Mataarn (Tenative)

Mata ’arn
Kole Taylor
The Oddest Storyteller

         I have a story that I really must tell.  Now don’t even get that look, boy (or girl, but if you are a girl, you must be a very brave one, very brave indeed to listen to what I am about to tell you), I know what you are thinking.  You’re thinking “What a ridiculous idea, that he must tell this story.  As if something absolutely terrible will happen if he doesn’t!”  Well, my new (yet slightly skeptical) friend, let me tell you that this is exactly what will happen!  Ah, ah!  Before your doubt grows even more, let me explain.
         Everybody knows what a thought is, right?  Well, Mr. Smartypants (or Mrs. Smartypants, so sorry again, ladies), you may not know quite as much as you think!  Most people are convinced that thoughts are just little electrical impulses in your brain, shooting around like Fourth of July fireworks, hitting certain spots of the brain and turning them on and off as they go.  But no, no, no, this is most definitely not the case.  Thoughts are real, physical things.  They are usually quite tiny, much, much smaller than even the smallest particle of dust you have ever seen (or even smaller than the ones you can’t see).  And usually the biggest thoughts—the very biggest, I tell you—are about the size of a grain of sand.  Even smaller, probably.
         So what does that have to do with why I must (again I emphasize ‘must’) tell this story?  Well, when I said usually the biggest thoughts are about the size of a grain of sand, I did not mention that my thoughts can sometimes be exceptions.  You see, I have a few thoughts so large (And true, mind you!  Never has a lie passed through these storyteller’s lips, nor flowed through the ink of my pen!) that they simply take up too much space in the ol’ thinker, and sometimes they can give me dreadful headaches.  This story that I really must tell you is about the size of—brace yourself—a golf ball.  In fact, I wish you could feel it.  It’s really quite amazing (and quite uncomfortable).  It pushes slightly out of my head, just behind my right ear.
         Now don’t start getting any doubts in that brain of yours.  Just humor an old man.  You see, my problem isn’t that I am too smart (quite the opposite, to tell the truth), my problem is that I am well-traveled.  Oh, so you probably know people who have been more places in this world than I have, yes, fine.  But do you know anyone who has ever traveled to another world?  And I don’t mean planets either.  The other planets near us are so very boring, all too hot or too cold, with no air suitable to breathe.  And I would imagine that they would be infested with horrible flesh-eating aliens, or maybe only a bunch of old ladies bent on pinching your cheek and wiping their spit all over your face trying to rub off a smudge that was never really there.  No, I think I would steer clear of those planets.  What I mean is That Other World, that magical place that you almost feel like you can reach out and touch… but is always just beyond your reach, always around the next corner, always right behind your back when you are not looking.  It is that place that I have traveled to (and more than once, I might add).
         Perhaps you are wondering what that has to do with me having a thought the size of a golf ball in my head?  Well, wonder no longer, my friend—I’ll tell you.
         As I have so painfully discovered, the human mind is only supposed to be able to contain one world of information.  Ah, but now you can see the problem of knowing about our world, and then having to find room in your head to hold a completely new world!  There just isn’t enough room.  And since I obviously did not wish to give up all of my fond memories of my home world, I was in quite a pickle.  You see, in my failure to give up any of my old thoughts, the new ones just started piling in, piling in, piling in until I could feel them pushing at the inside of my head, trying to get out, trying to breathe.  So now you can see why I simply must tell this story.  I just need to relieve some of the pressure on my head.  Having a golf ball in your brain can really be quite annoying.
         But before I begin (Aha!  I can see that you are excited now; you’re shifting in your seat from anticipation!  Or perhaps it’s only gas, but I would prefer your excitement, truth be told) I must tell you two things.  One of them is that I simply cannot, I repeat cannot tell you how to get to this other world.  And by that I mean will not.  I would really never forgive myself if I caused anyone to forget about their family or their home, and I would also never, ever wish on anyone the immense discomfort of having two worlds inside one brain.  Perhaps you will figure it out on your own, who knows?  But if you do, do not blame this old storyteller for any problems you may come across, for you have been fairly warned.
         And the second thing, is…  Well, I must tell you one of my biggest fears: That there is more than one other world, and that they are not all so fantastic as the one I have been to.  You see, I have one memory in my mind that I do not understand where it comes from, and I am simply terrified whenever I recall it.  But it is one I never will forget, because I use it to remind me that there are some things that people should never see.  The world this memory comes from must have been so terrifying that I did choose to get rid of the memories, all but that one last reminder.  I sort of overwrote them, much like you would on a computer disk, or an Etch-a-Sketch, or graffiti on a bathroom stall (Where I discovered yesterday that apparently Judy and Mike are living together forever in a crudely drawn heart).  You see, I replaced those memories with something much more wonderful:
         The world of Mata’arn.

