"Him," I say, pointing to your son. He's already been severely abused and has next to no personal boundaries, having been raised like a naked animal.
You tremble in fear, thinking only of your legacy--not me, you tell yourself.
You shove him forward into the arms of a monster who wants to know what your son tastes like.
He accumulates a detailed file at school, documenting his behavioral issues (a profound learning disorder which you refuse to have diagnosed or properly medicated.) He's alternately popular with other children or completely outcast, depending on how bad the abuse gets. Like most animals, if his rape is already normalized, he'll lash out in small furious storms. Whenever he manages to get a small amount of attention from professionals who might help him escape a family of closet bisexuals who derive power from the bodies of helpless children, you rush in with accusations (and sometimes fraudulent paperwork or false witnesses) to prove he's schizophrenic.
Despite that, you don't even know what the primary diagnostic criteria for schizophrenia are. When he tries to show you the definition as outlined in the DSM, you make fun of your son and tell him to stop citing made-up documents as though he understands them.
Do you even know what the DSM is? Have you ever used a search engine to try and understand the diseases you're labelling him with--even so much as on a basic level? Have you searched your own behavioral issues? Would you sit with him and describe yourself to the same therapist you eagerly want to pass him off as crazy?
Obviously not.
The Angry Young Man (TM.)
I rest my hand on Jacob's shoulder. I ask you,
"What's he like at home?" I already know what angle you'll come from.
Stammering, you hide the fact you used to touch and masturbate with your son. You lick your lips, trying to rid yourself of cottonmouth, and stammer,
"Uh... he's, um... a pervert! Yeah, uh, totally. We think he's got, uh, bipolar? Or, um, borderline... something disorder. Maybe schizophrenia? He plays a lot of, um, weird video games."
I can't help but smile. I can smell your son's skin; his unwashed body under form-fitting underwear which he's too scared to change out of, since you often keep him well-monitored at home.
"So, he's... a bad boy?" I ask, tilting my head. I can see my reflection in your dilated eyes. I stand, holding your son close, in the mirror of your nervous pupil. An abomination in its summoning circle.
"Y-yes... yes! He's awful, uh, we just... can't get a hold of him! He's never willing to participate, hides in his room all day. His... his only two moods are sad and horny... ha... hahaha!" You force a laugh, trying to stay on my good side.
I know where you buy your whores, after all. It would be a shame if it became public who you party with--and your son smells so, so sweet.
I offer you a deal.
"There's this fascinating research project me and my peers are initiating soon; as his legal guardian, you'd be entitled to... compensation if you'd just sign this form, right here."
You look to your side; it's been laid on the desk next to you, as if appearing from nowhere. My signature--dark red--is already there next to several clauses, with a big one at the bottom and an empty dotted line indicating where the rest of your son's future (and every cell his young body produces) will lie.
A physical form. A human being. A sheet of paper.
From behind the door, you hear something wet--echoing. Like a long hallway, or perhaps a throat, groaning into a hungry swallow. You hear the bass bubble of gastric juices, like a thin layer of digestive fluid is pouring into the hall behind you, ready to flood through the door if you open it before signing. You can hear the long, stringy droplets hitting the tile floor.
