Chapter Text
He'd always been a picky eater.
Most kids were, it was quite normal. But, eventually, you grow out of it, and usually, it isn’t quite as bad as he had it. When his mom was lucid enough to cook for him, she’d insist that he should expand his horizons, try something new, that the only way to grow out of his habits was through exposure. Tomatoes aren’t that bad, Spencer, they won’t kill you – you like pizza, and ketchup, you’ll be fine.
Evenings like that often lead to a big family meal, just like tonight.
His father sat at the head of the table in his dress shirt, napkin tucked into his collar and hair slicked back, fingers pale from gripping the silverware just a bit too lightly. Tight-lipped, watching with those beady dark eyes, waiting for someone to slip up. He bade his time like a predator in the underbrush; elbows on the table were sins to William Reid, just as taking a bite before saying grace was, just like refusing whatever food you’d been given.
William Reid had a routine for family meals, one he rarely deviated from. To him, it’s comfortable, it’s easy, it’s methodical.
Spencer and his mom sat opposite each other, reaching over the serving dishes to clasp their hands together to say grace. His mom’s hands were bony, but soft, too frail as the weight shed off her more and more, whilst his father had a firm grip that engulfed Spencer’s whole hand, completely disregarding his son’s discomfort at the contact.
His dad said grace in that monotonous drawl of his, thanking God for the wonderful meal they’d been blessed with, seeing as there were so many people who were not afforded such luxuries. From his seat, still not tall enough to properly see over the table without sitting on a stack of law books, Spencer wondered just how bad normal food would have to be if this was a blessing.
Afterwards, his mom piled a heaping serving of whatever she’d cooked that evening onto his plate, him watching with wide eyes, knowing that there was no way he could stomach it, let alone a portion of that size.
“Oh, doesn’t it just look delicious, Spencer?” His mom inquired with a smile from ear to ear, the type that was rare on her, thin skin crinkling around her eyes. He nodded, to not be impolite.
“It looks great, mom. Is that tomato?”
His mom inhaled the meal at a frightening speed, like a lion in the circus who’s been starved for days. She looked the part too, the clothes that used to fit her figure now hung off of her frame limply. Her skin had dulled, her hair wasn’t as soft and long as it used to be, skin cold to the touch from her inconsistent eating habits.
Some nights, like tonight, she scarfs her food down and will probably throw it up later, other nights she refuses to eat at all. It’s a sort of unspoken rule between the Reids that they do not mention the nights her retching can be heard throughout the house. If they don’t discuss it, they can pretend it doesn’t exist at all.
His dad, however, manages to bite back about a third of his plate before looking up.
“This is amazing, Diana, thank you,” then, he turns to look at Spencer, who’s pushing lumps of food around on his plate and attempting to mask his distaste.
“Aren’t you going to eat, Spencer? Be grateful for what you’re given?”
His dad always insisted that Spencer make eye contact, it’s the polite thing to do, but Spencer just couldn’t – even in moments where he was completely comfortable, and in a good mood, he couldn’t maintain eye contact, let alone when his dad is staring him down with those dark eyes as if he’s a cockroach on the bottom of his shoe.
Reaching forward, he pulled away Spencer’s glass of water away. He ensured that the boy couldn’t fill himself up on water, or use it to try and wash away the taste of the food on his tongue that will otherwise linger. It’s the same method every time.
Spencer peered down at the plate of food. It appeared revolting, more than just unappetizing at this point, now likely cold as well. He wanted nothing more to just take a forkful and eat it, but he felt like he physically couldn’t will himself to, that if he tried he would throw up, or explode, or die. It’s not his fault he can’t stomach it.
Tears had already begun to well in his eyes, and he felt sick – like there was a stone in his stomach, and another in his throat.
“Aren’t you going to eat, to say thank you to your mother for cooking dinner for you?”
They sat, and they waited, but it always ended the same way and tonight is no exception – with Spencer, tears streaming down now reddened cheeks, because he couldn’t help it that his body rejects the food, he’s just not hungry, that’s he’s sorry, and William Reid will be on the brink of blowing up. They know well, by now, that he isn’t a man you want to anger, and that he’s fully willing to scream until his throat is raw.
Gripping his fork tighter, fingers white from the force, his dad reached forward and tugs Spencer’s fork away from him. Scooping up a forkful of food, he forces Spencer to choke it down.
“Why do you have to make this so difficult, Spencer?” He asks, voice low and steady, and furious. His rage bubbles and spits inside of him, attempting to be concealed, but his skin is thin and stretched out over tired bones, and it is translucent. He pushed another forkful of food past Spencer’s trembling lips, the boy barely suppressing the urge to vomit all over the dinner table.