Chapter One

William Walter Wendell

         Now, everyone has something that they love so dearly that, if it ever became lost to them, they simply could not go on (or so that is what they believe).  For some people this something is a real object, like a blanket, or your first teddy bear.  For other people this something is actually a someone.  And for most of the rest of the people (and I would say almost everyone fits into this category, whether they believe it or not) this something is a hope or a dream.  For without those hopes and dreams, people really have nothing to look forward to.
         But in this case (a rare case, I might add) was a twelve-year-old boy who fit into the first category: he loved an object (or a pair of objects, to be more correct) more than anything else he had on this earth.  That object was a pair of shoes, and he loved those shoes more than his dreams— and even all of his hopes, which are far less defined, yet much higher in abundance—combined.  Now I am sure that it seems quite silly to love a pair of shoes with all your heart, but these shoes were special.  They were his Mother’s Loves.  He called them this for two reasons: for one because they were cream (the color of his mother’s skin) and red (the exact shade of his mother’s lipstick), along with some black highlights.  The other reason was that they were a present from his mother on the day that she died.
         Now I haven’t even told you the boy’s name yet, and no matter what you’re thinking of me, I did it on purpose, and not because I am a bad storyteller.  You see I didn’t want you to be too attached to the boy when you found out that his mother dies.  There is nothing that feels much worse than making a new friend (for that is exactly what characters in a story are—the good characters, anyway) only to have something terrible happen to him.  It is better that you should know before you become friends, and then that way you don’t have to worry about him changing into another person due to some unforeseen tragedy.  Although in this case I make no promises.
         My, how I get off the point.  Anyway, this particular little boy’s name was William Walter Wendell, and you can imagine how terrible that must have been, for strong alliteration (for those of you who don’t know what alliteration is, it is when a certain sound is made over and over repeatedly, as in the W in this case.  But I am sure you all knew that) has a way of simply driving people crazy, and if you had asked Bill (for he absolutely refused to be called William) he would tell you how much worse alliteration is when it applies to your name.  And what’s worse, he had three first names (not that I can say that I have met many Wendells in quite some years, but I assure you that they do exist).  Most of his friends called him Bill, a few of his friends called him Wendell, and those he didn’t know called him William.  But the worst of all was when he was naughty and his mother would call him by all three of his names (although he had never known that someday soon he would long dearly to hear her voice, even if it was to shout at him), and it would sound something like this:
         “William Walter Wendell!” she would holler.  “Stop chasing the cat around the house while barking like a dog!”
         Or,
“William Walter Wendell!  How many times must I tell you to clean your room?” to which Bill would reply “Only two or three more times, mother.  I do believe you’re close to making the record books!”
Or,
“William Walter Wendell, just what is that snake doing in the house?”  And although there should probably be an exclamation mark just before that question mark (for she was shouting much louder than she was wondering), I really must insist on leaving it out.  You see, I had an English teacher that scolded me very badly for doing such a thing while I was in the sixth grade, and though she must be a hundred-and-twenty years old by now, I really would hate for her to read this and have to send me homework after sixty years of being out of school.  Besides, she may be so shocked from seeing one of her former students writing so obscenely (and I don’t mean curse-words, I just mean writing very badly) that her hundred-and-twenty-year-old heart might just decide to give up on living.
Or even worse… she may already be dead (as it is quite common for hundred-and-twenty-year-olds to be) and the pure anger of her ghost after reading such a grammatical abomination would cause her to haunt me for the rest of my days as an old storyteller.
    What’s that?  Ghosts don’t exist, you say?
    Well, I shall leave that thought with a smile and an insincere nod.  Later in this story you may change your mind as to whether you believe in ghosts or not.  You very well may believe in a lot of things you never thought could be real.
