A/N: Title is a pun on "mother dear", which obviously Mrs. Doofenshmirtz is not. This occurs way before Heinz becomes the family lawn gnome.
This is the SAFE version. The "original" version is on my dA gallery.
Disclaimer: Be glad this is NOT canon. xD There IS a reason why I made versions this way...
Mother Dare
Cezille07
Five year old Heinz came into the house after a whole day of playing in the mud puddles outside. It was a cold November, always with rain pouring in torrents and unmerciful gales tearing apart roofs and very houses. But that afternoon was quite pleasant, not the slightest drop of water, and a full sky of orange. Five PM, read the kitchen clock. Heinz approached his mother on the rocking chair, and kissed her cheek even as she ignored him, rocking herself absently to a rhythm only she could understand.
"You, come here," she said sternly before he walked toward the sink to wash himself. "Heinz, you got mud all over my face. Bring me a towel."
The little boy opened a drawer beneath the pantry, where a pile of clean towels sat. "Here," he said with an obedient smile, handing the top one to her.
"Clean up the mess, stupid boy," spat Mrs. Doofenshmirtz. She didn't look at him, much less accept the item on his dirty, outstretched hand.
Heinz's face fell. He looked at the mud prints he made on the uneven floors of marble and wood. "Yes mother."
Brown and dirt. The color of brown was dirt—or was it the other way around? Heinz sat down on the semi-wet, still-soapy floor he was scrubbing with a rag that used to be one of his shirts. He panted for a while, observing his progress: not much; ten feet worth of tiny footprints to go, and there were still the regular chores. In the back of his mind a brilliant contraption to clean up the grime was vaguely drawing itself. A cleaner...inator...sort of thing. He'd get to it after supper.
"Hurry that up, boy," hissed the large woman, "Your father's almost home."
There was no arguing with that. No arguing with anything she said, in fact. She was at least three times bigger and stronger than him; she...had punished with an iron hand and a stone whip. Heinz knew better to always just do whatever she says. He got hurt less that way. Besides, she was a nice person too if she wasn't upset...which seldom happened when he was around...
The door opened, and Mr. Doofenshmirtz hailed into the living room with the wind behind him blowing the door shut. He cast Heinz one disgusted look and stepped over him, heading to his suddenly-sweet wife by the rocking chair. Heinz didn't watch their three-minute kiss, only wished they'd proceed elsewhere with the grown-up festivities, wished he'd grow up sooner so he could do what he wanted, and maybe then they'd see he wasn't a worthless child after all.
He grinned for a moment at the thought.
"You! Why are you smiling? Did we tell you to?" yelled his father.
Okay. The innocent boy erased the positive expression, melting inside with the shame they imposed, stooping back to resume his work.
His parents headed to the dining room to make dinner. After Heinz finished two hours after, they were upstairs in bed. No food sat in the stove. All the lights were out. There were mysterious moaning sounds from the bedroom.
Heinz pulled the covers over his head and released a slow breath that formed fog in front of his nose. It's almost morning, he convinced himself, and the sun will come out, and everything will be better.
...Right?
His stomach made a final churn before he threw up some acidic yellow stuff. He stared the gunk, hugging his middle absently and willing himself not to be hungry.
Tears filled his eyes, and they knew that if a stain marked the worn sheets, he wouldn't sleep in a bed for many days. The bed wasn't even the slightest bit soft; made of wood scraps, it sat under the stairs with the thickening cobwebs, and had jutting nails at the sides, a reminder that it was only made for an extraneous member of the house...not family.
But he was a child. Months of punishment for being alive cannot deter him from wanting, and all he wanted was just a mouthful—no, half a bite—of nourishment.
His hushed steps dragged across the hall, making the ancient wood creak under his diminutive weight. Heinz, never letting go of his midsection, tiptoed to the kitchen with a speck of excitement, and the rest was a blur of dazed hunger. He didn't mind what his hands reached into when the off-white fridge door gave way. A puff of snow-cold air blew into his face, which soon was numb under its cool spell. Food, all this food they couldn't share...!
