Hunger: Prologue

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I remembered the first time the colors completely faded, along with the happiness they held. I was five. My mother sent me out the backyard to play, although I knew the real reason why she wanted me out. It was because of the yelling, she knew it would upset me. 2

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I willingly obeyed her and went outside. I sat on the swing my father built for me ages ago. I sat there, looking at my feet, gently swinging myself. It didn't take long before the yelling started. The sound of the rustling leaves that danced with the wind wasn't enough to drown the noise. I wondered if they knew that. I wondered if they knew that I could hear them. 4

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Of course, I heard every word, but I couldn't understand what they meant. I couldn't figure out why they were so angry. Then I wondered if it was because of me. Did my mother sent me out so I wouldn't hear them fight about me? I pondered at the thought as I stared up the cloudy, orange-pink, afternoon sky. Did I do something wrong to make them angry?6

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A loud, shattering noise startled me, and I quickly looked behind my shoulder. The house seemed to look darker. The colors were fading quickly, and the happiness was gone. What seemed like a safe, bright, happy home had turned into a cold, dark, gloomy domicile in a blink of an eye. I was too scared to stand up, but I was also worried that someone was hurt.8

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"Mommy? Daddy?" I called. But I knew my tiny voice couldn't reach them.10

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Another loud noise made me leap on my feet. I ran back to the house; up the back porch; and through the opened glass, sliding door. Inside, the house was dim. I realized that the sun was almost gone. Why hadn't they turned the light on? My eyes immediately landed on the wall where the light switch was. It was too high for me to reach.12

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I took a deep breath as I stepped forward into the darkness. "Mommy?" I called nervously, but no one answered. 14

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Soft breeze entered through the back door, brushing onto my skin. It didn't feel cool, but nonetheless it made me shiver. There was no noise to be heard other than the wind. A sense of panic suddenly rushed over me. I was alone.16

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I ran upstairs swallowing the fear that was trying to pound itself out of my chest. "Mommy?" I yelled—a lot louder this time. I couldn't mask the panic in my voice. I knew my mother would never leave me by myself, but why wasn't anyone answering back? 18

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I rushed into the hall and went straight to my parents' room. My mother would never leave me . I reassured myself. My feet came to a halt at their door. She would never leave me. I kept on chanting silently. 20

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There was a faint noise inside, though I wasn't quite certain what it was, but it sounded like my mother. Relief quickly washed over me, feeling all sense of security coming back. I knew she wouldn't leave me alone. 22

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"Mommy?" I called her again—my voice a little softer. I frowned when she didn't respond. My ears pressed against her door as I listened in to the faint noise. I could hear a low breathing sound—like short gasps. Then a muffled thud made me jump. It came from behind the door. 24

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Fear clutched onto my tiny fingers as my shaky hands reached for the doorknob. Then a very loud thud startled me again. It came from downstairs this time. It sounded like a door slamming shut. 26

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I ran to the window and pushed myself up as I stood on my toes. I peered through the glass and saw the end of our front lawn and driveway . Then a faint sound of an engine coming to life filled the air. It was my father's car. I watched as his big, old, green BMW slowly backed up from the driveway. 28

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Where was Daddy going? I thought. The car drove off, without as much as a honk—a routine my father usually did every time he leaves.30

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Confusion remained in my head as I slowly walked back outside my parents' bedroom. Anxiousness crept over me once again, making me hesitate for a brief moment. But I had a feeling that something wasn't right, that I needed to go inside. I took a deep breath, then reached for the doorknob, slowly twisting it. My foot moved forward as I silently pushed the door open. Then my eyes immediately fell on the floor as I saw my mother sprawled on it, with shattered glass surrounding her unmoving body. 32

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I gasped. There were few traces of blood on the carpet. I couldn't really tell if they belonged to my mother. My eyes traced the small trail of red droplets that led to a small red stain near my mother's head. Her face was hidden beneath her long, dark, curls.34

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Impulsively, I ran to her, failing to remember the danger of the shattered glass to my small, bare feet. I winced, feeling something sharp pierced through the skin of my foot. A scream escaped my throat as I fell onto the floor. Another sharp pain radiated from my arm as my body hit the carpet. I let out another cry, and I felt warm tears flowed down my face.36

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My cry startled my mother, and she quickly scrambled to her feet. I was surprised yet relieved to see her move. But my relief quickly faded the moment she shoved her thick hair from her face, revealing, to my horror, the damage she was hiding behind it. 38

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Blood flowed down her right cheek that came from the open cut above her eyebrow. Her eyes were both swollen, except for the right side which looked much worse. It was half open, and it looked like a bee stung her lids making it difficult for her to see through it. There was a small dark reddish dot on her lower lip, and light purplish mark on her left cheekbone.40

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I almost forgot the pain at what I saw. But then I felt my arm throbbed and I winced. My mother quickly walked to me, carefully avoiding the glass. She leaned down, slipping her arms under me and lifting me up. I looked at my injured arm as I rose from the floor. A chunk of glass stuck out of my skin, and blood oozed out from the cut it made. 42