    Oh, curse this old man and his wandering mind, I was telling the story of William Walter Wendell.  As I am quite sure you are sick of hearing his full name over and over and over and over and ov…  Confound it all, there I go blabbing again.
    Anyways, we shall call him Bill, not only for our own comfort, but for his as well.  For you never know, he may just read this and take offense to being called William Walter Wendell so many times and mail me a stink bomb or a virus or possibly an iguana with a very large appetite that I simply could not afford to feed, but just wouldn’t have the heart to get rid of.  Why, then I would be stuck living on the streets with an immensely fat Iguana named Pete that I would have to rent out to small children for five dollars a ride.  And we all know that that is no way for an old man to live.
    But yes, where did we leave off?
Ah, we were talking about Bill’s mother.  I know I made it sound like she yelled at him too much, but she really did love him more than anything else in the world.  In fact, she loved him so much that if he misbehaved, he would be sent to bed without supper.  But that was only because she wanted him to be a good little boy, and I might add that it was only on the days when they were eating Brussels sprouts or liver and onions, or other really gross things that Bill’s mother knew that he did not want to eat—such as the time his father brought home cow tongues for them to try (you see, it is very uncomfortable to be tasting something that just might be tasting you back).
    Now, I should tell you before I get too far along that it was Christmas season.  Not Christmas Eve, as most sad stories go (and this story does get happier, I assure you.  But it’s best to simply get the bad out of the way as early as possible), but it was two weeks before Christmas.  Bill and his mother were at the store finishing the shopping for his father while his father was off working at the mill; the very same mill where he had worked for twenty years.  (Okay, I lied about that, I am very, truly, stuponfuciously sorry.  His father was working, but nobody ever really told me where.  I just thought that the mill sounded like as good a place as any.  Please, please, keep listening to my story.  No more lies, I promise.)
I really must stop interrupting myself (If one can really do such a thing.  If you interrupt yourself, your are obviously still talking… oh, there I go again.  Apologies) and continue with the story.  Bill and his mother were shopping for his father when they passed the most perfect pair of shoes that Bill had ever seen.  They were cream (like his mothers skin), red (exactly the color of his mother’s lipstick), and they even had some black highlights.
    “Mom, mom, can I have those shoes please?  They would look so good and the cream it’s just like you andtheredseemsandallmyfriendsbutwiththeblackandohhowILOVETHEM”
    Everyone knows what it is like to run out of breath as you are rambling on and on, but Bill made sure he saved enough breath to finish his sentence with full volume, though the rest was barely understandable.
    “Oh, I’m sorry honey, I’ve already finished all of your Christmas shopping.  But you never know, maybe Santa will get them for you.”
    “But Mom, you know Santa isn’t real.  It’s just you and dad putting Santa’s name on presents and pretending they are from Santa.”
    Let me stop here quickly to tell you about how wrong Bill was.  Now, I also know that you have probably been told that ‘Santa isn’t real, Santa is really just Mom and Dad, blah blah blah’.  But if you are one of those people who just doesn’t believe, I beg you to change your mind, and change it as quickly as possible before Santa actually does stop bringing you presents.  You see, when Santa brings presents to children whose parents do not believe in him, he finds creative ways to bring you your presents, and you may not even know he was there.  You may think I am childish, but I myself believe in Santa Claus.  But I must add that it is much, much easier to believe in him once you have met him.  You see, Santa is the one who gave me the first pad and paper that I used to write my stories, when I had nothing else to write with.  And now every year he brings me something just to make sure that I remember he is there.  And I know that it’s him, because every year that I am bad (which is almost every year), I get a lump of coal.  I find that too accurate to be a coincidence. 
    Yes, Santa is real.  He just doesn’t like me very much.
What about the Easter Bunny you ask?  Don’t be ridiculous!  Only children believe in the Easter Bunny!
    But that is not the point.  The point is exactly how much Bill wanted those shoes.  And I can also tell you that he did not, in fact, win the argument with his mother.  And I can also tell you that Bill’s day was about to be much, much worse than he ever thought was possible.

