Chase’s year-old arms were already surprisingly strong, and he used them again and again to let his mother know how much he hated the green slime. A flying plane, a zooming train, a swimming fish, they were all the same under their guises; that goddamn spoon.
Chase detested the green slime. It tasted unlike anything else he had ever known, and it was so foul that he couldn’t even process the taste properly. Whenever she managed to actually shove a spoonful in his mouth, he would spit it out post-haste and cry as loud as he could. He just couldn’t understand what she didn’t get about this. Was a bottle too much to ask?
Chase’s anger grew with each spoonful that he coated himself with or unwittingly swallowed. Still, he couldn’t seem to make her understand. He...
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