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Tears blurred my vision. Pain had overcome my anxiousness and all I had left was fear. I looked up to my mother through teary eyes and my uninjured arm automatically found my face wiping the water off. The ceiling moved over her head as I felt myself being carried out of the room. Then I noticed the shiny surface of her cheeks, they were wet. I suspected that she was crying, the short gasping sound I heard earlier was her, sobbing. 44

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I couldn't really explain it. The pain had clouded my thinking. But as I studied my mother's face, a strange feeling emerged from the back of my head. A sense of heaviness in my chest was slowly building up; coldness on my skin was growing stronger; and a feeling of weakness from everything, including her, was giving me a greater sense of fear . I couldn't tie my thoughts together to come to the reason behind the emotions that lingered in me. 46

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My mother was hurt, and my father was gone. I didn't understand. Shouldn't he be here? Shouldn't he be the one running through their bedroom door—running to my mother, with the same worried feeling I had?48

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I studied my mother's face once more. Something about the way she looked told me that the answer was there. Then I remembered my father's car as he drove away. He didn't blow the horn, like he usually did. But why? Why was everything so different?50

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Then the thought sank in. Everything was different. Every single, little clue suddenly fell into place. The colors fading, the invisible darkness in our home, the yelling, the loud sounds, my father leaving without word, my mother's wounded face—all were not there before. 52

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My mind flew back to the memories of the previous weeks as I tried to remember when I first saw it. The first time I saw their smiles disappear. The first time I saw the change. 54

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I stopped crying. I wasn't sure how I managed to block the pain, but my body felt numb. My mother brought me downstairs, into the kitchen. She turned the light on and sat me on the counter. She quickly took a piece of cloth from one of the drawers next to the sink, and went back to me.56

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"This will hurt okay?" she said, her voice hoarse. "I need you to be brave." 58

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I felt my head nod gently. She sniffed as her fingers made their way to the piece of glass on my skin. I watched her fingers carefully touching the blood stained crystal. I realized that it was probably the big vase on their desk. Then a set of cold fingers touched my chin and tilted my head up. 60

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"Don't look at it," my mother said looking into my eyes. "Just keep your eyes on me." 62

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I obeyed. My eyes locked on her face. I couldn't really tell if looking at my open wound was more painful than looking at her marred face. She looked so weak, and so sad. 64

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I cringed as I felt the sharp pain of the glass being pulled quickly from my flesh. Then she pressed the cloth on my arm.66

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"Hold this," she ordered. "Press it against your wound." 68

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My hand reached for the cloth, as she studied me. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"70

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I raised my right foot and she quickly turned me on the counter so my legs were on it. She studied my wound. "I don't see any glass, but this looks deep. We need to have a doctor look at you." 72

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She wiped the sweat off her face with her clean arm, and her eyes landed on the red stain that she had brushed on it. Her eyes told me that she knew it was her blood and not mine. I couldn't make out the expression that crossed her face though. It looked like a mix of horror and regret. I searched her face for something more—an answer. Something to deny all my suspicions. But I couldn't see it.74

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"Mommy?" I finally managed to speak. Her eyes seemed worried when she looked at me. She tried to hide it and forced a smile, but failed as pain crossed her face. She was hurt. I knew that. I wasn't the only one who needed to see a doctor. 76

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I took a deep breath before I spoke. "Where did Daddy go?"78

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She closed her eyes as if I had said something that upset her. Her head nodded, but I knew it wasn’t for me. It was as if she was reassuring herself. She knew I was going to ask that question, but she was hoping I wouldn't.80

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"Your Dad…" she began. She paused as she took a deep breath. Her eyes darted left and right as she looked at the floor, seemingly trying to search for something. Then her gaze fell back on me. I looked at her left eye, the only eye she could fully open, searching for an explanation. Then I noticed that there was something different about it. 82

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I remembered looking in her eyes before the change. They were warm, light, and welcoming. Now they're different. Her left eye was dark, but it still had the same shade of brown as before. The light in it was gone, though the light from the room reflected on it the same way as any other day. The warm and welcoming feeling it gave had disappeared, and all I could see was a deep and hollow darkness—like her soul was gone. Her eye looked the same and yet, it was different. I could see the sorrow and pain in them. I couldn't explain it, but I suddenly felt like I knew the answer.84

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"He's not coming back is he?" I said. I watched the pain in her eyes grew deeply. She didn't respond. It wasn't really a question though. I just felt that I needed to hear the words myself. 86

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I looked down on my dress. My eyes traced the red and green floral patterns on the white fabric. Why? I wondered. But I knew I didn't want to hear it. I wouldn't like the answer to that question.88

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I glanced up to her. She was looking at the floor again, clearly lost in her thoughts. 90

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I used to have a strong image of my mother. She was the kind of person who doesn’t seem to have any weaknesses. She was brave and strong, like the superheroes in comic books. She was someone who could protect me—someone who could keep me safe.92

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That image changed that day, along with everything else. In my young eyes I saw a fragile, helpless being—someone unsteady; someone breakable. Then I immediately understood—I didn't know how—but I understood. I needed to protect her, to keep her away from the pain. She needed me , more than anybody, to keep her safe.94

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That was the day I grew up.96

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