7. Growling Stomachs
Growling Stomachs
Nichole
The darkness peels away like a dissolving curtain, revealing a place that feels more like a cage than a home. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, the stale scent clinging to the peeling wallpaper, mixing with the sharp, acrid tang of alcohol.
The apartment is small, suffocating, its walls cracked and yellowed with time. A weak lamp flickers in the corner, its glow stretching shadows unnaturally long, distorting the already decayed space.
Trash litters the floor—empty beer cans, crumpled food wrappers, cigarette butts ground into the stained carpet. The sink overflows with dirty dishes, hardened scraps of food clinging to plates that haven’t been washed in weeks, maybe longer. The place is a wreck. A prison of neglect.
I don’t breathe. I don’t have to—not in this nightmare—but the sight before me makes my stomach twist. The silence is heavy, oppressive, stretching through the apartment like a second presence.
Then, a low, aching sound. A stomach growling.
I turn toward the noise, my chest tightening. It’s not a careless, passing hunger. It’s deep. Hollow. Painful. And it’s coming from the smallest body in the room.
My gaze lands on a boy curled up on a tattered mattress in the corner, a thin, threadbare blanket barely covering his small frame. He’s facing away from me, his back exposed, arms wrapped protectively around a bundle beside him—a child even smaller than him.
Alessandra.
I step closer, drawn forward by something beyond my control. Damian doesn’t stir. The closer I get, the more I see—the sharpness of his shoulder blades beneath his oversized shirt, the way his ribs faintly press against his skin even through the fabric.
He’s starving. Not in the way people say when they miss a meal. Truly, desperately starving.
The hunger is carved into his small frame, woven into the very air around him. It’s in the way he holds Alessandra close, shielding her with what little strength he has left.
My heart clenches, my throat tightening. Then, footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Uncaring.
A shadow moves past the doorway—an adult, tall and broad-shouldered, reeking of alcohol and indifference. He passes by without looking inside, without acknowledging the children huddled together on the mattress.
Like they don’t exist. Like they’re nothing.
Rage swells inside me, burning hotter than the horror. How could someone just leave them like this? I want to scream. Shake this man. Demand he see them, feed them, care for them. But I already know the truth—no one is coming for them. No one is going to save them.
Damian stares across the room, his face blank, eerily calm.
He’s focused on the kitchen. I follow his gaze, and my chest tightens the moment I see the fridge.
It stands quiet in the corner, humming like everything’s fine, like it’s still doing its job.
But the way Damian is looking at it says everything—it hasn’t been stocked in days. Maybe longer.
I watch him lick his cracked lips, slow and quiet, like he’s trying to remember what food tastes like. His hands curl into fists, his jaw tightens, but still, he doesn’t move. He’s waiting. For what, I don’t know.
But Alessandra isn’t.
A soft whimper escapes her lips—barely a sound, but Damian hears it.
His head snaps toward her, and something shifts in his expression.
Not panic. Not fear. Determination. He reaches out and presses a hand to her forehead.
She doesn’t flinch—she’s too weak. Her lashes flutter as she struggles to stay conscious, her small body shrinking further into the couch.
That’s when he moves.
Not hesitantly. Not reluctantly. With purpose.
I remain frozen as he rises to his feet and steps into the kitchen. His footsteps are light, barely registering against the worn-out floorboards, but each one feels thunderous in my chest. His fists are still clenched, his entire frame taut with quiet desperation.
When he reaches the fridge, he pauses. He doesn’t open it right away. He just stands there, breathing slow, measured inhales like he’s bracing for impact.
Then he opens it.
Inside, there’s almost nothing. A carton of expired milk. A curled slice of stale bread. One bottle of beer. Nothing else.
My stomach knots.
Damian doesn’t react. Doesn’t curse. His expression doesn’t even shift, but his knuckles go white around the fridge handle. This isn’t disappointment. This is expectation met. He already knew there wouldn’t be anything. He just hoped—prayed—he was wrong.
I move forward instinctively, heart in my throat, wanting to do something, anything. Kneel beside Alessandra. Wrap Damian in my arms. Tell them it’s going to be okay. But I can’t. Not yet.
"This isn’t fair... they’re just kids."
The thought pulses through me, jagged and loud. No child should live like this. No child should carry this kind of weight—the kind that steals innocence before it has a chance to bloom.
I try again to step forward, to reach out, but the second I do, it hits me. They don’t see me. They don’t know I’m here. I’m nothing more than a ghost in this nightmare, trapped in someone else’s memory, forced to witness the exact moment everything changed.
It’s agony.
Damian hasn’t moved from the fridge. His body is stiff, shoulders squared, fingers twitching at his sides.
His face—God, his face. It’s too serious.
Too calm. Not the calm that brings peace, but the kind that forms when someone’s already made up their mind.
When fear, guilt, and consequence have all been burned away by resolve.
This boy, barely ten years old, is about to become someone else. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I clench my fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms, trying not to fall apart. My eyes stay locked on him. On the boy he is and the man I know he becomes. And still, the nightmare unfolds, dragging me deeper into the memory that made him.
Finally, he closes the fridge—quietly, deliberately. He turns back toward Alessandra.
And just like that, I see it in his eyes.
He’s made a decision.
One that will change him forever.