Heels Can Kill

Foreword: My writing isn’t this shitty. Enjoy.

We only had an hour and a half to fill our growling stomachs before the next meeting at 7.30pm. Fifteen minutes passed, yet there was no sign of the famous two bright yellow arches of McDonald’s. The sky grew darker, the weather chillier and breezier, and the hustling and bustling of Beijing locals in suits and overalls on the busy streets of Beijing increased. The straps of the torturous, black high heels around my bleeding feet were deepening and swelling the number of cuts and blisters I had obtained over the past few days of Model United Nations conferences, as Ken, Elliot and I walked the directions told by a passer-by to the nearest fast-food restaurant, on the very unfamiliar streets of Beijing.

We had already walked and ran in our classic, elegant suits and passed several roadside vendors for thirty minutes, yet still saw no sign of McDonald’s. The heels were killing me, and my whining was killing Ken and Elliot. Ken offered to carry my folders, and handed me his black jacket after noticing my chattering teeth.

“Shut up, Alix! Can’t you walk faster?” Elliot yelled, rolling his eyes at the appalled expression upon my face, clearly oblivious of the pain and torture my two innocent-looking heels were causing me.

The pain was intolerable. I kicked my shoes off with a sign of frustration and exasperation, trying to walk bare-footed, instead. But the filthy ground was too cold, making my feet feel numb. There were lots of stones and rough surfaces on the dirty, sandy ground that made the pain even more unbearable, forcing me to wear the horrid heels again. More Beijing locals in black and white suits and passer-bys in plain overalls threw awkward glances in our direction, making us feel rather uneasy, and quicken the pace.

Finally! Already in McDonald’s ordering our crispy, golden fries, burgers and ice- cream. The thought of going back made staying at McDonald’s for the night sound like a better idea, even if it meant doing the filthy dishes. The boys’ finished their burgers, and I had my already melting vanilla ice-cream left.

“Can’t you hurry up? We’re almost late!” Elliot nagged, glaring at me as I licked my melting ice-cream.

“Just walk and eat your ice-cream at the same time, then,” Ken suggested. “That way, we won’t waste any time and you can finish your ice-cream.” I stood up, and obediently followed the boys out of the heavenly McDonald’s, holding the ice-cream with my left hand.

This time, I had to run and eat my dripping vanilla ice-cream in the chillier weather and darker sky, making everything feel much worse. Ken seemed to notice the pain I was going through, and even suggested taking a taxi. Elliot however, said “No” because the white tent was just a “few” minutes down the street, and wasn’t too ken on wasting money, whether or not it was his or ours.

The grand, well-lit Lido hotel looked like paradise, representing the near end of the torment my feet were going through. We wandered around aimlessly outside looking for a massive, white tent. We asked the intelligent-looking guards in green uniforms, but they didn’t know anything about it, and seemed to find out M.U.N attire amusing. We walked around the hotel and thought that the tent may be around another hotel nearby. After spotting a group of familiar-looking Korean boys, each wearing neatly ironed suits and a pair of trendy glasses, we followed them, and ran the whole way for another ten long minutes of unbearable pain.

The meeting had already started, and the well-prepared tables and chairs were already occupied by sophisticated M.U.N delegates, proud teachers and parents. According to another delegate, it started at 7pm. Ken and I cursed the chair for giving us the wrong information, because we were one of the few who had to stand behind the many relaxed five hundred people. Elliot however, glared at us and ordered us to “shut up” once again, simply because it was embarrassing. Ever since that day, I told myself never to wear high heels again, and to make sure of that, I’d remind myself that “heels can kill”.