Trevor plows his bike into the side of our fort as it caves in on us. Screaming, we dig our way out and walk home. I was not pleased. 

We went sledding in the valley and I nearly slammed into the brick wall of my elementary school. I loved trekking through the thick snow in my snow pants, winter jacket, hat and gloves frozen to the core as the streetlights come on, coated a thin layer of powdered snow. I would come inside, get undressed on the linoleum as my fingers tingled with my cheeks red and warm.  

I drank hot chocolate and watched movies with my mom. 

No matter the season, I had to be the house when the streetlights came on: nine o’clock in the summer; five o’clock in the winter. 

Sarah creative writing

Ten Seconds

One of my most memorable heart pounding moments was when I was standing behind a building late at night while staking out the area to see if it was safe to venture down the hill onto campus, past a group of guards who were on a first-name basis with us, that I was determined to out-smart.

Flirting with the property line by kicking rocks down the hill with my foot, I look through the trees for movement. I hear feet plow through the leaves: there are two men approaching with flashlights and their voices are recognizable. “Okay,” I say under my breath. We can see them, and they cannot see us, but we are vulnerable if we move and are vulnerable if we do not and had ten seconds to figure it out.

We had to get as low to the ground as possible – it was a split-second decision – we have to lie beneath the lit windows of the building and look as non-human in form as possible. The light emitting from the windows would over-contrast their eyes and they would not see us.

I grab his arm and motion: ‘quickly and quietly remove your bag and lay against the building.’ We hold our breath as the wind stops blowing. My head is pressed against the dirt as my heart beats to the rhythm of swift footsteps on gravel, muffled voices chattering, and cigarette smoke being inhaled as an ember falls to the ground, sizzling. Wide-eyed, I watch ants march past a blade of grass.

The men, three feet away, walked past us. I felt lucky they weren’t looking or proud that I didn’t give them a reason to. I wiped the dirt off my forehead and rolled over.

Sarah creative writing

The Sunrise

Bundled in our winter jackets with cold ears and gloved hands, we walk along a dark trail beneath an obsidian sky scattered with twinkling stars. The brightest in the sky is twinkling green, blue, and white like a twisting prism suspended in space refracting its light to earth.

Walking past ominous buildings, we approach a lifeless, towering structure. Cold hands grasp a chain-link fence: metal rattles. Broken glass cracks beneath our feet as we descend the concrete stairs and water droplets form at the ledge of the roof twelve stories high. I gaze upward at the building’s silhouette: water splashes across my forehead.

I feel eyes pierce through me from a distance as my imagination runs wild: a group of survivors, unnoticeably finding sanctuary in the darkest of night, ascending to the roof to scout its surroundings – a green ominous light appears on the third floor: a glowing exit sign.

I grasp a pipe and lower myself into the damp basement as the sounds of nature grow quiet and the sound of silence becomes deafening. Water pings off a pipe as a door in the hallway creaks from a faint breeze. Stepping over insulation, I fumble into the hallway, past the door and up the steps toward the roof.

Hudson River Psychiatric Hospital. October 09, 2010.

With tired legs and a runny nose, I grasp my hand around a ladder’s rung and climb twelve more rungs. As I reach the roof, I pull myself through the hatch onto the tarred surface. The cool breeze from the Hudson River swipes hair across my face – I remove it from my mouth and swipe the sides of my head with my gloved hands while watching a scene of small cars move across the bridge in the distance as scattered porch lights twinkle in the dark hills.

While laying on my backpack, I watch the sky with intent as hotdogs cook on an open flame. Laughter, fire and cigarette smoke ascend into the sky with good intent. The black sky in the east transforms into a light shade of blue as the sun slowly rises above the horizon.

Soft footsteps creak the wooden floors of the hallway.

I awake in a room with bodies scattered upon the floor – we are sleeping heavily beneath our jackets, snoring. There was a man standing in the doorway, but now he is gone. I quickly fade back into sleep.

I rise, hovering above the bodies curled up within their warmth. I bend over, grab a shoe, and while balancing, place it on my foot as the bodies stir.

I wander down the white hallway, looking over my right shoulder at the patients freshly awakened for breakfast grub and pills in decorative paper cups. I hallucinate the aroma of maple pancakes and freshly squeezed orange juice and the dirty, paint-chipped floors beneath my feet become clean and waxed as a nurse in white shoes scuff past me.

My eyes are blurry – I’m in a daze; surreal. I reach out in front of me and place the palm of my hand upon the surface of a small white door while stepping on the small white tiles and enter the small white bathroom.

Walking toward the window, I lean on the sill while shielding my eyes from the low-hanging sun as I look upon the overgrown courtyard of the asylum.

Sarah creative writing

The Forest

With our shoe-covered feet patting the dry ground, we gallop down the hill to the mouth of the river and turn onto a worn-out trail within the forest that wraps its branches around our souls. The leaves on the trees dance like a flock of birds above an ocean of waves. Crickets chirp within the brush, water flows over rocks, and twigs break and snap beneath our feet.

The air smells sweet like pollinating flowers on a warm spring day.

