The kitchen cabinets banged open one after another, each slam making him jump in the seat of his oversized highchair.
The plastic bowl and spoon hit the tray in front of him with a sharp clatter. He flinched hard, shoulders curling in.
She blew out another impatient breath, spun on her heel and marched back to the cabinets. Jars clinked together as she yanked them out in quick, jerky motions, stacking them under her arm. The door slammed again, louder this time, punctuating her irritation.
Her return was just as sharp, the sound of her steps filling the kitchen. She set the jars down in a brisk, orderly row on the counter beside him, movements clipped and impatient. His soft whimpering barely carried over the restless rhythm of her pacing.
He was already whining before she even started. âPlease⌠please, I donât wantââ
She didnât answer. The first jar popped open with a wet snap. She wrinkled her nose at the smell and tipped it upside down over the bowl. Thick orange mush slid out in a single, unpleasant plop. She reached for the next jar immediately.
The second lid came off with a pop, her movements impatient as the spoon clinked around inside, shoveling out every last drop.
By the third, she was muttering under her breath, twisting the lid harder than necessary. âUnbelievable.â Another wet plop. His protests rose, shrill and cracking.
The fourth jar hit the bowl like a challenge. âStop...please...not all of them!!â he whimpered, voice pitching up.
âShut the fuck up.â she snapped, wrenching open the fifth. The lid hit the counter with a clang. She dumped it in with a flick of her wrist, smacking the back of the jar like a ketchup bottle.
âPlease...no more!!â he whined, voice cracking. He didn't realize that was all she grabbed.
She let out a short, disbelieving pffft! Was he really the one complaining about all of this?? Just for that, She spun on her heel and strode back to the cabinet, yanking it open with a thud, and grabbed another jar. The fucking audacity.
The sixth jar came open with a sharp snap. She tipped it over without hesitation, and the thick orange mush slid out in one slow, heavy glorp. It hit the rest of the pile with a wet splatter, the mound bulging upward as it spread.
By now the mushy mound looked ridiculous: an overfilled hill of puree rising out of the bowl, wobbling slightly under its own weight. She scraped along the inside of the jar, making sure not a drop was spared, piling it higher until it looked like some grotesque monument between them.
He stared at it, wide-eyed and trembling, while she set the empty jar aside with a decisive clack.
She picked up the spoon with a quick, irritated flick, plunging it into the runny orange mush. The puree slid sluggishly back into the bowl before she lifted it again, a heaping scoop wobbling at the tip.
She held it in front of his mouth.
His lower lip trembled. âPleaseââ
âOh. Pen.â Each syllable landed sharp and deliberate, her patience thinning to a razorâs edge.
He stared at the wet, glistening, orange gob hovering inches from his face, looking even worse in the light than in the bowl. The smell punched him in the face, a huge whiff of stale, pungent sweetness
His jaw quivered, slow and reluctant, like every muscle was protesting. When his shaky, blubbering lips finally parted, the spoon slid in immediately.
She didnât wait to see if he liked it. She scraped it off against his teeth and yanked it back out.
The taste hit him all at once the kind of revolting flavor that made his throat tighten on instinct. Orange dribbled out the sides of his mouth almost immediately, running down his chin. She let out a sharp sigh through her nose, wiped the edge of the spoon against the trail, and scooped it right back up. Then, with one brisk, practiced motion, she shoved it between his lips again. No patience, no pause, just business.
âYouâre unbelievable,â she muttered, reaching for another scoop. âItâs carrots. This is what you get. Deal with it.â
He tried to turn his head as the next spoon came toward him. She caught his chin with a quick, practiced flick of her fingers and forced him to face forward.
âUh-uh. You lost the right to be picky, remember? Iâve got exams tomorrow. Iâm not staying up all night because you canât cooperate.â She let out a sharp huff. âIâve got a lot on my plate. And clearly...so do you. Open.â
The spoon went in again. He whimpered around it, gagged slightly at the texture, but swallowed. Barely.
âThatâs what I thought.â She mocked in a sing-song voice, âbaby brudder eating his num nums!â
She fed him with a rhythm that was more mechanical than caring: scoop, shove, scrape, pull. When he squirmed, she leaned in closer, using her size and her glare like a wall. He looked small under it, hunched, miserable, orange streaks marking his cheeks.
She wasnât cruel for fun. At least, thatâs what she told herself. She was tired. Sheâd always been the good one. The one who kept her grades up, made the right choices, smiled when relatives praised her for being âso responsible.â And of course, being the responsible one meant that when Mom and Dad decided her deadbeat brother needed âpamper punishmentâ to straighten him out, she was the obvious choice to help enforce it.
College tuition didnât pay itself. Her scholarships and financial aid covered most of it, but not everything. The rest came from Mom and Dad, and theyâd made the terms crystal clear: if she wanted their contributions to keep coming, she had to âdo her part at home.â And her part, apparently, was this: spoon-feeding him, changing his disgusting diapers, bottle-feeding him, spanking him when he acted out, and basically doing any of the dirty work their parents didnât feel like doing. The whole diaper punishment thing had been their idea, not hers, but somehow she was the one stuck carrying it out.
