Wildman: Origins
Same Walk, Different Shoes
“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project that Ben Wakeman organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.
9:00 PM
LOCATION: DORM ROOM, INTERIOR, CLOSET
ATMOSPHERE: ANXIOUS
ARMOR: 60%
MENTAL HEALTH: … loading …
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: … loading …
MISSION: CHOOSE WARDROBE
TIME REMAINING: - -
“Dude, just wear what you have on, you look great.”
MENTAL HEALTH: +1
I crane my head around the closet door. He’s seated on my bed, thumbing through my anatomy textbook. My gut twists uncomfortably.
Hurry up before he lands on the dogeared pages.
I quickly scan his ensemble and decide the uniform I’m wearing will suffice. I only bought it to impress him and his friends anyway. Just need to make one adjustment to unlock my next mission.
“Yeah, okay. I’m just going to put on a clean undershirt.”
He snorts.
ARMOR: 40%
MENTAL HEALTH: -1
It doesn’t matter.
I pull the still creased, navy-blue polo shirt over my head and feel the price tag drag against the nape of my neck. I never took it off, assuming the shirt wouldn’t fit, and I’d have to return it.
But it’s not the fit of the shirt that’s the problem. It’s me.
I don’t fit.
And my exchange receipt expired a long time ago.
I pull the closet door closed slightly, making sure he can’t see me changing through the gap on the hinge side.
He sighs impatiently.
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: -1
I swallow over a lump in my throat and remove my undershirt.
I take a deep breath.
The protective shell that encases me is years old. It’s been damaged, repaired, dismantled, and rebuilt countless times. What remains is a mangle of loose wires, twisted fibers, and melted connections. There are weak spots. Gaps in the armor where my true skin is exposed. Some of it freshly scabbed over, some of it healed and thickened by scar tissue. All of it screaming.
To be out.
Okay. You can do this. You don’t need it. He’s got your back. You’re friends. He’s your friend. You’re his. Friends protect each other. It’ll be fine. Just take it off. No one will know.
No one will ever know.
MENTAL HEALTH: -1
I close my eyes and think of the day he knocked on my door and invited me to watch a movie in his room. The day he included me. Accepted me.
The day I was almost myself and the world didn’t end.
The first piece of armor comes off my shoulder easily. It’s aged, brittle, and falls to pieces in my hand like parched earth. The second is more stubborn. It’s stuck in a few spots, its roots still struggling to feed off the nutrient-rich fear coursing through my veins. I wince as the broad section over my abdomen cracks in two. My eyes burn with tears of relief as I peel the pieces away, leaving my bare skin to breathe, unencumbered, for the first time since I volunteered for this mission of secrecy. I grit my teeth and blink the tears back.
He can’t know you’re vulnerable. No one can know. Not yet.
I pause to catch my breath and assess my condition.
ATMOSPHERE: RESTLESS
ARMOR: 10%
MENTAL HEALTH: … loading …
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: … loading …
MISSION UPDATE: UNLOCK NEW SKIN TO LEVEL UP
TIME REMAINING: - -
“Dude, I’m leaving in thirty seconds. You in or out?”
Out.
“Yeah, I’m coming.”
You’re coming out.
I breathe deep into my toes and grip the last and largest piece of armor, the one clamped firmly over my chest, with both hands. I exhale sharply and thrust my palms forward, expecting resistance.
I find none.
The last piece dislodges with a subtle click and evaporates completely in a hiss of cold, metallic vapor.
My heart floods with fresh blood. My skin buzzes with new cell growth, and my mind sharpens to a dagger point.
LEVEL UP. NEW SKIN UNLOCKED.
ARMOR: 0%
MENTAL HEALTH: +6
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: +6
NEW MISSION: BLEND IN
I pick up my polo shirt and yank the price tag out with unexpected force. The fabric snags and I don’t care. I pull the shirt over my head and slide it over my rapidly healing skin. I adjust the collar and smile.
It fits better than I thought.
10:30 PM
LOCATION: HOUSE PARTY, INTERIOR, BASEMENT
ATMOSPHERE: CAUTIOUS
ARMOR: 0%
MENTAL HEALTH: … loading …
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: … loading …
MISSION: MINGLE
“You want a beer?”
“Um…”
He hands me a bottle and taps the base of his over the mouth of mine.
“Cheers, dude.”
“Yeah, cheers.”
I flush as the bottle meets his lips and he throws his head back dashingly on the first sip.
My hand is doused with beer foam.
Shit.
MENTAL HEALTH: -1
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: -1
He smiles and shakes his head.
“Relax, dude. You’re doing great.”
MENTAL HEALTH: +1
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: +1
He walks headlong into a cacophony of social booby traps, and I follow him, licking beer off my hand as I try to keep up.
NIGHT AM
LOCATION: ROOM PLACE
ATMOSPHERE: FUZZY
ARMOR: WHAAAT?
MENTAL HEALTH: … beer …
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: … bananas …
MISSION: YOUR MOM – HA!
“Dude, are you good?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you good? Like, is it cool if I play pool with my friends?”
“Yeah, man, go swimming with my friends, your good.”
He chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder. His hand lingers long enough to matter.
MENTAL HEALTH: +20
“Okay, later.”
“Yeah, later.”
I salute him awkwardly and sway into a hard-muscled stranger.
“Watch it, fairy boy!”
My lungs seize in panic.
CRITICAL HIT. NEW SKIN COMPROMISED.
