Barefoot

“There’s his shoes,” she said, pointing at the lone pair on the ground. “So where is he?”

“Maybe he’s wearing other shoes,” he replied shrugging.

She shook her head. “He never takes different shoes. He loves those shoes.”

“He’s probably fine,” he tried to reassure her, gently pushing her towards the door. “He’s fifteen. He can take care of himself.”

“I don’t know…” she didn’t look at him, just kept staring at the shoes.

“He can,” he said, more firmly this time, and finally managed to get her to leave the house.

As he revved up the engine and manoeuvred the car onto the road, the barefooted fifteen-year-old boy sat whimpering in the basement. One day, he would get revenge on his step-dad and save his mother from this madman, he swore, watching their car leave for the day.

© 2016

FFftPP, Week #27 – 2016

Photo prompt provided by https://pixabay.com/en/light-paint-leather-boot-boot-shoe-316067/

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