Α tiny hammer banged on the side of the sole, carefully connecting the skeleton to the rest of the leather.

"Grab me the rasp boy" the Boy confused as he always was flinched at Father's request, he hurried and awkwardly searched both his memory and worktable to find the right tool

"The rasp I said!" A silent noise escaped the Boy's mouth, exposing the fear he harboured for Father's wrath. 

"So many times, so many times and you still don't give a shit do you?!" The Boy dashed shortly to the end of the bench as if he had finally found the solution to Father's request, yet for some reason he tucked away the toll.he picked up behind his back. Father crushed his hands on the table, with the rasp exactly in the middle of where his two hands rested. 

"When I pass, I swear to Christ , I'll be watching you starve from up above because you don't know how to run this place for shit and I'll be laughing" Father continued his work slowly and methodically on the order that was due tomorrow, only half showing off exactly what he was doing while the Boy struggled to observe Father's work with his eyes half filled with salty tears. He could only stand there, his arms trembling on his knees as they tried to support his upper torso. 

"Will you stop your sobbing you poor sod? I can barely focus here, who is else is going to finish this job, you? HUH?!" The Boy's thin lips shivered at the force of Father's shout, his weak frame trembling at the very idea of what would follow next. Because he never knew what came next, you'd think after failing to please his father's time after time after time after time after time, he'd get better at the work. Alas, he seemed to only get worse at it. Everyone would agree that it's harder to work when your nose is stuffed with snot and tour head heavy with regrets of something you didn't even know you did wrong, something you didn't even know you were meant to do better. 

Unfortunately for the Boy , it was only a landslide from here on out. His crying wouldn't get more faint, but deeper and oozing of that same regret. And the noises he made, like a tiny robot trying to work at 300% efficiency only to sound like a weeping puppy that lost its mother, that lost its purpose that was handed down to him, never to pick for himself what he would have to prove himself for. That's when the weeping started. That damned sound that always ticked his father off and raised the Voices. 

"Why can't you just shut your trap and be a fucking man for once you sorry brat? Do I raise you and feed you and cloth you only to throw up your dinner and fell your sleeves with snot and tears?" That Voice was Father, the average, normal one. The one you can almost get used to, the one you hope stays and doesn't change.

"Pincers" the Boy wiped his eyes with his shirt to make the feeling on his face less awkward.

"PINCERS!" Jumpy as he was, the young one lifted off his chair and swapped his grimace with that of a man that was approaching death row. The Pincers were always the worse one, the one that eluded him. The very name of it frightened the Boy, unable to remember what the pincers looked like , where they usually hanged. Sometimes he'd guess by memory from where Father picked it up last time but it was always different. Maybe because of Father's untidiness or because he did it on purpose so the Boy could learn. But now he was thinking too long, thinking wasnt a good thing anymore. It was always followed by the Voices. 

"WHY DO YOU ALWAYS UPSET ME LIKE THIS?!" That Voice was Mommy. Mommy was nice most of the time to the Boy, but if she was to ever be aggressive to anyone, it would be Father. The Boy admired Mommy for that, she must have been a very brave woman to go against a scary man like Father, you could swear she almost thought she was invulnerable to him, or maybe she just knew he'd never dear to hit her. But when Mommy yelled , she was as scary as Father. Maybe even scarier, she could go higher than Father, much much higher, like an opera about a mother turned into a banshee. That's the Voice that  Father had just done, the high one, that always lifts the Boy's hands up to cover his ears, leaving his tears free to flow again to the ground where they always wish to fall. 

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"I've had enough of you brat, here, if you really don't know anything about the job I'll make you remember your lesson". This can't be right. This was a new Voice from Father. In his confusion, the Boy tired to remember where he had heard the Voice before. "Teach you you fuck, teach you…" How weird. Now the tears on his cheeks run because he remembered of his grandfather, the one man in his family that he couldn't remember a bad time with, always the happy and endearing old man that he could be. Well, all but one memory wasn't bad, but I guess you can't count someone's funeral as a moment with them. That Voice though, that Voice he had heard only once before. From a hidden corner in the house, his father was with his own father, silently brooding over each other's intensity. The only thing he could keep from the whole scene though was a few words from his grandfather

"The only thing you've done that hasn't disappointed me is your son , and you needed to marry a beautiful woman and ruin her to have him be as poor and pathetic as you." That was the exact Voice that Father used on his Boy when he threatened to "teach him his lesson". 

