My wife has a toilet-training technique she learned from her mom called "baby chicken". I shouldn't have been so curious.

My wife has a toilet-training technique she learned from her mom called "baby chicken". I shouldn't have been so curious.<br><br>When I was a kid, the method to get us to learn was a combination of suppling us with a training toilet and faking a flushing sound when our parents disposed of our bagged diapers. I could never understand why the sound helped, but I think it was mostly psychological… if it sounded like the shit was leaving, then it was probably a good time to learn how to dump the poop out, right?<br><br>What my wife learned from her mother was to make a bird noise in the bathroom to toilet-train their kids. I learned the hard way, but don’t make the same mistake I did. *Do not ask about it*. I figured this was the same concept, but with a bird noise instead of a water flushing noise. Maybe if I had just stopped there, I wouldn’t be where I am now.<br><br>I had to know more. I think it was even mor out of morbid curiosity than actual interest in the subject. I asked my wife to remind me of the noise she made when she was little, not to teach our kids how to use the toilet yet, but to just hear it. She said no. But I was insistent, to the point where she asked what was wrong with me. She rolled her eyes and made this hideous noise, something like a cross between a squeaky toy dying and a seagull having an asthma attack. I laughed, but she told me not to make fun of it. I told her it was just so funny to hear it, she denied it. I kept pressing her on letting me hear it.<br><br>I started to hear it even when she wasn’t making it. When I was clearing the dishes, or making dinner, the goddamn sound haunted me. I tried to tell her, but she didn’t believe me, said I was making it up to get a reaction out of her. But it was driving me crazy- I had headaches and felt sick from it. I couldn’t even sleep any more because I’d wake up from hearing it.<br><br>So I did the last thing I could think of. I recorded her making it, and blasted it outside her window in the middle of the night.<br><br>I heard her cry as she came running in from the backyard. I heard her crying in the bathroom, howling at the mirror. We had chicken for dinner that night, and when I saw her at the table, the expression on her face told me I should have just listened to her warnings. <br><br>She didn’t look like my wife. She was still a person, but her face was disfigured and twisted. Something resembling a beak where her lips should be, black as coal and chipped off at the end. When she ate, she sounded like a baby bird eating from its mother. Her eyes were bloodshot and sunken in, and she had long, thin eyelashes. Her skin was a slightly yellowish color, but the color of her hair stayed the same. She had feathers all over her head that were black at the roots but brown at the tips. <br><br>She’s been eating out of the same ceramic bowl we used to serve our dog in when he was alive. She’s Clawde now. She can’t talk like a person. She can’t talk at all. <br><br>She only responds to sounds now. And she won’t learn to use the toilet because of it. She only responds to the sound.<br><br>So I blast it all the time.<br><br>I play it on full volume, constantly. I don’t want her to forget. Occasionally, I’ll blast it extra loud as a treat. She’ll hear it, and start to moan intimately, I don’t know if it’s in pleasure or pain. I’ve taken to calling her Squeaky, and she’ll do just about anything for me if I make that sound long enough.<br><br>She’s clawed out all the furniture, and to be honest I don’t even care. I don’t let her inside anymore, anyway. So she claws out the walls instead. I make Squeaky sound and she’ll eat anything I give her. I save all of my shit in containers, and I give it to her and make that sound. <br><br>I make her eat shit. I make Squeaky sound and she’ll eat shit.<br><br>I want my wife back, but my mom always told me that if life gives you lemons, make lemonade.<br><br>I have some shit, so I’m making Squeaky juice.