Just a pinch of raw garlic, he promised, mumbling the words to himself to make sure he was clear. He spotted the twelve cloves of garlic in the vegetable compartment, looking fresh and utterly repulsive. If this miraculous crop warded off vampires and cancer, surely it would help his dilapidated stomach. He took a clove and broke off one little end, licked it to sample the taste, and gagged. Garlic was as harsh on the tongue as it was on the nose. But Mom won't let me touch these other things... He observed the neat row of apples beside a glass bottle of stale cow's milk. No! He balled his fists and punched the fridge door closed.
The force of impact shattered the milk bottle from inside. Heinz cringed. He opened the refrigerator and saw that the white, curdling liquid had done a great job at exposing his clumsiness: everything was now covered in broken glass shards and stinky milk.
A shadow loomed dauntingly over him. The figure was part woman, part monster, and it heaved angry breaths that carried the wrath of ages. Heinz felt his trembling knees stutter as he turned to face his mother.
"What did you do?" inquired the large woman, whose small eyes bored into his retreating esteem. She wore a translucent, earth-colored nightgown which hung off her wide shoulders even as she placed two solid fists on her waist, waiting for his sorry, incredulous excuse.
"Mom," he said in his smallest voice—
She yanked his arms and lifted him off the ground that he dangled three feet above the floor, his tired blue eyes level with her menacing black ones. "When have I ever let you touch the food here, eh?"
"Never—"
"And when in your pathetic life did I allow you to make a mess of my kitchen?"
"Mom, I—"
"Dummkopf! Don't answer back!" she thundered, panting, and she threw him towards the dining table as easily as if he were a porcelain plate. "Everything is ruined because of you!"
Heinz curled up into a tighter ball, once again hugging his bruised knees.
"If your father hears about this, he will be very angry with you. He will send you to a terrible place where children don't grow, and it will suit you because you never will be a useful person!" yelled Mrs. Doofenshmirtz. "For all the trouble you are, we still keep you alive, and you should always be thankful!"
Heinz's whimpering only intensified. He looked up at this monster—no, "mother", always call her with respect. He tried to get up, but the movement sent an instant pain to his spine. He must have broken a leg, or an arm...or something, something which hurt with the same magnitude as his heart.
Mrs. Doofenshmirtz did not like the pleading gaze. "You want food?" she sneered, reaching up for a decaying box of doonkleberry batter above the fridge, waving it in front of him. He nodded, bawling loudly. She stomped towards him, picked him up again, this time by his shock of sweaty brown hair, and hauled him across the rough flooring to the front door. When he began to cry, she slapped him hard and felt his dislocated jaw as he came to a terse silence.
"Halt den Mund! You'll wake your father. Stupid boy!" she cried, turning the box upside down until he was bathed in the sticky pink concoction. "And stay out! I don't want to wake up tomorrow with the carpets turned pink."
The door banged between them.
"Mother!" cried little Heinz, knocking as gently as he could with his sore hands. The batter was settling quickly on his skin. For a while, he couldn't feel the November mist, didn't see the gray-orange clouds gathering overhead. "Mother please! I won't steal anymore!" His voice quivered. The next sunny forecast wasn't in two more months, and now he realized that a faint, high-pitch screeching had infested the evening. "Mother!" Of course, deep down, he knew that this door won't open until his father left for work tomorrow. If the storm came, he'd have to brave it alone for hours. Forget sleep. Heck, forget eating. Forget the sweet batter licking his shabby clothes. Forget that the horrid screeching came closer with each unanswered knock.
It would be the first time he would meet the legendary doonkleberry bats, and it would not be the pleasant last.
The worse horror, however, came not at the hours when he, the ill-fated, found the deluge of thick white sleet outside this impassable door, nor when he chanced upon the sweet glory of doonkleberry pastries.
It was every perpetual second under this dismal roof.
((END.))
A/N: I hope the flow wasn't too bad. Don't forget to Review, and please check the original if you can! Thanks for reading! :D