How My Daughter Became a Meat Puppet

Note: All characters within this story are above 18 years of age. This is a fictional story and is meant to be read as a fantasy by adults (18+). Any apparent lack of consent is purely a narrative element within this fictional setting and is not meant to reflect acceptable behavior in real life. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Erik Lindstrom was always nervous coming to the supermarket. Throughout his adult life, dealing with people made him anxious, and that had only gotten worse as he grew older. He was forty-four and already convinced he was losing touch, getting slower, missing things that used to be obvious. The bright lights, the constant movement of carts, the way people cut in front of him without looking, every trip left him feeling like he was one step behind. He hated it. He hated how his hands got clammy the moment he walked through the automatic doors. He hated how his mind started racing the second someone made eye contact.

But there was someone in Erik’s life who never gave up on him, and that person was holding his hand right now, guiding him along the aisles like he was the child and she was the parent.

Freya had always been a daddy’s girl. Even after the divorce, when her mother had tried to turn every weekend visit into a negotiation, Freya still showed up. She still called. She still dragged him out of the house on days when all he wanted was to stay on the couch and stare at the wall. She was twenty-three now, and Erik was fiercely protective of her. He knew what kind of attention attractive women drew. He had seen it his whole life.

She was pretty in a way that made people look twice. Round, perky tits that sat high on her chest and pushed against whatever top she wore. A slim waist that still had a little softness to it. Hips that filled out her jeans just enough. Pale skin that never seemed to tan. Her hair was dyed a soft light pink with black highlights mixed through it, currently falling loose past her shoulders. Light blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, the same Nordic features he saw in the mirror every morning, only softer. Younger. Cleaner.

Erik knew men looked at her. He had watched them do it since she came of age. It made his jaw tight every single time.

“Dad! Are you listening? You need to eat more protein! You’ve lost so much weight!”

Freya’s voice cut through his thoughts. She was walking half a step ahead of him, still holding his hand, tugging him along when he slowed down near the cereal. Her tone was the same one she used when she was twelve and trying to get him to stop smoking. Firm. A little bossy. Full of the kind of care that made him feel both grateful and old at the same time.

“I’m listening,” he muttered.

“You’re not. You’re doing that thing where you stare at the floor and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.” She glanced back at him, pink-and-black hair swinging. “I’m serious. You’ve dropped like fifteen pounds since Christmas. Your shirts are hanging off you. We’re getting chicken and Greek yogurt and you’re going to start eating it.”

Erik let her pull him forward. The store smelled like the faint sweetness of bakery bread from three aisles over. A kid was crying somewhere near the produce. An old man in a mobility scooter was blocking half the cutlery section. Normal Saturday morning noise. He tried to focus on Freya’s hand in his. Her fingers were warm. She still wore that cheap silver ring on her right hand, the one her boyfriend had bought with his first paycheck from the café.

He remembered when that hand used to be small enough to disappear inside his palm.

They turned the corner into the frozen foods aisle and both of them stopped.