âYou know,â she muttered, shoving in another mouthful, âmost people lose their job and at least try to fix their life. You? You just keep finding new ways to screw it up.â
His voice was small, shaking. âIt wasnât...mmphh...my faultââ
âYeah? The last one wasnât either, right? Or the one before that? Or the warehouse job? Or the diner?â Her laugh was sharp and humorless. âYou canât keep a job for more than a month. And guess who gets stuck dealing with the fallout and blowouts every time?â
Another spoonful shoved in. He gagged slightly at the texture, but she didnât slow down. Scoop. Shove. Scrape. Repeat. Her movements were brisk and unyielding, like someone working through a chore they hated but knew by heart.
He gagged and sputtered, too much at once, cheeks puffing as if he might spit it back out.
Before he could, her hand shot up and clamped over his mouth. âDonât even think about it,â she snapped, leaning in just enough to make sure he saw the warning in her eyes. âYouâre the reason Iâm stuck here every night, so the least you can do is swallow.â
Carrot mush smeared across her palm, but she didnât bother wiping it off. Instead, as she pulled her hand away, she dragged it slowly from one cheek to his nose and across to the other, leaving a sticky orange streak in its wake.
The mess clung to his skin, tacky and wet. He could feel it seeping over most of his face, and the worst was that he couldnât reach to wipe it away. He just had to sit there and 'take it like a good widdle boy', feeling like a messy baby crinkling in a pissy diaper while she moved briskly on to the next spoonful.
âYou always do this,â she hissed. âYou screw up, then I have to fix it. Well, guess what? Iâm done making it easy for you.â
His eyes flicked down, shame creeping up his neck. âPlease,â he whispered. âJust⌠real food. Something normal.â
She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. âNormal? Is any of this normal to you? Benny, you fucking piss yourself. Regularly. What exactly about this is fucking normal?â
âPlease,â he tried again, desperation edging in.
Her patience snapped. The next spoonful hit his lips with a wet splat. âShut up. Eat.â
She worked faster after that, scooping and shoving with curt efficiency. Every time he hesitated, she was there with a sharp look or a muttered threat. Heâd learned that whining only stretched this out. His eyes glazed a little, retreating inward the way they always did when the routine stripped away what little dignity he had left.
The bowl was almost empty when she noticed him shifting in the seat, a telltale wriggle against the padding that made her eyes narrow. She knew that movement. She knew that squirm.
"Oh don't you fucking dare.â she warned, her tone low and dangerous.
âDon't you dare shit that fucking diaper, Benny!"
He started writhing in the seat, a low, miserable groan escaping him as his hands fidgeted uselessly on the tray.
âKeep eating,â she snapped, scooping up another spoonful. âAnd hold it!â
âI canât!!â he groaned, shifting harder, the padding beneath him crinkling and squelching faintly.
âYou better fucking try!â she hissed, forcing the spoon toward his mouth. âI do not want to smell your shit! Donât you dare make this worse for me than it already is.â
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry,â he blurted, breath hitching, but his body betrayed him. His face twisted, a helpless noise slipped out as he raised himself a little off the seat and the inevitable happened.
Her nose wrinkled immediately, and she stepped back a half-step as the smell hit. âOh my god!â she hissed, glaring at him through her fingers pinching her nostrils shut. âYouâre so disgusting!! Can you really not control yourself?â
He broke then, shoulders shaking, eyes glassy, words tumbling out as half-formed apologies. The tears only seemed to irritate her more.
âOh donât you start crying. Like you have it hard! You spend all day messing up your life and messing your pampers while other people take care of you and your filth!â
He whimpered, cheeks burning, but she shoved another spoonful toward him anyway. âNo. Youâre finishing this. Every last bit. You want to be pathetic? Fine. But youâre not wasting any more of my time on top of it.â
Tears prickled at his eyes as she kept going, fast and merciless. Scoop. Shove. Scrape. The smell was heavy now, mixing with the cloying carrot in the air, and the humiliation settled in his chest.
By the time the bowl was nearly empty, his stomach felt tight and heavy. Each bloated breath painful, each new bite torture, but she kept going until, at last, the spoon scraped the bottom.
She scooped up the last bit and shoved it into his mouth without looking at him. The spoon clattered onto the tray a moment later.
âYou can stay right here.â she said flatly. âStew in your mess and think about how much youâve messed up both of our lives. Iâm not cleaning anything else off of you tonight. Mom can change your diaper when she gets back in a few hours.â
She didnât wipe his face. She didnât look back. The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, leaving him in the high chair, sticky and silent, the weight of her words hanging heavier than the loaded pamper between his legs.
Image credit goes to aislopmaxxx on imagefap.
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