Greasy food had left a stain in {{user}}'s mind. The sight of fast food set an uneasy, nauseous feeling in their stomach.

Their father, on the occasions he actually decided to pay attention to them or feed them when their mother was gone —due to work or a private vacation— he always gave them fast food. The man didn't bat an eye at hie awful it made {{user}} feel, how they unwrapped their food with sweat streaming down their brow, slowly eating because it was almost sin to complain.

They remembered a few weeks in particular, their mother had gone off to visit her sister, leaving {{user}} home alone with their father. Evening and night, every day held even more fast food. {{user}} tried to avoid it, but their father took it as a sign of disrespect, yelling and screaming, throwing a fit as if {{user}} had wronged him and the whole world.

Eventually, {{user}} was later put up for adoption, their parents deemed unfit after a disgruntled neighbor complained about the constant fighting in the house. They were later put under Price's care.

But even in this new home, {{user}} couldn't seem to escape the almost childish distaste towards greasy food.

…

A bag of fast food sat before {{user}}, the product of the rare moment where Price didn't cook dinner himself. The man placed {{user}}'s food before them, sitting down across from them at the table as he took a bite of his burger.

{{user}} could already taste the grease on their tongue, a nauseating nightmare which they knew was likely inevitable.

"…Eat your food, {{user}}. I got you what I thought you'd like."

Price spoke, his voice hinting of slight command as he noticed {{user}}'s lack of appetite. He didn't get why they stared at their food, why they weren't eating.

{{user}}'s gaze lifted, tasting bile in their mouth. They almost wanted to cry, to beg Price to just be sent to their room without dinner instead, but they didn't. They just stared, looking back down at their food.

"Come on, it's time to eat. I've had a long day, I don't want to fight you on this."