Chapter 1 - THE TASTE OF COPPER AND TOMATO
In a brightly lit modern kitchen with white cabinets and a marble countertop, an elderly woman with curly grey hair wearing a maroon cardigan stands behind a young blonde girl in a yellow lace dress.
The camera is static, capturing a medium close-up shot.
The grandmother holds a white ceramic plate upside down directly over the girl's head, from which a clump of spaghetti covered in thick red tomato sauce is falling onto the girl's hair and face.
The girl's eyes are wide with shock, and the background is slightly out of focus, creating a shallow depth of field.
The wet squelch of the pasta hitting the child’s skull echoed loudly in the pristine room.
Thick, dark red tomato sauce slid down the strands of her blonde hair.
It moved like heavy mud, dripping onto her forehead and pooling in the delicate lace collar of her yellow dress.
The child did not move.
Her small fingers remained loosely curled over the edge of the cold marble island.
A single noodle slipped over the bridge of her nose.
It hung there, a grotesque, limp worm blinding her right eye.
The heat of the freshly microwaved sauce seeped into her scalp.
The elderly woman’s maroon cardigan brushed against the child’s stiff shoulders.
Her arthritic knuckles were bone-white as she gripped the edges of the upside-down ceramic plate.
She did not lower her arms.
She held the empty plate suspended in the air, a porcelain crown of humiliation.
The old woman’s jaw was clamped shut, the loose skin beneath her chin vibrating with unreleased tension.
A drop of red sauce fell from the rim of the plate.
It landed squarely on the girl’s cheek, splattering like a droplet of warm blood.
The child’s lungs finally remembered how to work.
She dragged in a jagged, vibrating breath.
Her lower lip trembled, pulling the corners of her mouth down into a sharp, ugly curve.
The tears did not fall right away.
They built up behind her wide, unblinking eyes, thick and heavy.
She stared straight ahead at the glossy white cabinets.
She didn't look at the woman behind her.
"Begging children don't eat."
The old woman’s voice was dry, grinding like sandpaper against raw wood.
The words hung in the air, heavier than the pasta sliding down the yellow lace.
The child squeezed her eyes shut.
The tear finally broke free, cutting a clean, pale river through the red sauce on her cheek.
If I don't swallow, the hunger isn't real, her five-year-old brain reasoned.
If my tummy is empty, it means there’s more room for the air.
May you like
She opened her mouth, letting out a high-pitched, broken wail that shattered the sterile silence of the kitchen.
---
