A Day In The Life of a Shadow

Polishing Shoes (Even Though They're Already Polished)

Of all the tasks Maxwell puts me through, there is one (among many others, but they're stories for another time) I don't understand: polishing his shoes. His shoes are already as black as his heart, and as shiny as his charming grin, what more does he want? I can't wear anything away, because there's nothing to be away with. Sitting in front of him is degrading enough, but on my knees with a piece of sandpaper and a 'bottle' of polish, as well as a brush, a cloth and my own fingers, is just crossing that ridiculous line. The thing is, I always try to cut corners – and it never works.

"What are you doing?" he asked. I looked up from my handiwork to look at him; he didn't seem too impressed. What had I done this time? Oh, I'd probably used the polish before rubbing his already pristine shoes "clean" with my fingers. Silly me, who am I to even think I deserve even the least bit of respect?

"What you told me to, sir," I responded. It's a wonder I keep my tone with this man. I suppose that means there are two fantastic actors in the room. Maxwell can lie and cheat and steal for all he is worth, and is very good at it. However, there's always me who is secretly longing to strangle him to death, but never once steps out of line, even though I have all the reason and more to do so. I suppose part of it is fear – though I write wretched words about him in my book (I call it "The Vent" for it's sheer atrocity) and degrade him all I can in my head, I have seen him in a frenzy, and it is not something to take lightly. He is beyond threatening when angry, and I would never wish to make him so... but there is always that temptation to step out of line just to see if he brushes me off as a mere silly shadow, or if he would go into a full blown rage, calling me selfish and ungrateful and all sorts of other untrue things. And, of course, the other part of me just hopes that, if I do all he says, and do it right and nicely without complaint, he won't be so tough. I'm probably a fool for hoping he drops his harsh ways. I should probably stop, and accept the fact that he will never soften. This demon is beyond change, or so it seems.

"Oh really?" he speaks up. Of course I am, I'm in front of your feet on my knees, you silly old fool. "Because I'm sure I told you to polish. Not slack off, pal."

Now, imagine a punch-bag. Now imagine it suddenly disappearing. That was a metaphor for me knocking this guy's teeth in and proceeding to delete him from the planet's existence. I am sick to death of this treatment, and it makes me sick to know it's actually the thing sating my lust for humanity. Knowing that humans perform these tasks every day and night, or that is common for people to do these things makes me feel slightly more at-home and in-touch with the world around me. I know nothing about it, however; only what They tell me, and I'm sure by now it's all rubbish anyway.

"S-Sorry...," I mumbled, though I'm sure we both understood that I wasn't really, and that it was just customary to say so. He stared at me a moment, before narrowing his eyes and shrugging me off. I knew that gesture. It was the "get out of my sight" gesture. I looked at him blankly for a few moments before straightening myself out, standing before him rather than kneeling. It was funny, I was almost as tall as he was while he was sitting down, slumped in his Throne. It looked as if he had given up.

"I can imagine you are," he hissed, looking me up and down, and back again, eventually resting on my face again, locking eyes coldly. His gaze always made me shiver, and feel eerie, it was like a dagger. Actually, no, a dagger is much too meek a description; it was so sharp, knives would have cowered. The world's most sarcastic prat would have been reduced to a quivering baby. A machete would become a typical kitchen knife in comparison. Oh, it was such a scary thing. "Now, if you're through being a waste of my time, you can see yourself out." he finished, his sentence thick and heavy. I wasn't even sure what I'd done wrong, but I must have done something to upset the 'poor' man. I sighed and bent down to pick up my supplies, only for him to stop me. "I'll have to do them myself, so leave the things there."

I paused, nodding my head weakly and bowing briefly before inching towards the door, taking my time in case he found something else to say to me. He normally had a bundle of harsh comments up his sleeve... how I was a no-name and an empty being; that I had no recollection of anything because I was nothing. He certainly knew how to remind me of my place.

As I closed the door softly, I sighed and leaned against it. Part of me ached; I still didn't know of my mistake. Apparently I had 'slacked'? How so...? I realised I would probably never have the answer. But...

He could have at least had the decency to let me finish polishing his shoes that didn't even need polishing...