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The Lovely Feet

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Four-year-old lovely feet wearing heels four sizes larger. The tender laughter of a young beautiful mother fills the atmosphere. She sits on the floor in a corner of the light blue room. Legs crossed, arms open and slightly bended forward. Her long silky brown hair falls down her spine, and her pale cheeks are flustered in pure joy. You can see the delight in her ebony eyes as she admires her child playing with her red heels, submerged in happiness. A happiness that was so rare and scarce lately in her little house.
With a soft yelp, the lovely feet trip clumsily to the marble white floor. Astonished, the lovely feet look desperately to the mother in a cry for help, and are rapidly encouraged by a sweet reassuring smile that crawls into her face.
They carefully and innocently attempt to stand once more.
As the lovely feet get used to the scarlet red heels, they begin to twirl and childishly dance in circles around the room, proud of their new skill. Giggles from both the feet and the mother resonates across the room. She runs to embrace her child in gratitude and admiration.
The scene is abruptly interrupted by a slamming door. A frown wearing a black suit enters the room and is instantly shocked by his little son wearing his wife’s heels. The shock briskly disappears, and he glares at the lovely feet. Immediately, the frown is across the room punching the lovely feet’s face. Over and over. Without time or energy to even scream in pain, the lovely feet drowns in tears and droplets of blood.
An active fight with only one aggressor.
The pain was sharp and concise. One wound after the other. One ache after the other. One spot after the other. Causing distress to his mind and bones. The lovely feet couldn’t manage to understand why the scene had turned so brusquely. The frown just kept slamming and striking against his defenseless body.
“Stop!” the mother sobs in desperation, “Please stop! You’re killing him!”
“No son of mine will grow up to become a f*ing useless fa**ot!” the frown howls. The punches cease. The lovely feet are unable to stand. They remain motionless, aching in pain and shock.
“Don’t you know how stupid you look wearing those? Don’t you?” the frown yells, looking down at the lovely feet.
Stupid. He looked stupid. He was useless and he looked stupid. But actually, that was the first time that Samuel ever felt beautiful…
Useless fa**ot. That’s what everyone thought he would grow up to be. Useless. Lazy. Stupid. Unsuccessful. A fate that everyone decided for him just because he was a little different.
“It was the mother…” they’d whisper, “She encouraged and forced the little acts upon the child. People like her should be punished! Nobody needs another homo boy around here!”
Just by watching him walk, or listening to his voice, or noticing his wardrobe, people decided they knew him. They decided they knew every bad aspect that he and his “type” possessed. He was corrupt. He was a perverted. He lacked intelligence and honor. He was stupid. He had a “condition.” He was the guy that people evade in the streets, or the guy that, if seen, mothers grab their children close just in case he’s “contagious.”
Samuel could feel the loud arguing from his room. It had been years now. All arguments involving him, obviously. Talk of a military school or something like that. Slams, strikes, frustration, screams. It was routine now. An everyday habit.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He inherited his soft pale face, pink cheeks, and skinny build from his mom. His blue eyes and black hair from his dad. His clean hair was brushed and styled up with gel. His eyed marked with a barely noticeable eyeliner. Black jeans, orange t-shirt, and gray toms. Not at all beautiful.
His light blue room was incredibly organized. Nothing out of place, nothing out of order. Just how his dad liked it. The only thing he did that satisfied his dad.
Samuel sat on his bed. Waiting for everything to stop. Wishing for oblivion and forgiveness. Not getting what he wished for. He was used to this sort of thing; staying away from people, being on his own and the constant arguments that surrounded him.
As his father often said, “Nobody wants to be around a faggot.”
He just sat and tried to forget.
He heard the repeated thump of something being dragged down the stairs. His father walked firmly with a suitcase and slammed the main door as he forced his way out. Confused, Samuel peeked out his door. Nothing.
He sat back and placed his headphones around his head with delicacy. Careful of not ruining his hair. The mother entered his room in tears. She was holding a brown box and dropped it in his arms. Curiously he opened the lid and found beautiful red heels that now fit him perfectly. With a smile, the lovely feet attempted to stand on his heels once more. What a beautiful sight.

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