Achilles Heel Novels & Stories

Tina looked, her mind so shocked that it almost didn't register what it saw, instead taking it in small parts, little slivers of clues that eventually told the whole story. Lee's pant leg was ragged. It was covered in… something… something like the trail that had come from his head. The skin beneath the fabric was… was... “Something cut his fuckin' foot.” Diego pointed out. Monique nodded. “His Achilles tendon, by the look of it. That's why he fell.” Her voice had become clinical again, calm, her face now a blank mask. “No,” Martha whispered from the corner, barely loud enough to be heard. Tina realized with horror and in the chaos, she had forgotten the man's wife was even there.

The girls faltered as they stared up at the heaving behemoth behind me. Achilles's eyes were hard as he glared at the people in front of me with so much anger that his body was physically shaking. His voice was low as he gritted out, "You must really be idiots to think you could get away with hurting my wife without me knowing. Calling her a whore and shaming her in front of everyone." "W-we were—" Cutting her off without a single care, Achilles abruptly called out, "BENEDICT! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE!"

I try to stand up then, but because of the position I have been sitting in, my feet are gone numb. I think I am going to fall. The heels have played a trick on me. Too high and too thin heeled, I think as I feel myself slipping. But then a hand holds me, and when I turn my face I find Levi. He moves with spectacular speed to hold me down. Moreover, he must have been watching me very carefully to notice that I had slipped. "Are you all right?" he asks as he helps me get settled. "Yes, I think so," my lips quirk up into a small painfully smile. "I twisted my ankle a little bit because of the heels, that's all."

With what was left of my energy, I made my way towards a seemingly vacant table not too far from where I was standing. Settling down on the chair, I slid off the torturous four-inch stilettos and began to massage my feet one by one. They were redder than a baboon’s butt and oedematous. I don’t understand who had invented heels in the first place. It must have been a man because there was no way a woman would think of punishing herself this way. It was unimaginable to me.

Daphne My heel snapped somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth rejection. It happened mid-step, the cheap leather strap giving out with a sharp crack that sent me stumbling. I caught myself on a lamppost and just stood there for a second, blinking at the broken shoe dangling from my foot like it was the last straw. Maybe it was.

I sighed, flexing my toes on the cool marble floor. He took my bare foot in his hand. His touch was firm, yet incredibly gentle. His thumb pressed into the arch, massaging the aching muscles with surprising skill. I couldn't suppress a small moan of pure relief. His gaze flicked up to mine, a spark of heat in the grey depths at the sound. He focused back on my foot, his fingers working magic on the soreness. He found the blister on my heel, his touch turning feather-light around the angry red spot.

Sometimes it can be overwhelming. My heel sticks in a crack on the sidewalk, forcing me to trip on my dress and scuff my shoe, before coming to a stop. I nearly fall, but don't and that’s evident in the sound of my heel cracking and my foot planting with a thud. The only problem is the echo surrounding mine, as if me alone on the sidewalk has caused the ripple in sound.

“What I applied on your ankle? Slows down healing for deep wounds. Technically it’s a pain reliever... but if it’s not neutralized by a reverse serum tomorrow, the pain gets worse. You’ll be out for two weeks.” I gasp—fake. Then roll my eyes. “You’re lying.” He shrugs again. “Feel free to test the theory.” “Fuck you,” I hiss, trying to sit up more. Pain spikes through my ankle, sharp and angry. He stands up, casual as ever. “Don’t underestimate my access to rare ointments and healing methods. You simply can’t relate—you’re not royalty.” My mouth opens to clap back. Then I remember—I’m Astrid now.

| said. "Your weight,' he walked closer, "it needs to be more on your back leg. You're depending too much on your front foot." He got into the same stance | was in. "See? If you stand like you are now, you'll topple over. Lean back the weight..." "Thanks, but | don't need a coach." | said back. But even though | tried to sound annoyed, | knew he was right. He looked over at me with a smirk and | internally rolled my eyes. | felt kind of silly letting him stand there and watch me while | slammed my fists into the bag.

He was deeply, completely, retroactively sorry. He sat on the bench during his rest interval and reached down to work at his left calf, which had started sending urgent messages about its intentions to seize up entirely if he didn't address it immediately. He dug his fingers in through the thick hockey sock and felt the muscle jump and protest under the pressure before grudgingly releasing. He held the stretch, jaw tight, waiting it out.