By the time Salis was nine, he had become used to the suffocating hunger. It was a constant ache, always gnawing at his stomach, but he had learned to live with it, to ignore it until the point where the hunger became just another part of his life. His mother's neglectful silence had made the pain seem normal.
But it wasn't hunger that hurt the most—it was the helplessness. The knowledge that he couldn't stop it. Couldn't make her stop.
It was that evening, as he stood in the kitchen, watching her uncork another bottle of wine, that he felt that familiar wave of nausea.
"I gave you dinner," she said, her voice eerily calm. She had already started drinking, and it was in those moments that he felt the most afraid. When she was drunk, she was unpredictable. She was dangerous.
"I- I'm still hungry," Salis said quietly, almost apologetically. He felt his heart race. He knew better than to ask for more, but he couldn't help himself. His body needed more food.
Her gaze snapped to him, her eyes narrowing immediately. "You think I'm your personal chef?" she spat, the words slashing through the space between them. "I gave you dinner. Now go clean up."
His stomach growled audibly in the silence that followed, the sound so loud in the stillness of the room that made him wince. He hadn't eaten enough at dinner. He never did.
The weight of her eyes on him was too much.
"Did I tell you to ask for more?" she said, her voice low and slow, like a snake preparing to strike.
Salis froze. His breath caught in his throat.
"I…" He started, trying to explain, but the word were stuck. He couldn't tell her how hungry he was. He couldn't tell her how empty he felt, how each moment of hunger made him want to scream.
"You'll learn to be grateful for what you get," she sneered, stepping closer.
The next moment, her hands were on him. Her grip was vice-like, her fingers pressing into his arm with a force that made his breath stutter.
"You'll eat what I give you or you'll go hungry."
The slap came next—hard across his cheek. It didn't sting just in that instant. The pain lingered, burning into his skin, leaving a red mark, a permanent reminder of his helplessness.
He didn't dare say anything. He could feel the salt of his tears picking at the corners of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Crying made it worse. Made her worse.
The shame burned even hotter. He nodded quickly, his chest tight. He turned to clean the dishes, not daring to glance at the untouched food, knowing it only made things worse when he didn't comply.
He wasn't allowed to ask for more.
He wasn't allowed to want more.