Glowworms scattered along the forest floor like diamonds of fallout that fell from the sky sprinkle the dirt. The river ripples and dances with the reflection of the moon as foliage beneath the trees resonate with fluorescents.

We’re on our hands and knees with foreheads pressed to the ground and the palms of our hands are soiled as we search for worms and laugh like children. Out of the forest and onto the trail, we walk a mile beneath the moon which casts its light that pries into our mind.

The abandoned power plant, sitting at the edge of the forest, protrudes its smokestack into the starry sky that is scattered with opaque clouds as a cool breeze chill our necks and a streetlight casts a flickering light at the end of the road, past cement barricades.

Passing broken and shattered streetlights, we emerge from the tunnel of trees into a field strung with lights along the side of a distressed road that wraps around a large, fresh-cut field of grass. With eyes wide and ears open, we creep over the hill as our shoes become slicked with dewdrops and blades of grass.

Pennhurst. January 03, 2011.

Placing one foot into the overgrown foliage, I carefully push branches in front of me; two thorns prick my left hand. I push-on aggressively into the shadow of the building. Stepping into the stairwell, I jump over a pool of stagnant water and enter the drafty basement as the temperature drops.

One swift foot after another – running up three flights of steps – I push open a matte grey steel door as the moonlight paints a streak along the shellacked tiled wall of the stairwell, casting shadows on inanimate objects. The roof crunches beneath my feet as the door closes and the wind stirs my hair, swiping it across my face.

Directly ahead of me between two trees is a large, low-hanging, orange moon.

Near the ledge, we sit beneath the clouds and discuss politics as two others climb a ladder to the roof of the elevator shaft. Their voices are dim but and an occasional rock is tossed landing nearby. Airplanes take flight from a local runway at half hour intervals while trains chug-along the rails, blowing their whistles.

The full moon is a diffused spotlight in the sky. We leave the building and walk across the field of fresh-cut grass, across the road, into the trees and emerge within a field in a small valley. The backside of a tall, brick building hovers above me in the distance and we walk toward it. We graze the side of the building, pausing to listen for movement in the distance until as we head for the middle of the road.

Headlights bounce over the horizon and the treeline freezes as it’s illuminated with halogen lights. With one foot in front of the other, I dash into the woods and lie on my stomach, resting my chin on the grass and later sit on an exposed steam pipe jutting out of the hillside as I gaze through the tops of the trees.

We take a lap around the campus, walking beneath the shadow of towering buildings freshly stripped of their ivy vines. Four sets of sneakers beat down the pavement, echoing in the distance.

Lying on the ground with a backpack as a pillow, we watch clouds sweep past an Egyptian eye: the lashes are whisks of clouds and the pupil is the moon with a cloud-formed iris; disappearing into the east as the wind blows.

Sarah creative writing

The Deli

Leaning against the side of a cold car outside a gas station, I watch snow fall heavily from grey clouds on a white field. Small, brick homes with frosted windows are pushing smoke from chimneys. The air is quiet, and the roads are empty. The wind whips my hair across my face as I brush it away to watch a clunky, old truck slowly drive by, changing gear as it goes up the hill. The sound of warm gas streaming into the tank of the car intensifies as the old truck draws out into the distance. The handle clicks as the pump shuts off.

I turn around and see a deli and pizza place, the only two places in town that are open for business. “It’s not a bad combination,” I think to myself. I suck air in-between my teeth as a headache forms and I drag my feet toward the door of the deli. Reaching for the handle, I pull the door open as bells jingle against the glass.

Inside, it is cold and dimly lit and the wall to my right is lined with refrigerators stocked with juice, soda, tea and milk. The ceiling is patterned with various shades of white tiling, some stained.

Behind the counter is girl who is cleaning, and a young man is arranging items. I ask, “Do you sell aspirin?” He hands me some extra strength tablets in a square tear-away packet. I walk toward the refrigerators, glaring into each door because the lights inside are turned off. “I wonder if they’re on,” I think as I open the door.

I feel a cold coming over me as I walk to the meat-counter with an unopened can of iced tea. “Can I order something?” I ask. “Sure,” The attendant responds. “Hmm, turkey and cheese on a roll,” I say.

Three shelves are stocked with snacks, beef jerky, canned food, disposable bowls and magnets. Near the register were gum, candy and ChapStick. Between them are four small tables and chairs beneath a television set and antenna extended to the ceiling that is airing a daytime soap opera as an old woman sits below reading the newspaper.

I clear my throat and look at my shoes. “How are the roads?” a voice asks. Flustered, I look up at the attendant. “They’re fine,” I say. “Someone drove off the road. Be careful driving, there is a lot of black ice,” He insists. “Oh, that’s not good,” I say. Bells jingle and a man walks through the door toward the counter. “Can I get twenty on pump two?” He asks the attendant by his first name. “Does everyone around here know each other?” I think to myself. I look down at my shoes.

“Turkey?” A female voice asks as if there are others waiting. “That’s hers,” The guy says, pointing at me. “Thanks,” I say, grabbing my plate. I sit down at a table with my friends as they take their last bite.

