Salis was six years old the first time he remembered feeling hungry in a way he couldn't fix.
His small stomach growled—soft at first, then louder as the hours stretched on. He sat at the kitchen table, quietly picking at the crumbs of the bread his mother had given him for lunch. She had already started on her third glass of wine, a quiet hum in the back of her throat as she cleaned the dishes., pretending to ignore him. His tiny hands worked over the edges of the crust, careful not to let it tear too much.
It was the third time his meal had been two slices of bread, this time, though, the bread had already started to grow splotchy green patches in places. The smell alone was enough to make Salis not want to put a single bite in his mouth, despite his hunger.
"You didn't eat your food, Salis," she said suddenly, her voice sharp as she turned towards him.
Salis flinched at the sound, looking up from his plate, his heart beginning to race.
"I ate," he replied quickly, his voice quiet, a child's instinct to plea. His mother's eyes narrowed, her lips curled into something dangerous. The way her eyes didn't quite meet his—like she was looking through him, not at him.
"You've barely touched it," she snapped. "What's wrong with you? Too good for food now? You don't get to waste what I give you."
Salis's throat closed tight. His hands curled around the piece of bread, but his stomach clenched at the sound of her voice. He could feel the cold heat of her gaze on him, and every part of him wanted to shrink smaller.
'Please, just let me be good,' he thought.
Her next words cut through him like a blade.
"Go ahead," she sneered, stepping closer to him. "If you're so hungry, eat it. Show me how good you are at eating everything that I give you. Don't think that I'll let you off that easy."
Her hand was already on his shoulder, fingers digging into his skin, just hard enough to make him wince. Salis's chest tightened.
"I ate, he whispered again, feeling the tears well up behind his eyes. "I'm full."
"You're lying," she hissed. "If you don't eat every last bite, I'll make you regret it."
Salis froze, his eyes flicking down to the bread, and then his mother's face. His heart beat faster now. The words were slow, deliberate.
"Finish it," she ordered.
He could feel her fingers tightening at his shoulder, a warning—a promise that this wouldn't be a simple reprimand if she didn't do what she wanted.
Salis looked at the plate, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the pressure in his throat building. He could barely swallow anymore, his mouth dry, but he had no choice. If he didn't do as she said, the consequences would be worse. So with trembling hands, he picked up the crust and forced himself to chew.
The bread felt like stone in his mouth and the taste was disgustingly sour.
Please, just let me get through this.
She watched him with that smile of hers—sharp and pleased—as if she was proud of herself for making him do something he didn't want to.