"The shoehorn boy, you know where that is don't you?" The young lad froze to his core, his tiny brain made the connection instantly. For his Father was back to his Voice. And when Father asked for the shoehorn , you knew something terrible was about to happen to you. And whatever it was, you'd wake up some hours later on your bed. Apparently you had hit your head when you fell from the stairs, that's what that big bump was for. And your Mother, your Mother would always patiently take you and explain to you why you should always be careful when you go down the stairs, no other kid falls down the stairs 2-3 times a month. Hoe could you be so clumsy Boy? As always , the Boy didn't know, he didn't know how, he didn't know where , he didn't know why. He didn't know that he fell, didn't know how he fell, didn't know where the shoe horn was and he certainly didn't know why it was always the shoe horn. But deep down, deep in his subconscious he knew that the shoe horn was bad. And when Father finds it, it will be even worse. Maybe he should just fling himself off the stairs himself and get it over with.

"MY SHOEHORN, WHERE'S MY SHOEHORN, I'LL WEAR YOU LIKE A FUCKING SHOE, BOY"

A swift swing , a fleeting strike, unexpected as it was to the kid, found him flat on the ground when it landed. The boy's head split in two, one was:how could the father he loved strike him like that, and the other part was: how did it take so long for the Father to snap. Must have been luck. 

 But as the boy touched the top of his cranium, he could feel himself alive, specifically he felt his life force escaping his body in a crimson form, hurrying to leave his body behind to each own fate. When the flow arrived to his tiny mouth and he tasted his own confusion in his blood the boy broke out into tears, horrible heavy tears, their thickness resembling the blood drops that fell on top of his tiny white dress shirt, dyeing it pure red and black. 

"Shut your mouth! Shut it you useless kid, who the hell cries from something like that, I barely even hit you!" The young one was hyperventilating at the sight of his father raising his arm equipped with the shoehorn again, a cruel reminder of what would come if he didn't shut his trap. The boy bit into his lips in an attempt to silence his crying lungs but his body had had enough, it was time for protest, clearly the brain isn't mature enough to make decisions

"Daddy please, don't hurt me, I don't like it when you do that!

"Well you don't love getting hit, you don't love working, we all have to pick something kid! And you made your own choice!"

The Boy was never afraid of the yelling or the scream or the shouts, you can always shut those away if you close your ears hard enough or run away enough. But the beating, that you could never get used to. It became part of you, leaving scars and bruises in its wake and always making sure the next one is worse than the last.  If it weren't for Mommy last time, I think Father would have to be beating himself right now, I sure wouldn't be here. 

The metal instrument now crushed itself upon the boy's skull, it took control of itself, nobody swung it, it just fell and rose again on top of the boy's weak bonehead. Slowly but surely , the loud bang morphed into a low splash of gory silence. Yet the pounding couldn't stop, it shouldn't. The only thing that rose and rose was the gasps of exhaustion from the Father, you'd think similar noises would stem from the fact that his boy was beaten half to death on the floor but the real reason Father was gasping and sighing was because it was over already. What good was a Boy if he couldn't take a beating from an old tired man?

"Don't need to thank me for the favour" 

Deep down, Father wanted to admit it himself, he couldn't pretend that his wasn't upset more by the fact that his favourite shoehorn was now bent and busted.

 Disappointing thing. They don't make them like they used to, it's broken already. At least the shoehorn managed to finish its job.

Father picked up the pincers himself, fixing one tiny part of the shoe that needed it. There we go, it was done. What a beauty. 

Why couldn't you just give me the pincers Boy?