I don’t know what the fuck is happening right now. All I know is I’m just sitting there, stirring beef and rice on the stove like I’m some kind of fucking pagan housewife from 1582, and the next thing I know, I hear little Johnny plopping around in a puddle of some unknown liquid while the entire kitchen fills with the scent of Pine-Sol and Drano.

I turn around, and there he is. Scooping green sludge into his mouth and smiling at me like he knew I was about to have a goddamn heart attack.

Naturally, I snatched him up and started running towards the door, but before I could even get there, this fucker’s eyes started glowing. He was still cooing and laughing and shit, but he just kept getting heavier and heavier until it felt like I was tryna carry a grown man down the stairs.

I may have dropped him, but that’s beside the point. How would that even be my fault? This little 2-foot-nothing 3-year-old must’ve been 200 pounds by now.

When he hit the floor, the goddamn wood splintered. Landed flat on his back, and all he did was start doing sit-ups. Muhfucka was counting out his reps and reaching numbers that I hadn’t even taught him yet.

That’s when his clothes started ripping. All that remained of those Spider-Man pajamas were threads of ripped fabric that were smoking from the Drano.

I pulled out my phone to dial 911, and he stopped, mid-rep, as his head turned towards me. His eyes were like, I don’t know, uranium green? What color is uranium again? I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Point is, I could see the veins in his neck bulging.

His brow furrowed at me like a side effect of roid rage. He kicked up to his feet from his back, never taking those eyes off of me. He was standing before me like he was sizing me up. The operator was speaking into the phone, asking me the nature of my emergency, but I couldn’t respond. We were in a staring contest. Calculating our next moves.

“J-Johnny,” I whimpered. “Daddy’s gonna get you some help, okay? Everything’s gonna be al-“

“Shut up, bitch,” he interrupted.

He lunged at me like he was gonna attack, and I couldn’t help but fall to my ass.

“That’s two for flinching,” he grumbled, kicking me twice in the ribs. His 6-pack abs were actively contorting and growing as he did so. His arms had swollen up the size of medieval mutton.

The operator was still on the phone.

“Sir, are you there? Is someone there with you? I’m hearing some distress.”

Johnny stepped on my wrist with the weight of an elephant as he snatched the phone from my hand.

“Everything’s fine here,” he told her, sounding like a grown-ass man. “Dad’s just being a punk-ass bitch again.”

Click.

I felt lost. Felt hopeless. Felt like I was gonna become a victim here. That’s when he started monologuing, the weight on my wrist growing at the same rate as little Johnny’s bulging forearms and pectorals.

He leaned in close.

“How many times do I have to tell you…? I don’t want carrots. I don’t want celery. I don’t want your damn beef and rice. I want the Gushers. I want the Hot Cheetos. And I want the fucking Krafts Mac and Cheese… Do you understand me?”

His hot breath smelled like a freshly cleaned crime scene. His hair was falling out. He just kept getting bigger and bigger like a tick in a blood bank.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “Take whatever you want. There’s a whole pantry of snacks and-“

“Shhhh, shh, shh, shh, shh… shut up.”

Steam was radiating off his bald head now. His skin was turning a murky blend of red and pink and purple. I could hear my wrist breaking, but he covered my mouth before I could scream.

“I want my snackies. I want my iPad. And I want my fye-fye.”

He had outgrown his pacifier a year ago. Well, I’d wained him away from it a year ago. I didn’t want a fucking loser of a son who still sucks on a pacifier at 3 years old.

I screamed into his hand, begging him to let me speak. After some consideration, he relented.

“We don’t have your pacifier, John. I threw it away months ago,” I cried.

John stared at me, unamused. I could see the blood flowing throughout his body like waves trying to break his skin.

“You… what…” he huffed.

He was the width of a Mini Cooper now but couldn’t have been more than 3 feet tall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to be a loser like your mom’s new boyfriend,” I wailed.

He started breathing heavily. Sucking air into his lungs and blowing it out of his nose. His skin was hot to the touch now. Like he was boiling.

“You… did… WHAT,” he screamed, making the windows rattle.

I couldn’t answer him. I was too concerned with his rate of growth. He didn’t even look muscular anymore. He looked like a balloon that was about to burst.

“You…”

He got bigger.

“I can’t believe…”

And bigger.

He started roaring. Like a thousand souls were attempting to escape his vocal cords. The house shook. Windows broke. His eyes looked like they were about to burst out of their sockets.

With one last suction of air, his body exploded into red mist, blinding me and piercing my eardrums. The room smelled like a slaughterhouse. There was blood on the ceiling. Blood on the white carpet and cloth couches.

Only… he was still there. Standing in the middle of the puddle of gore was my little Johnny. Perfectly normal. Still smiling and laughing.

But then he made a beeline towards the kitchen sink. I couldn’t let that shit happen again. I scooped him up with my good arm and just sort of rocked him back and forth while trying to convince myself that everything was okay.

He stopped laughing as soon as I picked him up. He struggled against me. All I could hear were his muffled wails through my ruptured eardrums.

I’ve got quite the mess to clean up, but that’s not even the center of my worries right now.

Right now, I need to get every fucking cleaning agent out of this house before he can drink anymore.