Chapter Text
Under the dim light filtering through the kitchen window, a pot of liquified paraffin wax bubbled on the roaring gas hob. Wax left long forgotten dripped further down the side of the stove, reheating into a molten form that ran down its warped icicles before falling to the tiled floor and hardening.
A woman walked across the room, humming to herself, and flicked her cigarette between elegant fingers, letting the ash fall into the ashtray and raising it back to her painted lips.
Unperturbed by the steam billowing from the pot, she stirred the wax with a ladle, scooping some of the mixture up and watching as the brown liquid poured back into the pot. Deciding it was the perfect consistency and temperature, she turned off the hob, bringing the pot over to the dining room table where a mould of a face sat.
With the pot safely on the pot stand, she picked up the mould with one hand, using the other to ladle the molten wax into the mould, tilting it from side to side to let it properly run over each crevice. In this state, the wax was a transparent brown but appeared a murky black in large quantities, so the woman made sure to use thin layers to coat every divet evenly.
A boy sat on the other side of the kitchen in a highchair, eating cheerios messily but quietly, enthralled by the process despite seeing it almost every day. His legs dangled idly beneath him, sandals strapped to his small feet.
The woman made sure the whole mould was covered in a thin layer of wax before rounding the table, swapping her tools for the cereal box.
“You are being such a good boy.” She said to the toddler, smiling softly at him. “Would you like some more cereal, sweetheart? Here you go.”
Just as the bowl of cereal was refilled, the door slammed open, and a man carrying a screaming and kicking boy entered the room. The boy grasped at the man’s big hands wrapped tightly under his armpits, scratching at his skin and trying to pry his fingers off, but to no avail.
The man carried the boy over to the other highchair, ignoring every spiteful lashing out of the small boy’s limbs, mouth pulled back in a snarl of struggle and anger. He worked on forcing the unruly boy’s legs into the legs of the highchair, not giving up even when the other’s kicking sent the woman’s tools scattering.
“He's really being a monster again today.” The man said.
“Jia, goddamn it, help me.” The man huffed at the woman, already sick of the boy’s behaviour, despite the day only just beginning. It was only when the mould fell to the floor with a loud crack, fragments and hot wax spreading across the tiles, that the woman stormed over.
“Can’t you be more careful?” The woman’s voice rose, eyeing the mess on the kitchen tiles.
“I’m doing the best I can,” The man ground out harshly, tone seeming to make the boy in his arms act out with even more fervour. “He’s out of control.”
With the woman’s strong hands ripping the top of the high chair off, the man set the boy in the chair, ignoring the young boy's angered shouts and growls.
“Sit still. Stop it!” The woman yelled at the boy, as if he were more animal than human.
“Please hold him.” The woman said angrily, as the man kept the boy in place by a strong hand pressing him into the back of the high chair, but unable to stop the boy’s legs from sending a series of kicks to the dining table. The other boy, sitting quietly watching the struggle, calmly ate his cereal, flinching only slightly when the dining table crashed into his highchair powerfully enough to send a jolt through him.
“Don’t do that. Stop kicking!”
With a click, the tray locked back into place, leaving the boy feeling restrained even before the wrist and ankle cuffs were wound tightly around his small limbs. He didn’t go without a fight; he never did, but no matter how much he screamed or fought against them, he never stood a chance.
“Why can't you be more like your brother?” The woman hissed at the boy, who was straining against the cuffs holding him in place, a chain of shrill screams leaving his mouth as the last buckle around his ankle was secured.
“Be quiet!” She yelled, watching as the man wrapped duct tape around his ankles and wrists, not paying any attention to the red, raw skin underneath the leather restraints. The more he struggled, the more inflamed and bruised his skin got, darkening from an irritated red to a dark purple.
The boy yelped in pain as the woman screamed a final “Shut up!” before his head was thrown back, hitting the hard plastic back of his highchair with force as the woman’s hand met his face.