Chapter Two

The Chapter in Which Something Really, Really Bad Happens
(But You Probably Already Guessed That)

         Let me start this chapter by telling you that I believe it is very well titled.  Well—of course—that’s because I titled it myself.  I am not the sort of storyteller to drag you around by the nose, making you think one thing but meaning another because of some sort of fancy wordplay, using terms such as ‘forsooth’, ‘hark’, or ‘No parking between two A.M and six A.M.’ No, you see I am an honest, straightforward storyteller, and never, even in my wildest storyteller’s dreams (and the dreams of storytellers are something you should never underestimate), would I mislead you.  Not this old man.
         Anyways, as Bill and his mother were walking out of the store they passed a little old lady whom they knew very well.  In fact, they were nearly neighbors and often saw each other while they were out shoveling snow or, more precisely, when Bill would be over there, shoveling her snow for her.  He was just a good little boy like that.
         The little old lady’s name was Mrs. Jenkins, and she was a widow.  Not like the spider, mind you; Old Mrs. Jenkins would never, ever bite anyone (her dentures simply would not permit it), and even if she had wanted to, her bite wasn’t nearly as venomous as the notorious black widow.  Her driving skills, on the other hand, were a completely different story.
         Now, as everyone knows, old people have the magical ability to pull candy from any pocket.  The only problem with this magic is that it is only partially complete as, although it always produces candy, it doesn’t always produce the accompanying wrapper, and often the candy is too fuzzy for you to eat.  Also, old people don’t seem to be able to distinguish the candy from other objects in their pocket, so you have to be all the more alert to make sure that you don’t accidentally eat a button or a marble or an extra-strength laxative.  Once I even had an old man offer me a bingo marker, which I hastily took before I could get stuck with the laxative he had offered my friend.  Besides, I had already planned on playing bingo later that night, and in such a case a marker is much handier than something that will most likely keep you in the bathroom for most of the time that you had previously planned on playing bingo.
         But Mrs. Jenkins apparently was not feeling especially magical today, as she did not reach deep into her Jolly-Rancher-encrusted pocket to offer Bill any candy.  Instead she just smiled at them in the offhand smile that only appears to belong on the face of the elderly.  You know the one—the smile that is directed around you instead of at you.
         “Hello Mrs. Jenkins.  How are you on this fine winter’s day?” His mother always talked as politely as possible when she was in public.  She also was well aware of the discomfort of being mailed a big fat iguana by a disgruntled person who may have taken offense to something she said.
         “Fine day, harrumph.”  Just as Bill’s mother always seemed to be polite when need be, Mrs. Jenkins always seemed to be ‘harrumph’ing something, though whatever she was ‘harrumph’ing didn’t really seem to bother her.  Bill had actually categorized most of the strange words and noises she made (such as ‘mmph’, ‘ghrra’, and some sort of ‘kkkckhhckchhh’ noise that Bill assumed meant that her ears itched deep down inside—in that place where you can’t reach with your finger) and had come to the conclusion that none of them actually translated directly into English.
         Though you would think of a ‘harrumph’ to be slightly less than joyous, that offhand smile never left Mrs. Jenkins face.
         “Fine day, harrumph.  Look at all this snow!  I can barely keep that big truck of Harold’s between the lines.”  Harold was the man that made Betty Jenkins a widow over five years ago.  She held onto that truck as if it were part of him, even though she looked incredibly ridiculous driving a three-quarter-ton pickup truck (She was barely even tall enough to ride the Ferris Wheel at the carnival, or so I have heard).  “And that is besides the fact that Gertrude cancelled our Tuesday night bridge game.  On account of the snow, no doubt.  That old bat has always been a bit too nervous about a little snow.”
         The old woman ‘harrumphed’ a couple more times, which Bill took to mean “I may be old, but at least I am not nearly so old as that old bat Gertrude.”  Or quite possibly she was simply reciting her grocery list in her secret language of ‘harrumphs,’ which if you ask me, is a terrible idea.  The last time I tried that I ended up leaving the store with 3 bags of dog food and 5 pounds of salmon.
         Oh, and I don’t have a dog.
         And I am deathly allergic to salmon.
         Well, I shouldn’t really say deathly allergic.  But it does give me terrible hives that last for the rest of the day and keep me up scratching for half of the night, which to me is comparable to ‘deathly’.  And the last time I mistakenly ate salmon, my throat closed up and I had a very difficult time breathing.  Of course, I was choking on a bone that had gotten wedged sideways in my throat, but still… I am allergic to salmon.  That much I do know.
         Anyways, Mrs. Jenkins bid them ‘adieu’ (Which means both “Goodbye” and “French people use too many vowels in their words.”) as she ambled her way across the parking lot and on her way to buy her dog food and salmon (or so I gathered from her ‘harrumphing’).
         Bill and his mother wished Mrs. Jenkins goodbye and then headed back to the car where they unloaded four cans of green beans, some Campbell’s chicken soup, a pound of butter, two loaves of bread (both white and wheat), a delightful cheese spread consisting of both cheese and nuts, a bottle of festive wine, a jug of festive eggnog, a package of festive napkins, various other festive festivities, festively festive feta cheese, completely un-festive roast beef, I am getting quite sick of saying ‘festive’, some pickled bologna, breakfast cereal, milk for the cereal, soap, a partridge, a pear tree, three mismatched socks, ketchup, orange juice, more delightful cheese spread consisting of both cheese and nuts, crackers, cocktail shrimp, microwave-able taquitos, dog food, and salmon. 
Okay, those last two I made up.
         As Bill’s mother put the last of the food into the trunk and closed the festive lid, she gave Bill a warning that seemed far too childish to be given to a twelve-year-old: “Now stand here next to the car while I put away the cart, and don’t take even one step into the lane.  I don’t want you to get hit by a truck.”
         Then his mother turned, took one step into the lane, and was hit by a truck.

