Mommy knows best.
At fifteen, the routine of control had settled in, so much so that Salis no longer even questioned it. He no longer thought about what it meant to be hungry. He just existed with the ache in his stomach, the constant sense of emptiness that gnawed at him.
Sometimes when his mother had a bad day, she would take away his meals altogether. And he had learned to expect it, just like he expected the silence between them to be filled with more anger. When she'd drink too much, he had learned to stay away, to keep his head down. She didn't like to be disturbed when she was in her moods.
One evening, when he was sitting in the corner of the kitchen, watching the clock tick slowly toward the time when he should be allowed to eat dinner, she sauntered in.
"You're hungry, aren't you?" she asked, her voice a low, mocking drawl.
Salis looked down at his hands. He hadn't even eaten yet, so he wasn't sure why she was even asking that question.
"And now we're acting like we're deaf?" He stiffened at her words, slowly looking down. Salis barely had time to process the question before his mother's voice sliced through the air again, sharper now.
"You're hungry, aren't you?" She uttered again, almost amused by the obvious discomfort in his silence. The plate of leftover spaghetti sat on the counter, taunting him with it's scent—the greasy smell, a reminder of what he could never have enough of. His stomach growled in response, the sound too loud, too desperate for someone who had learned the art of quiet suffering. He was always hungry, but he wasn't supposed to admit it.
He swallowed, his throat thick with something far worse than hunger—fear. He hadn't eaten properly in days. He could barely remember when he had his last full meal. It didn't matter though. He knew that this wasn't about the food. Not really. It was about the control she had on him. The constant, suffocating feeling that she had the power to dictate everything in his life.
The plate of food in her hands gleamed under the harsh kitchen light. His mind flitted between wanting to eat it and wanting to run far, far away.
"You think I like doing this?" she spat, her voice a venomous hiss. "I don't give you food so you can be a brat and complain about it."
Salis froze, his heartbeat quickening. He hadn't complained. Not once. He had barely said anything all day.
But his hunger—that raw, gnawing—had a voice of it's own. It betrayed him, made him weak. It whispered in his ears that he needed more, that he wasn't enough on his own. It made him long for something, even if he knew that he could never have it.
He looked up at her, his throat dry, his mouth felt like cotton. "I'm sorry… I just… I didn't—" His voice was small, barely above a murmur. His words felt like nothing, evaporating into the thick, oppressive silence.
She slammed the plate down on the counter, so forcefully that some of the pasta splashed out onto the cold, tiled surface. "Don't talk back to me!"
The words stung as much as a slap.
Don't talk back.
Don't make me angry.
Don't make me punish you.
Her voice wrapped itself around him, and he could feel the pressing of every syllable on him, until there was no space left to breathe, no room left for him to exist in any way that was not controlled by her whims.
His knees felt weak, his heart hammering louder now, his body frozen in place. He didn't know if it was the hunger making him dizzy or the utter terror of what she might do next.
But he couldn't stop himself. His stomach churned, and he took a half-step forward, unable to resist. It's food. It's food. You need it.
His mind repeated the words like a mantra, trying to drown out the sharp sting of his shame and fear.
"You think you're better than me?" Her tone was soft, mocking him like a predator toying with it's prey. She was enjoying this. Enjoying watching him squirm.
"I… I didn't—" Salis's breath caught in his throat. His eyes were cast downward, unable to meet hers. The plate of pasta sat there, so close, yet so out of reach. The hunger inside of him twisted, like a knot tightening, becoming more desperate. More urgent. But still he couldn't bring himself to take it.
"Eat it," she demanded, her voice cold and flat. "All of it."
Her eyes glinted, and the look in them told him that there was no getting out of this. She didn't care what he had to say, that his body would protest after a few bites. She didn't care that his stomach was a hollow pit that couldn't bear the weight of anything in it. She was watching him like it was a test. A game.
Salis's fingers trembled as he reached for the fork, his stomach already on the verge of rejection. His mouth meant dry, but there was no choice. There was never any choice.
As he brought the forkful to his mouth, his body went on autopilot. His stomach turned over in revolt. His teeth munched mechanically at the food. Each swallow was an effort, his throat closing around it, his eyes pricking with tears he refused to shed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout at her, to tell her how much it hurt, how much he hated this, but the words stayed locked behind his lips.
He couldn't do that—and more than that, he wasn't allowed.
He chewed and chewed, his eyes fixed on the floor, his hand trembling as he forced another bite into his mouth.
Swallow it. Just swallow it. Get it down. It'll be over soon.
His mother stood over him, watching, the force of her gaze like an anchor at the bottom of the sea. The tension in the room built until be couldn't tell if he was just sweating so much or if he was really crying.
The shame—the quiet internal shame made him feel so weak. Weak enough to feel miserable over food. Was it really that bad to be hungry? Was it so wrong?
The plate was empty before he realized it, the last few bites slipping down his gullet as if it was an after-thought. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, all of it too much to comprehend. He pushed the plate away, staring at it
"Good." His mother's voice, dripping with satisfaction, broke through the haze. "That wasn't so hard, not was it?"
Salis closed his eyes, feeling more tears welling up. It was just another moment in a lifetime of moments like these. Another moment where he learned to shrink into himself.