This choice: Stare at her in disbelief. She can't be serious! What does that even mean? • Go Back...Chapter #6Stare at her in disbelief. She can't be ser... by: R682  
You stare back at your mother with bewilderment. She sounds serious; but what does that even mean? Treated like a baby? That doesn't even make sense.
"Um," you hesitate timidly, not wanting to risk calling her bluff, just incase it really isn't one, and she really has lost the plot this time. "How could you treat me like a baby? I don't understand..."
Your mother stares you down until you hurriedly look away, a victorious look on her face.
"Well, you can wear a diaper for a start," she decrees, as if this is something already decided rather than a simple threat. "And no potty privileges, either."
"A... diaper?" you gape, "How would that even...?"
"They make them in big-boy sizes too," your mother assures you definitively. "Except, you won't be a big boy, because don't expect to do anything else for yourself either. Mummy will feed you, change you and give you baby games to play. When I say, 'treat you like a baby', I mean 'treat you like a baby'. Inside these four walls at least. I suppose we'll have to compromise a little when it comes to going out; but no toilet, even then. Maybe that way, when I finally decide to let you re-potty-train, we can do a better job of it this time. That's where it all starts, you know. Responsibility."
"No... toilet?" you echo, not even ready to start processing the rest of it. That sounds pretty bad even by itself.
"No toilet," your mother turns to a nearby shelf and flourishes an old key that you recognise as fitting the old-fashioned bathroom door upstairs. Not that it's ever used; there's a simple latch on the inside that serves to secure from the inside. Why would you ever want to lock it from the other? Except that's exactly what your mother turns and marches straight upstairs to do, making this seem less and less like a bluff by every minute. You follow her abashedly until you've seen her definitively turn the key and drop it pointedly into her own pocket.
"But..." you look on with disbelief, "...what am I supposed to do now?"
"Do it in your pants if you have to go," your mother shrugs, "do you?"
"I don't know... maybe, kinda," you fluster, genuinely confused beyond awareness.
"Better get on with it, then," your mother confronts you. "Because in a few minutes we're heading out to walk to the pharmacy for everything we need, and I doubt you want to risk ending up a wet boy then, do you?"
You really don't, but you still can't believe what's being expected of you. How has this spiralled so quickly out of all logic or control?
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