Chapter Three

Doors, Rain, S’mores, and a Chain

    Look, I know that I started last chapter by insisting that never would I ever, even in my wildest storyteller’s dreams (and the dreams of storytellers are something you should never underestimate) mislead you with chapter titles, but I felt that I had no choice with this one.  It just seemed that the mood this chapter was supposed to begin in would be far too sad to start a chapter with, and so I thought maybe you would read the title and think to yourself “Hey!  That doesn’t strike me as something nearly as poignant as the previous feeling I was experiencing as I ascertained that Bill’s mother was struck by a motorized vehicle!” And you would be happy.
    Well, that is, I figured you would think that if you were either very, very well spoken, or had a thesaurus and/or dictionary handy, as I did.
    But I will admit my fault as a storyteller that, by trying to keep the tone lighthearted that I have found myself trying to misdirect your attention from all of the sadness, heartache, and blood loss experienced on that day roughly two weeks before Christmas.  I did try some normal chapter titles, however, but none of them seemed nearly sentimental, yet good-humored, enough.
    For example:

Bill’s Mother was Struck by a Motorized Vehicle

    Too specific.

Something is Going on in that One Place

         Not specific enough.  Or finally,

Screech.  Thud.

         And that just seemed far, far too inappropriate.
         So I tried, and I tried, and I couldn’t find the perfect balance of emotion that would stay moderately lighthearted, yet serious, when what I really needed was something relevant that would mean a lot to Bill.  Something like… like…
         Oh wait!  I’ve got it!  Hold on a second; let me start this chapter over.

