Hope (House of wax x reader)

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

It was a quiet morning, for now at least. The year was 1980, and life was nice for the moment. Peaceful. A mother had a pot on the stove, boiling something, waiting for her husband to arrive with... him. His twin sat in his high chair, happily kicking his legs as he ate his bowl of Cheerios. In one of the bedrooms upstairs, the two-year-old was fast asleep, and no one dare wake him.

The mother grabbed a specially dedicated ladel, and reached it into the hot pot, the dark liquid contents boiling in the oversized spoon. She grabbed a porcelain mold of a face off the table, and began to pour the dark liquid inside, moving the mold around to cover every crevice with the stuff.

She was making a new wax figure for the museum she owned. She didn't want to make celebrities like everyone else, she wanted to do something original. Maybe that's why down the street, she had begun trying to build an entire house out of the candle making mixture.

She looked over to her son quickly, who had finished his cereal.

"You are being such a good boy," the mother gushed. "Do you want some more cereal sweetheart?"

She made her way over to him, the wax could wait till later. Mothering was more important than making a new statue. She had enough of them anyways.

She began to pour more Cheerios into his bowl, muttering a quick 'here you go' as she did. Then she heard a child screaming and howling like a feral cat, and heavy footsteps descending a flight of stairs. Ah, the husband, and the problem child.

The father made his way to the boy's high chair, ready to body slam the poor kid if he had to. The boy flailed around wildly, he didn't like the chair. The chair meant bad things were about to happen. He didn't want to go in.

In his tantrum, he had accidentally kicked his mother's mold. It shattered on the floor, whatever wax wad still liquid came pouring out, spilling and solidifying all over the tile floor. The mother groaned as she made her way over, ready to do what happened every morning.

The child continued to flail and screech, while his twin sat silently eating his breakfast. It was honestly surprising that the problem child didn't wake the baby with all the noise.

"He's really being a monster again today," the mother complained.

"Trudy, god damn it, help me," the father shouted.

The father slammed the boy into the chair, and the mother began to grab the leather straps attached at the sides, and she latched the first one over his left wrist. She bent down and began grabbing at the strap for his left leg, when the boy tried to kick her.

"Can't you be more careful," she seethed.

"I'm doing the best I can," the father replied. "He's out of control!"

"Sit still! Stop it," the mother demanded loudly.

She finished with his leg and went to strap in the right side. Once she had finished with the leather straps, she grabbed the roll of duct tape from ontop the fridge, and began to tape the boy's legs down to the chair.

The boy began to move and squirm around in the chair, still desperate to escape, yet obviously trapped. The chair began to wobble side to side, and the mother struggled with her tape job.

"Please hold him," she requested.

The father obliged and began to hold his son's shoulders, which made him stop moving as violently. He still tugged at the restraints on his arms, trying to break free. And he hadn't stopped screaming.

"Why can't you be more like your brother," the mother shouted, pissed beyond words of proper description. "Be quiet!"

She taped his left arm down to the arm of the chair, using a few layers of tape to make sure he couldn't get out. But, she had taken so long that the boy had managed to get his right hand free. He scratched his mother, somehow managing to draw blood.

The mother looked at her son, anger welling up in her eyes, smoke practically coming from her ears. Then, she slapped her son, and finished taping his right arm down.

The boy's twin had stopped eating to watch the commotion. He was used to this, his brother put up a fight every morning. Even the baby behaved better than him.

The father began to pick up shards of the face mold, while the mother went to get another one. There was a large closet dedicated to molds of body parts, and spares. Lots of spares. But with a son as destructive as that, it was a good idea to constantly be getting spares.

When she returned to the kitchen, she began to fill the new mold with the molten wax, while the father fed the problem child. He grabbed at the boy's temples, forced his mouth open, then dumped a spoonful of dry Cheerios into the boy's gullet. Then, he forced the boy's mouth shut so that he couldn't spit the cereal out.

By now, the twin had finished his breakfast, and was watching his brother 'eat,' if you could call it that. And he was no longer happily kicking his legs around. He was just watching.

Observing silently.