The aches started from within me, twirling its way up until it reached my farthest point. First. I groaned, then whined, but nothing came of it. No one came to save me. Instead, they stepped on me, gave me new reasons to ache and groan. I cried to them, begged them to wear soft slippers. But the heavy weight of their boots was too much for my body to handle. Eventually, I would cave in. This fate felt soon. Then, one day, the man in blue overalls squatted by my side. He pulled me away from the masses, replaced me with a younger brother, and stuck me in his rusted-out truck. He took me through the neighborhoods, passing Victorian houses and leading into the spaced-out patches of abandoned road and house. I wondered which I came from. I did not get a good look as he had carried me out. He hummed along to the radio, a country thrall in his song. The car jolted and shook, and I sang the simply melody with him. Soft, pink daylight rose from the sky and the windows tinted in fog. We drove far into the countryside, stopping at the end of a dirt driveway. He opened the car door for me, pulled me out of the car, and carried me to his workshop. We spent all morning in there. He pampered and polished until I appeared as refined as I had in my youth. He made use of me, carving into my body and shaping me into beautiful art. He made me beautiful again.