with a cigarette nestled between her fingers tipped with chipped red nail varnish. “I don’t know why he cursed me with you,” she’d spat as she refilled it. “You …”
She’d knocked the bottle over, not him. But it had been his fault—his fault because he was the one she had chased down the stairs.
He pushed his way into the first room, shoving the door with his shoulder. All her collected keepsakes, clothes of the woman his mother used to be, boxed up and labelled. She wasn’t turning tricks anymore. The only trick she’d be lucky to turn now was keeping her teeth in while she shot her abusive words at him. He climbed over them, careful at first. Lifting one box and then another out of the way. He knocked one over, it hadn’t been sealed. It spilled its guts out onto the other piles of crap she had in there. Shoes … fucking shoes. He picked them up, red, glossy. Shoes that made a click clack sound as she walked. Heals so high and pointed like needles. He ran a hand delicately down the side. A lover stroking the legs of his prize. His fingers wrapped around the perfect heel and he pulled it back, snapping it. “Kick me with these again …”
He took the other one, grabbed the heel and destroyed it the same way. There were more shoes in boxes—more dinners he didn’t eat. More toys he couldn’t have, clothes she couldn’t afford to buy. That’s what all these were. The money she didn’t spend on him, and here they sat in dusty unopened boxes. He dumped them out. Last came a neat box with a ribbon holding it closed—a beautiful box with lace around the edges and a window to peer and marvel at the shoes inside. These weren’t shoes. They were something more. Something more extraordinary than that. Black and sleek. They oozed elegance even from the cardboard cave. He tore the black silk ribbon from the top, pulling it apart to get to the shoes. These ... so beautiful, so perfect. The kind of thing that belonged in a glass cabinet for the richer people to stand around with champagne, to marvel at how wonderful they all were. These shoes were the Christmas morning he woke to nothing. The day Santa said he didn’t deserve anything. These were the Christmas dinners when he got tossed under the stairs with a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk while the family next door laughed and cheered and sang Christmas carols through the wall. Singing their cheer and their happiness and all they were grateful for. These were the shoes.
He put them back in the box, pulled the ribbon back around it and tied it in a neat little bow. She’d never know. He placed the box to one side and carried on climbing the mountain of useless possessions to the window at the front.
He grabbed the handle on the sash and pulled, but the window didn’t move. Stuck down from years of neglect. William put a hand against the half-rotted wood and pushed, forcing the aged crone from its case. The blast of cool fresh air swept in, diluting the stench of the room … the scent of his mother. Soon there would be no trace.
He didn’t climb carefully on his way back to the door. He kicked like a boy wading through water. Kicking with purpose, forcing his way through the sea of things that should have been food in his belly. He grabbed the black box on his way out, and then closed the door. Tomorrow … he’d clear it out. All of it. She didn’t need it any longer. She was gone.
He paused at the door of the next room—her room. The place he was forbidden from entering. Her sanctuary. His rebellious hands gripped the handle, urging him to push it open. She couldn’t do anything now. She wouldn’t know. She’d never know again.
He opened the door to the heart of the sour stench in the house—piss and vomit, alcohol and cigarettes—all of the scents rolled into one ghastly creature. He put a hand over his mouth, blocking out as much as he could. No, he wasn’t ready for this yet. Yanking the door shut, he tucked the box under his
She’d knocked the bottle over, not him. But it had been his fault—his fault because he was the one she had chased down the stairs.
He pushed his way into the first room, shoving the door with his shoulder. All her collected keepsakes, clothes of the woman his mother used to be, boxed up and labelled. She wasn’t turning tricks anymore. The only trick she’d be lucky to turn now was keeping her teeth in while she shot her abusive words at him. He climbed over them, careful at first. Lifting one box and then another out of the way. He knocked one over, it hadn’t been sealed. It spilled its guts out onto the other piles of crap she had in there. Shoes … fucking shoes. He picked them up, red, glossy. Shoes that made a click clack sound as she walked. Heals so high and pointed like needles. He ran a hand delicately down the side. A lover stroking the legs of his prize. His fingers wrapped around the perfect heel and he pulled it back, snapping it. “Kick me with these again …”
He took the other one, grabbed the heel and destroyed it the same way. There were more shoes in boxes—more dinners he didn’t eat. More toys he couldn’t have, clothes she couldn’t afford to buy. That’s what all these were. The money she didn’t spend on him, and here they sat in dusty unopened boxes. He dumped them out. Last came a neat box with a ribbon holding it closed—a beautiful box with lace around the edges and a window to peer and marvel at the shoes inside. These weren’t shoes. They were something more. Something more extraordinary than that. Black and sleek. They oozed elegance even from the cardboard cave. He tore the black silk ribbon from the top, pulling it apart to get to the shoes. These ... so beautiful, so perfect. The kind of thing that belonged in a glass cabinet for the richer people to stand around with champagne, to marvel at how wonderful they all were. These shoes were the Christmas morning he woke to nothing. The day Santa said he didn’t deserve anything. These were the Christmas dinners when he got tossed under the stairs with a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk while the family next door laughed and cheered and sang Christmas carols through the wall. Singing their cheer and their happiness and all they were grateful for. These were the shoes.
He put them back in the box, pulled the ribbon back around it and tied it in a neat little bow. She’d never know. He placed the box to one side and carried on climbing the mountain of useless possessions to the window at the front.
He grabbed the handle on the sash and pulled, but the window didn’t move. Stuck down from years of neglect. William put a hand against the half-rotted wood and pushed, forcing the aged crone from its case. The blast of cool fresh air swept in, diluting the stench of the room … the scent of his mother. Soon there would be no trace.
He didn’t climb carefully on his way back to the door. He kicked like a boy wading through water. Kicking with purpose, forcing his way through the sea of things that should have been food in his belly. He grabbed the black box on his way out, and then closed the door. Tomorrow … he’d clear it out. All of it. She didn’t need it any longer. She was gone.
He paused at the door of the next room—her room. The place he was forbidden from entering. Her sanctuary. His rebellious hands gripped the handle, urging him to push it open. She couldn’t do anything now. She wouldn’t know. She’d never know again.
He opened the door to the heart of the sour stench in the house—piss and vomit, alcohol and cigarettes—all of the scents rolled into one ghastly creature. He put a hand over his mouth, blocking out as much as he could. No, he wasn’t ready for this yet. Yanking the door shut, he tucked the box under his
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