The old boots fit.  At first glance, I feared their large size might blister my heels but once I slid them on, I marveled at their perfection.  They cradled my feet in their worn leather comfort and were certainly a step up from my current barefoot predicament. They felt like an old friend; a disturbed, dark, old friend.

Then the dreams came.

Behind closed lids, the night brought more than just rest, it brought unwanted terror;  my hands crimson and sticky with blood, the stench of fresh death filling each breath that I took.  Each dream was the same, and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, it wasn’t my face I saw, it was his.

I hadn’t recognized the old cowboy at first; a killer, a wanted man.  The buzzards picked at his horse nearby; the man’s body bloated, lying face up in a sun parched creek bed.  Not unlike the buzzards, I was there to scavenge his meager belongings, but when I slid on the dead man’s boots, his unholy soul slipped over my own. 

After many years, the dreams finally stopped but the blood still drips from the knife in my hand, pooling around my worn leather boots. I stare down at the people lying dead at my feet; a crimson stained wanted poster discarded on the floor, my likeness etched on the crumpled paper.  I falter, unsure of what I’ve become, but then I remember and smile.  Whatever trail these old boots tread, I’ll surely follow, because after all, they were always a perfect fit.

-KRRowe

©KRRowe

Special thanks to Pam Tamburello for the photo writing prompt that inspired this story.