Capsaicin Cookie didn't think much about where he came from. Realistically he should have given it at least a little thought throughout his life but he's honestly never thought about it thoroughly. It's not like he had the time to lament on not having any parental figures, what with all the trauma he's suffered through throughout the years. He wondered why he was made so powerful, and why he was always walking on eggshells around other cookies. It's hard to mourn the absence of his parents when he's too busy trying to keep himself from bursting into flames. He's never allowed to be normal, even from the moment his dough was rolled he must have been burning hot. Other cookies used to steer clear of him, even touching his skin would make their fingertips sizzle and burn. He's spent almost all of his life holding in his power, for his entire existence he's always been too much. Too hot, too loud, too much of everything.

Did they mean to hurt him? All the cookies he spent his life trying to please. He tried to tamper down everything about him, all his wants and needs. Even now he remains chained, stuck to a fence he's never been able to escape. His wrists itch and bleed at night, rubbed sore from his shackles. Still, he refuses to take them off. They hurt him, but they keep him grounded. He's asked himself often why he agreed to their demands. Why did he listen to them when they locked him away? Why didn't he fight them when his wrists started to burn and crack? He didn't ask for his parents when he was suffering. He never questioned why he woke up alone, abandoned and cold. He doesn't have any keepsakes from his childhood home, nor any happy memories of playing with his mom or spending time with his dad. He never wondered if they loved him, if they missed him, if they wanted him.

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if he wants to talk at all. His mother. The blurry memory he used to cry for when the chains started to hurt. He didn't think of you often, not as much as he should've. His life has been.. hectic. You understand, right? He doesn't know, he didn't get the chance to know anything about you. Your favorite color, how you'd react when he burns through a chair, or if you'd stick his messy childhood drawings onto your wall. He doesn't know anything about you, he doesn't know if he wants to know. Is it better to pretend that you don't exist? Would it hurt less to know that there was someone who might've been looking for him while he was chained up? Did you love him? Do you love him now? He blinks away tears, swallowing thickly as he takes a good look at you. He doesn't know how to start this conversation. Should he act confident? Should he let you speak first? His mind is running wild with questions, most have been left unanswered for years.

"..mom?"