The clatter of dishes echoed across Levanti’s American Bistro as you sat at your small table, waiting for your order. You had noticed Sam, the waitress, weaving through the crowded restaurant with plates balanced expertly on her arms. She seemed friendly, but there was something about her today—a kind of frustration buried behind her professionalism. Maybe it was just a long shift. You watched her approach with your plate, her black non-slip work sneakers softly squeaking against the greasy kitchen floor as she moved toward you.
But just as she was a few feet away, a strange sensation swept over you. The room seemed to expand, the walls stretching up and up, and the din of the restaurant became a roaring cacophony. In an instant, the chair beneath you disappeared, and the table now loomed like a colossal structure. You were shrinking—faster than you could comprehend. Within seconds, you were no more than two inches tall, standing on the wooden floor, utterly disoriented.
Sam arrived at your table, looking perplexed. "Where did you go?" she muttered, setting the plate down. She glanced around, her brows furrowing in confusion. Her massive sneakers, now skyscraper-sized to you, were planted firmly on the ground, just inches away from where you stood. The black rubber tread of her sneakers was smeared with grease, dirt, and flecks of dried food from the kitchen. You couldn’t believe what had just happened, but survival instincts kicked in. If you stayed here, you’d be stepped on—or worse.
You had no choice but to approach the enormous black sneaker that towered over you like a building. The tread was thick and rugged, designed to withstand the slippery conditions of a busy kitchen, and as you got closer, the smell of dirty kitchen water and sweat filled the air. It was pungent, clinging to her shoes from hours of working on the greasy floor. Each groove of the tread was filled with grime, bits of soggy food, and even small pebbles stuck between the ridges.
You began to climb.
The tread was rough under your tiny hands, the rubber gritty with dirt and sticky from old, dried grease. The effort to pull yourself up was overwhelming, but you managed to grip onto one of the larger grooves, trying to hoist yourself up higher. Sam’s feet shifted slightly as she looked around the dining area for you, causing the ground—and the sneaker beneath you—to tremble. You held on for dear life, your body pressed against the slick, rubbery surface. Her massive sneaker emitted a dull creak as her weight shifted again, and you scrambled to climb higher.
Just as you thought you were making progress, her sneaker lifted off the ground slightly. You lost your grip and tumbled down the side of her shoe, falling straight into the deep treads below. The impact left you dazed, and as you tried to stand, you realized you were now wedged between the thick, dirty rubber treads.
Before you could react, Sam took a step.
Her sneaker came down with terrifying force, and you were pinned beneath it, pressed into the filthy floor as the full weight of her body bore down on you. The air was knocked from your lungs as the world went dark, the rubber sole compressing you into the ground. You were trapped between the deep grooves of her tread, surrounded by months of accumulated dirt, crushed food particles, and the grime of the kitchen floor.
The sensation was overwhelming. The smell of the filthy rubber filled your nose, mixed with the stench of old food scraps and kitchen water. The rubber pressed down on you relentlessly, squishing you into the dirt and muck that had collected over her long shift. You could feel every shift in her weight as she walked, each step grinding you deeper into the filth that caked the bottom of her shoe. The moisture from the kitchen floor had mixed with the grime, making it slick and muddy, coating you completely.
You were powerless beneath her, your body lodged deep in the treads, with no way to escape. Each time she lifted her foot, a brief moment of weightlessness gave you hope, but it was immediately crushed as she stepped down again, smashing you into the floor with a sickening squelch. The kitchen water seeped into your clothes, drenching you in the filthy liquid as it sloshed around inside the tread. Bits of food—soggy fries, crumbs, and unidentifiable sludge—stuck to you as you were ground into the muck with every step.
Sam continued her shift, completely unaware of the tiny figure trapped beneath her sneaker. She moved from table to table, her feet constantly in motion. Every step she took shifted you slightly, twisting your body painfully as you were dragged through the dirt and grime. The pressure was unrelenting, and the filth surrounding you became part of your existence. Grease from the kitchen floor stuck to your skin, mixing with the dirt and food particles. You could even feel the occasional pebble or shard of glass wedged into the tread with you, scraping against your body as Sam walked.
The sounds around you were muffled—distant clattering of dishes, the hum of conversations, the occasional shout from the kitchen—but beneath the rubber sole, all you could hear was the constant thud of her foot hitting the ground and the squelching of the muck that surrounded you. Each step felt like an eternity, the weight of her sneaker pressing down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs, only to lift briefly before coming down again with crushing force.
You tried to scream, to get her attention, but your voice was swallowed by the thick rubber tread and the grime around you. No one could hear you down here. You were nothing more than a speck, stuck in the dirt under her shoe.
As the hours dragged on, the filth beneath her sneaker only grew worse. The kitchen floor was constantly being splattered with dirty water, spilled food, and grease, and all of it ended up stuck to the bottom of her shoe—and by extension, stuck to you. The smell was nauseating, a mix of old food, sweat, and cleaning chemicals. You were coated in the filth, your body battered and bruised from the constant pressure and friction.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sam stopped moving. You felt her sneaker lift one last time before it came down with a soft thud. The pressure released slightly, and you realized she had stopped walking. You could hear her voice faintly, talking to another server, but you were too exhausted and disoriented to make out the words.
For a brief moment, you lay there, crushed and filthy in the tread of her sneaker, wondering if you would ever escape this nightmare.
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