Chapter Three

Mother’s Loves

         Okay, that’s better.  Moving on.
         The rest of Bill’s day was a blur.  The police and ambulances arrived very shortly after the accident and took him to the waiting room at the hospital.  For a long, long while he sat there alone with no mother to take care of him, only an elderly nurse who seemed a little too happy for Bill at the current time.  He decided that she really wasn’t happy at all, but as she chose to assure him that his mother would be all right, Bill decided to like her and trust her, as people tend to do when someone tells them all the things they wish to hear.
         Now, someone should tell you right out that you should not always trust or believe someone just because they tell you all the things that you want to hear, as Bill would soon learn.  I found out the hard way after purchasing many thousands of dollars of moat insurance from a traveling moat insurance salesman.  He told me all the things that I wanted to hear about moats, showed me a few pie graphs about moats, and even told me some of the finer methods of digging your own moat.  What he failed to tell me at that time was that I was in no position to need a moat, as there was no longer any Black Knight around to storm my moat-less castle (I had forgotten that the Black Knight was run over nearly two weeks ago by an elderly woman in a pickup).  So I wound up purchasing moat insurance with no moat to insure.  I was then forced to dig a moat, and when I asked the salesman to implement some of his finer knowledge of the digging of moats, he backed out due to a cramp in his moat-digging-arm.  And even after all that moat-digging, I had realized that I didn’t even have a drawbridge, and I was left with no choice but to improvise with my front door.
         Which is why it is not always a fine idea to like and trust someone just because they tell you something that you wish to hear.
         Now, the question of where Bill’s father was has probably crossed your mind.  Well, after several attempts at calling the mill (or wherever it really was that Bill’s father worked), the county finally sent a policeman to deliver the news.  At some point that Bill couldn’t exactly remember, he looked over and his father was sitting next to him, holding a box with a bow.  They were talking, but Bill couldn’t remember what about, so he stopped.
         He couldn’t talk anymore, anyway.  He kept choking on his words.
         He cried a little.  His father held him, and he held the box with the bow.
         The cheery old nurse had finally left them to themselves.
         And the doctor finally came and gave them the bad news.
    “Hi, honey,” Bill’s mother managed to say, in a sort of squeaky whisper.  Just like a mouse would sound, Bill thought.  She looked nearly as white as the sheets on the hospital bed.
    “Hi, Mom,” Bill heard himself say.
    “Frank, did you get the box?” his mother squeaked.
    “Of course I did, babe,” his father answered.  He was crying for the first time Bill could remember.  Aside, that is, from whenever his father watched Old Yeller, but he insisted that that did not count.
He handed the box to Bill.  The bow seemed too cheerful for the situation, so he just stared at it, wishing it would go away.
    “Go ahead, honey, open it,” Bill’s mother told him.
It didn’t seem right to be opening any presents at the time, but there was no way Bill could disobey his mother right now.  Or ever again, he thought.  When he finally remembered how his fingers worked, he took the top off of the box.  And inside, as I am sure you have guessed, were the shoes.
Bill almost started to cry, but then remembered that he was already crying.  He continued to do so.
    “I got them a few weeks ago.  I knew you would like them, and when you saw them at the store today and freaked out, I knew I got the right ones.”
    Bill ran and gave his mother a hug.  She winced, but hugged back with the strength she had left.
    “I love you, honey.”
    “I love you too, mom.”
    “I love you, Frank.”
    “I love you too, babe.”
    Bill hugged his mom.  His father held her hand.

Chapter Four

Beyond

         Beyond what exactly?  I’m not entirely certain, but that word definitely puts things into perspective.  If you look beyond this book, you will see a wall, or a lamp, or a rack of particularly ugly coats that luckily don’t seem to fit you anymore anyway, so you were forced to put them on a completely separate rack.  Or whatever else may be beyond this book to you, I’m not quite sure.  Perhaps if you don’t fully understand what is going on in this story, this book is beyond your comprehension.  Later, as you will see, Bill goes beyond this world.  And beyond a line of cars at the cemetery, people were attending Bill’s mother’s funeral.
         The priest had just finished speaking, and the casket containing Bill’s mother was being lowered to the ground.  Bill stood there in his shoes (He had by this time named them his Mother’s Loves), holding his father’s hand.  Bill’s mother had always been very social, and very kind to everyone, and it seemed as if the whole town was there.  Even old Mrs. Jenkins was there, though she stood far, far in the back so as to not draw attention to herself.  She had not been allowed to drive, partly because her license was revoked again, and partly because the people in town decided to let the air out of her tires for their own safety.  If old Mrs. Jenkins ever drove to a funeral, there would quickly be very few attendees, and a great many more holes to be dug.  And a couple of very rich gravediggers, if they were able to dive quickly enough.
         Everyone is here, Bill though.  I bet even the Black Knight would be here, had he not tragically been run over by an elderly woman in a pickup truck.
         It was very comforting to Bill to see everyone show up to pay their respects for his mother, but they all seemed that they were pitying him.  He thought it should feel good that so many people cared enough to feel bad for him, but it didn’t.  It didn’t feel very good at all.
         