They get through it, the plate eventually empty, Spencer hiccuping and shuddering as he whimpered. Each time he swallowed, the urge to gag grew stronger. He felt unclean, like he needed to scrub his throat raw with steel wool and bleach every time the food travelled down his oesophagus.
“Was that really so hard, then?”
Nights like tonight inevitably end in Spencer locking himself in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, shuddering. He peered into the mirror that hangs haphazardly above the sink, seeing his bones jut out and his cheeks become puffier and fuller by the day – it’s one of the side effects of consistent vomiting, he learns, a symptom he sees on his mother before he sees it on himself. So is sensitive teeth, something he discovers after a few weeks straight of his mom insisting they cook spaghetti bolognese every night, taking his first sip of soda in a while and being unable to tolerate the carbonation.
The vomit came easily, stomach already churning by the time he’d turned the lock on the bathroom door. It’s sour, and sends a film of glistening sweat against his skin, staining his face with this sort of clammy pallor as his body trembles. His fingers grasped the porcelain edge, completely forgoing all fear of the germs that he knows linger there, shaking from the pressure.
After a few minutes, he managed to push himself up off the bathroom tile. His knees struggled to bear his weight, bones feeling like they were about to give in as he propped himself up on the kitchen sink again. Fumbling for his toothbrush, he moved to try and rinse the rancid taste from his mouth, scrubbing his tongue over and over.
The cramped bathroom still smelled rotten, so he opened the window. He peeled off his clothes, the t-shirt that he’d been wearing for the past three days because his mom kept forgetting to go to the laundromat, and left them in a heap on the ground.
As he stepped up into the shower, he avoided looking again in that mirror, not wanting to see his bruised up skin and protruding bone. He was only eight, and he had always been on the smaller side, but even then he knew he was far too skinny for it to be considered healthy. The water streamed across him, hot but still not hot enough. It left his skin a shade of burning crimson and sent every inch of him screaming, but even that scalding water wasn’t enough to fully wash away the disgusting, dirty feeling. The film of sweat and grime on him was perpetual, inside and out.
Nights where his mom cooks have become increasingly rarer, though, as she got sicker, outnumbered by the days where she’d refuse to take her meds, or stay in bed all day, or William Reid would return home from work too late for a family meal because it’s easier to pretend he got caught up fixing the printer than it is dealing with his family,
Even when she insists, his dad is hesitant to let her – there’d been numerous times that she felt the oven on and forgotten, burning whatever food into an unintelligible lump of charcoal, times when she’d zone out and accidentally slice her hand open. His dad puts a lock on the knives after that.
It’s now that Spencer’s picky eating becomes less of a hindrance, and more of a blessing. He finds safety in basic foods like dino nuggets and toast and pizza, because they’re not too mushy or slimy or sticky, and he doesn’t mind the repetitiveness of it – in fact, the set-in-stone routine is comforting, and one he hates deviating from. His dad doesn’t mind either, it’s easier to throw a box of dino nuggets in the oven when he comes home from work than it is to cook dinner, and it’s even easier to teach Spencer how to do it for himself.
So, for a few years, that’s what Spencer does. He eats buttered toast for breakfast, but never buttered straight out of the toaster because then the bread becomes soggy, and drinks it down with a glass of orange juice, never with pulp. For lunch, toast again, but for dinner, he rotates between the same four meals: toast, again, for difficult days where he can’t stomach much else, pizza, dino nuggets, and mac and cheese. Velveeta brand, specifically.
Cooking isn’t his forte, so it works. The knives are locked away and the stovetop barely works, meaning there wasn’t much more he could cook if he wanted to. He’s still too short to reach the cabinets or kitchen counters for the first year or two, though, so he has to keep a stool in the kitchen. It isn’t until he’s 10 that he finally grows tall enough to reach the top shelf
of the kitchen cabinet if he’s on his tiptoes, just about brushing 5’3.
When he turned 10, more changed than just him growing a couple of inches. His mom got sicker, it got harder to convince her to take her meds, and his dad just couldn’t take it anymore. The evening that brought it all, the straw breaking the camel’s back, was the night Diana forced the young boy awake at the crack of dawn, insisting that “they” were coming and they needed to leave. Fast. Being found in a Walmart parking lot, his mother fast asleep at the wheel, by the security guard was equal parts terrifying and humiliating.
So, his dad left.
He left in the morning after Sunday mass, telling the pair he was off to speak to a client, and then he never came back. For a day or two, Spencer held onto this crumb of hope that maybe he was just really, really caught up, and for the next few weeks he fell into a new routine; wake up at 5, sit and watch the news until he had to go to school. Just in case there was anything that could explain where William Reid was – maybe there was a car wreck, or a store robbery, and he just couldn’t call them because he was in the hospital.
After a month, he knew his dad wasn’t going to come back. Likely, ever.