The chaos is suffocating, each sound sharpening the edges of your fraying sanity. The shrieks of crying babies pierce through the clatter of shattered glass, while kids’ screams overlap like discordant notes in a song from hell. The vacuum roars, a relentless mechanical groan, and the sour stench of unwashed bodies and soiled diapers clogs your nostrils. You crack your eyes open and find John staring at you, his cheeks tear-streaked, his tiny hands clutching the edge of your blanket.

"Please, sissy," he begs, his voice barely audible over the din.

But your stomach churns as you realize what he’s asking: his sagging diaper reeks, adding to the miasma in the cramped, filthy room. You swallow bile and force yourself upright, your head throbbing with the weight of ten siblings who demand, cry, and cling to you like parasites.

Privacy is a luxury you’ve never known. Your room isn’t yours—it’s a dumping ground for chaos, a space constantly invaded. Friends are a fantasy, something other people have. You could never bring them here, not to this disaster where your parents’ inability to stop breeding has turned life into a living purgatory. Their bedroom escapades are your endless punishment.

And yet, here you are, staring into John’s desperate eyes. The sounds keep crashing against you, waves of noise and stink and exhaustion. You’re trapped. There’s no escape. Just diapers to change, messes to clean, and a madness that gnaws at you day by day.