         Weeks later it still didn’t feel very good at all.  His teachers seemed to be far too lenient with him.  He was normally a little late at getting his homework turned in, and although he always had an excuse ready, it had never used to work.  Now it was always “Sure, Bill, take all the time you need.”  He used to get in trouble for being mischievous, but now all he got was “Bill, I would prefer it if you wouldn’t try sticking that frog down the back of Elizabeth’s shirt, but I suppose if that is how you feel, I will not try and stop you.”  The teacher would then talk with a crying, squirming Elizabeth about how she should try harder to understand how other people were feeling.  Sometimes even the frog was scolded.
         His friends used to stop by to hang out quite a bit.  Now they were constantly there, and Bill thought it was because their mothers forced them to.  He knew it was a very nice gesture, but he didn’t want anyone’s pity.  He just wanted to be treated normally again.
         Even Bill’s father (who was having an equally hard time of his own, Bill was sure) had stopped telling him not to wear his new shoes in the house.  He knew that Bill wouldn’t take them off unless he was forced to, but he couldn’t stand to see the look on his son’s face if he was without them.
         Bill wore his Mother’s Loves everywhere.  He loved them.  Sometimes he would wake up in the morning to find that he was wearing them in bed, right along with his pajamas.  Bill even knew that it couldn’t be healthy for him to love a pair of shoes so much and to wear them all the time, but he couldn’t bear to part with them.  And by ‘healthy’ I mean ‘mentally healthy,’ not ‘physically healthy,’ although there can definitely be no physical health benefits to never taking off your shoes.  Not to mention that the smell alone might eventually become bad enough to make you vomit, which I myself consider physically unhealthy.  Many credible podiatrists have been known to claim that your feet need to air out, and that you should not wear any foot apparel constantly, and for that reason, you should remove even your socks while going to bed.  I, for one, used to disagree with this until one night I forgot to take my own socks off before turning in for the night.  When I woke the next morning, my feet were incredibly sweaty, and not aired out by any means.  One foot was even extremely swollen and infected.  I found out soon afterwards that it was due to a rusty nail that I had stepped on, but I am still not positive that the two incidents are unrelated.  I believe that many credible podiatrists would agree.
         I can say for sure, however, that Bill did not step on any rusty nails, nor (possibly due to extreme luck and/or excellent foot genes) did he get any infections.  But there was question as to how ‘mentally healthy’ he was.  As even more weeks passed, more and more people tried to convince him to remove his shoes.
         “I won’t take off my Mother’s Loves,” he would tell them.
         This just upset them more.  Bill knew his shoes were not his mother, but he didn’t quite know where to place all the love that he had for her, so he had decided that he would simply use it on his shoes for now.  He tried explaining this to people, but eventually they stopped smiling and nodding and began to frown.
         Then one day even his father asked him to take them off, and when Bill refused, his father told him to.
         “But dad, I can’t.  They’re my Mother’s Loves.”
         “That’s enough of that, Bill,” his father told him.  “It’s time to move on.  Now take off those shoes.  They can’t replace Mom.”
         “Dad, I can’t.  I love them.  I don’t know why everyone is always bugging me to take them off!”
         “Because it’s not ‘mentally healthy,’ Bill!” his father shouted, which was quite unlike him.  “You don’t have to forget your mother, and you don’t have to stop loving her.  You can still do those things, and you can do them without those shoes!”
         “How?  How can I love Mom anymore?  She’s dead, Dad.  She’s gone.”
         The anger left his father’s face.  Bill could tell he was hurt.
         “Bill, you can’t place all of the love you had for Mom in those shoes.  It’s not fair to her.  You should still be using it for her—for her memory.  And for those around you.”
         “I don’t think I can do it, Dad.”
         And for the first time, he saw that look on his father’s face.  It was the same look that he had gotten from everyone ever since his mother died.
         It was pity.
         Bill turned and ran out the door, still wearing the shoes he loved so much.  His father called out after him, but Bill didn’t hear what he said.  He ran, and he ran, and he ran.  Help me, he thought to his shoes.  Faster, faster.  Help me get out of here.
         And they went faster.  Soon, everything around him was a blur, and yet he ran faster and faster.
         Just when he thought he couldn’t run any faster than he was, he ran into another world.