The child would never take his shoes off. His new shoes. It had been two days now since the mother bought those yellow foamy shows with blue stripes, and he hadn't allowed anyone, since then, to take those shoes off of his feet. Not even in his sleep, no. You touched a shoe and there he was, wide awake, screaming and yelling and kicking his legs. The shoes were his and only his to own.
The first day he spent admiring the pair, touching the toes and heels again and again. The next day was given to walking. He walked in and out of the rooms, climbing the stairs every few hours, running, and jumping, spreading that screeching sound in every corner of the house, the characteristic sound of all new shoes.
Though his mother loved to see him smile, the thought of his feet suffering in there, and the smelly socks of his made her worry. She couldn't bring herself to find peace but weariness in this smile of his. She'd tried everything she could—playing with him, tricking him a bit, scolding even, but the child was not ready to give in.
He was going up the stairs again when his mother finally decided to get up and snatch those shoes. Love, which made her unable to see the child crying, needed to be kept on hold. Love, which made her weak, was to be treated now. She was finally able to suppress it. As she got up to act, she heard a scream and then a thud. The child fell from the top of the stairs, his adorable foamy shoes betraying him for once. His head burst open, and the mother was left with a lifeless body, wearing the left shoe on his right foot.
