The Shoes

Rain pounds on the roof of the gallery, echoing through the building, and the muted lights shine like stars. Low voiced conversations can be heard amongst light footsteps, creating soft music to the beat of the rain. Art lines the walls in every direction.

Two people enter the first room of the gallery, a black and white exhibit.
Dressed head to toe in red, the first person is a middle aged woman with dark hair pulled into a low bun. The young girl accompanying her, dragged along by the arm, is seven years and three months old, with a long braid and the taste of toothpaste still in her mouth. She wears bright purple sandals.

Maybe it is the shoes that caught its attention.

"Hurry up," the woman calls.
Making her way through the gallery, she only gives each artwork a few seconds before passing on, her criticism malicious. The girl is trailing behind her, dragging her feet. Do I have to be here? Wet and frozen from the rain, she wants to go home so she can stay inside and play with her dolls. None of the pieces interest her anyway, they aren't colourful enough for her taste. Not that she can see them clearly when she is being swept past them so quickly. What is the point of being here if I don't like the art? Her mother's grip is too tight, a shackle to keep her from escaping.

When her mother finally stops, the girl makes her escape. Slipping her hand out of the iron fist, she runs off, faster than a cheetah, before the woman reacts. Escape leads her to the next room, directly to her fate.

Against the plain walls and hidden in shadows, the painting does not stand out. It sits alone, in the back of the room.
The girl does not see it at first, exhilarated by her escape and the wonderful colours of the new exhibit she is surrounded by. Unconsciously, however, she is moving towards it. By the time she finally notices the painting, she is right in front of it. Turning to face it, she feels something click into place. She is not sure what.
In the small painting, a figure made of shadows is leaning towards the viewer, hands caught over their ears and eyes clamped shut, mouth open in a silent scream.

What can they hear that I can't? she wonders. Why are they so scared? The girl won't wonder for long.

Captured by the painting, despite its plain features, she is unable to turn away from it. She is unable to look away from it at all. What? All efforts to move her limbs are futile, arms and legs remaining stubbornly in place. Why can't I move? Her next attempt is cut short when the painting starts to melt.

In the top corners, just under the frame, it turns the consistency of tar and is the same colour as the figure. Dripping, it slides across the painting like rain on a window pane. Even though she does not understand what is happening, the girl is mesmerised by its motion. As it covers the surface, she can do nothing but watch.
It spills out onto polished wood, too much for the painting to hold, and it runs across the floor. Following its movements, the girl notices the way it is reaching out towards her. Oh no. This can't be good. Stuck firmly in place, she has no hope of escaping its approach. What will happen when it reaches me? Panic boils up within her.

Out of the corner of her eye, the young girl can see a figure. Blurry from her position, she is unable to see who it is, but they are entirely dressed in red. Is it her mother? The figure turns, scanning around the room, and the girl catches a better glimpse of their face. It is her mother! But she has not noticed the painting, or the girl, has not noticed anything at all. Help is right there, but the girl is unable to do anything to get it, and the ooze is creeping closer and closer every second. Her mother moves away, out of the girl's sight.

The ooze reaches her feet through her sandals, cold against her toes. It is uncomfortable and burning, and her lungs are on fire from the acidic smell. With her unmoving arms, she is unable to wipe it off as it creeps over her pink pants and yellow raincoat, coating her exposed skin, terrifying her. What is it doing? She desperately wants her mum, wants her to notice her, to stop it, to do anything that will get her away from it.

Help! The girl tries to scream. Mum! Help me!

Fear overcomes her, and she begins to shake. It reaches her neck.

Mum!

Arms finally moving, she flings them in different directions, wildly trying to stop the ooze from touching her face. It is too late now, though. Her ears are full of it. A deafening screech begins, and she pulls her hands up to her ears, trying to claw the sound away.

As it reaches her eyes, clouding her vision, she tries to scream one last time.

"Help!"

She is screaming, and screaming, and screaming. Worried eyes look in her direction, searching for the source of the scream, but see nothing.

"Mary? Mary!" her mother calls, running towards the scream, searching for a girl she cannot see. Ears covered, the girl does not hear her. When her mouth is covered by the ooze, it fills her throat, with a taste so repulsive, rancid, and revolting. Her flinging arms slow to a stop, and her scream cuts off with a sudden gurgling, then silence.

A statue of ooze.

Frozen in place, her hands are caught over their ears and her eyes clamped shut, a mouth open in a silent scream. She is nothing more than a statue. But then her statue begins to fall apart.

The first thing to break off is her hand. Falling, falling, falling, it lands hard on the floor. Instead of shattering with the impact, it collapses into a liquid state, and it turns back into the ooze. A pause.

With a loud crack, the statue girl crumbles, tumbling down into an avalanche, and the pieces become the liquid when they land. It gathers up and retreats back towards the painting, rising back into the frame. The painting soaks it in like a sponge.

When the details of the painting re-emerge, the shadow figure is not alone. Accompanying it is another, smaller, figure. She is screaming, hands around her ears, eyes clamped shut.

What remains of Mary are two bright purple sandals, lying where she stood. It did not like the shoes.

AN

So I didn't actually give this story a name so if anyone can come up with anything that fits please let me know so I can figure out what to call my short story.

I hope you enjoyed reading!
Love Jay