Picking up my sandwich, I notice a pattern on the plate. “Is this a ceramic? They give their customers real plates?” I ask out loud. The old woman mumbles something unpleasant to herself as she hastily flips the page of her paper. I rip open the plastic packet beside my plate and swallow two white pills.

I wonder if this were the place I would visit for my gas and lunch if I lived nearby and if the frustrated old woman, dining alone in a gas station would be me one day. I wondered if the attendants knew her name or if she were a recluse and if they knew we were not from around here.

“I don’t think I like it here,” I say. “Why?” my friend asks as I think for a moment. “It’s a small town and people know each other – they know each other’s names,” I say. “I’m used to it – doesn’t bother me,” he says.

“What do I do with my plate?” I ask. My friends look around as I gather my things and walk to the counter placing the plate down gently and walk toward the door. I feel compelled to say goodbye as I pull the door.

Sarah creative writing

The Gas Station

While struggling sleepy-eyed to slip my sneakers onto my bare feet in the backseat of the car, we pull into the gas station. Untying the knot in my laces, I pull back the tongue and slip on the left shoe. The sound of tires rolling over gravel is more pleasant than the humming of the interstate. Some of the windows are rolled down or cracked open as fresh spring air swirls around inside the interior, carrying away the scent of sun chips and coffee.

I push my hair around and fluff my bangs while patting down my clothes and slipping on the right shoe. Opening the right-side door, I turn to dangle my untied shoelaced feet above the Connecticut blacktop. Arms outstretched and squirming to feel comfortable, I place my hands on my thighs and stand up. “It feels so good to stand!” I shout. I felt like a snake curled up in a can.

The Gas Station. October 05, 2010.

We were in good spirits today, all four of us. So far, our eight-hour drive from Philadelphia to Boston was not as gut wrenching as it should be. The new spring weather was fresh, warm and the sun was shining. I hoped it would stay this way forever, but I could settle for a few days.

I look down to observe clay potters of soil that were growing perennial flowers between each pump. To my left is a small concession store and I part ways to locate a bathroom. My shoes flop with me across the parking lot, up onto the cement sidewalk while stepping on a dandelion in a spurt of grass that anxiously grew up through the crack between pavements.

The front door was propped open as I entered into the dark store blinking as my eyes adjusted to the difference in lighting. Straight ahead of me on the back wall, was a hallway with a sign that read, ‘Restroom’. I scurried past the aisles of bread, snacks and candy. The counter is stocked with every brand of cigarette known to man, and a male attendant was leaning against the countertop on his elbows, with his hands folded in front of him, resting on the surface. He starred at me, and his head rotated with his eyes as I made my way to the back of the store.

In the hall, I reach for the handle on the only door labeled, ‘Restroom’. Pressing it downward, I place one hand on the surface of the door and push it open. I flip the switch on the wall as the lights fade on. I enter and shut the door. Turning around to face the handle, I press the lock inward, but it doesn’t compress. “Well, I better make this quick.” I thought to myself.

There is a loud buzzing within the room. I look up at a single rectangular recessed light that is flickering sporadically.

I notice a baby-changing station folded and locked against the wall and on the surface of it are black markings. With a fine sharpie marker, a cat smoking a joint and other various illustration such as mushrooms, stars and comic book characters were sketched. “Haha.” I said out-loud. “Unbelievable.” The detail of the graffiti was so fine and conscientiously drawn it must have taken at least fifteen to thirty minutes to draw. I thought to myself, “why would someone come into a run-down gas station bathroom to draw this?”

The lights flickered and buzzed while someone jiggled the door handle. “Hold on!” I shouted. Shaking my head in a state of perplexed wonder, I scurried to leave. I made a beeline for the front of the store and walked outside into the bright sunlit parking lot.

Standing on the sidewalk, I turn my head to the right while raising my hand horizontally above my eyes as a shield from the sun and squinted. “Where did everyone go?” I walk over to the car and looked inside the tinted windows. The doors were locked.

I spun around searching for the three men I was with. I walked back to the store and walked through the door. The only man inside was the bored attendant. He stood up as though I were going to approach and ask for something.

I walked back outside.

In the distance, to my left were muffled voices. I walked across the large, empty parking lot covered in piles of fresh dirt and tire tracks. There were three men clumsily trying to make their way down a steep tree-filled hill to a clearing about a hundred feet ahead. “What the hell are you guys doing?” I shouted. “We found an abandoned building!” Someone yelled over his shoulder.

I looked up and into the trees was a dilapidated structure missing its windows, sitting in a pile of construction equipment and fresh excavated soil. A construction fence surrounded the building. I sat on the hill and laughed in amusement at them trying to find a way in through the fence. “You know, the car is sitting at the pump.” I hollered with my hands cuffed around my mouth.

Disappointed, all three men made their way up the side of the hill, dirty with twigs in their hair, I outstretched my hand to those who needed it until everyone was on solid ground again. We walked across the parking lot and slipped into the car.

I bent my legs and ripped my shoes off.