ARMOR: -10%
MENTAL HEALTH: -10
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: -10
ABORT MISSION. RETURN TO BASE.
I stumble through the crowd. Drunk, disoriented, dodging judgement. But it finds me. I’m exposed. My skin chafes under the coarsely woven fabric of my uniform. Old wounds resurface, break open, and bleed with each shallow breath. My eyes resist focusing on anything as I will them to remain dry.
I finally spot him, leaning against the wall behind the pool table, his back to me. My stomach lurches and a jet of acid hits the back of my throat. I resist gagging on it as I careen through a group of scantily clad girls. I steady myself on a pair of breasts by accident and am shoved headfirst into the corner of the pool table.
“Fuck off, loser!”
My head spins as I choke down another shot of bile. He doesn’t look back.
Thank God, he didn’t see that. Or hear it. Thank God, he doesn’t know.
ARMOR: -20%
MENTAL HEALTH: … loading …
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: … loading …
MISSION:
Just get to him. He’ll fix it. He’ll put his hand on your shoulder again and you’ll be fine. He has your back. He won’t judge you. He’s your friend. He’s your friend. He’s your friend.
“Oh, that guy? Nah, he’s not my friend. I just feel sorry for him.”
TRAP TRIGGERED. TAKE EVASIVE ACTION.
The floor under my feet buckles…
“Dude can’t get out of his own way.”
The concrete splits between my shoes ….
“I don’t know, he’s just crazy boring.”
The ground shudders open and tries to swallow me, but I hang on … barely …
“I’m not boring. I’m scared. I’m just so damn scared.”
My voice breaks as I cry out for help, but no one hears me. No one sees me dangling over the gaping hole the floor. The earth turned inside out, rubble tumbling down into a black well of shame and remorse. I cling to the jagged ledge with what’s left of my resolve and beg him—wordlessly—to “save me.”
“Dude just needs to get laid.”
DEATH BLOW. MISSION TERMINATED. DESCENT INITIATED.
I release my grip and fall. My lifeless body shuttles downward, like a rocket in reverse. My skin breaks away. My mind recalibrates. My nerves deaden then rebound viciously so that every drag of forced air against my body is agony.
But I don’t cry.
I don’t scream.
I don’t fight.
I don’t care.
I.
Don’t.
Fit.
1:00 AM
LOCATION: THE BOTTOM
ATMOSPHERE: VOID
ARMOR: OBLITERATED
MENTAL HEALTH: … error …
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: … error …
NEXT MISSION:
1 - REGENERATE SKIN
2 - CONSTRUCT NEW ARMOR
3 - SELF-DESTRUCT
I roll off my back and into a ball. I breathe slow and deep to keep my stomach from emptying itself in a propulsive finale of humiliation.
I’m in agony.
I cry.
I scream.
I fight the urges pulsing through me.
To quit.
To end.
To self-destruct.
You care too much. You have to try to fit.
Just fit dammit!
FIT!
“Hey, dude, do a shot with me.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder and the skin beneath his palm hardens into an impenetrable knot. No warmth can get in. No truth can get out.
He hands me the shot and I throw it back forcefully.
My throat thickens into a wall of cold granite. No emotion can build. No words can escape.
I cough once and he laughs.
The wall spreads. Covers my heart, my stomach.
My desires.
The fear in my veins crystallizes as the toxin of betrayal engulfs each struggling cell. It calms them. Subdues them. Makes them compliant.
My heart sputters over barbed blood. My skin weeps with unfulfilled promise.
My mind … …
… is changed.
NEW SKIN UNLOCKED. NEW ARMOR CONSTRUCTED.
I am transformed. Covered, head-to-toe, in regenerative scales.
I wear a mask.
A costume, designed to disguise the still beating heart buried deep within the endangered soul of a newly formed anti-hero.
SELF-DESTRUCT INITIATED.
“Get me another shot.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back … wild man.”
He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder.
His hand lingers long enough to piss me off.
3:00 AM
LOCATION: DORM ROOM, INTERIOR, CLOSET
ATMOSPHERE: RADIOACTIVE
ARMOR: INDESTRUCTIBLE
MENTAL HEALTH: … offline …
EMOTIONAL HEALTH: … offline …
MISSION: FEED THE BEAST
TIME REMAINING: UNKNOWN
Many thanks to
for organizing this incredible journey for the fiction community, and to you for reading my story, which was really someone else’s story that I embraced and retold as my own.Fiction is, at its heart, an exercise in empathy. An attempt to briefly immerse ourselves in the lives, loves, and losses of someone we’ve never met. Someone we don’t understand. Someone we can’t seem to forget. Or forgive. As fiction writers, we engage in this type of exploration all the time. To improve our craft as storytellers, certainly. But I believe many of us would also admit that we do it to strengthen our own very real hearts, minds, and relationships.
I am so grateful to have taken part in this project. I hope you’ll take some time to experience more stories from this collaborative collection.
The composition of this piece is remarkable, Meg. So unusual. If your name was not on it, I would have known it was yours immediately. You are developing a very strong,clear, recognizable signature. Your ability to get into the head of a young gay man ( when you are neither of those) is amazing to me. I try again and again and still have trouble writing the young male POV and voice. You have so much talent, kid, I am in awe. Such a painful, heart breaking story.
“...assuming the shirt wouldn’t fit, and I’d have to return it.
But it’s not the fit of the shirt that’s the problem. It’s me.
I don’t fit.” - whatever the term for this technique - more please.