Chapter 3: Cold Comfort, Colder Kin

I knew if I didn’t eat soon, I’d starve to death.

My lips were cracked, tongue thick in my mouth. The hunger gnawed at me from the inside out.

So, just before I lost consciousness, I used every ounce of strength and bit a chunk out of his arm, swallowing it whole.

I didn’t think—I just bit down, desperate, tasting blood and sweat. My teeth sank in, and for a split second, I felt powerful. Then he roared and flung me aside.

Immediately, he kicked me aside. I hit the ground hard, pain exploding in my chest, then everything went black.

The world went silent. For a moment, I felt nothing at all, floating in the dark.

How nice!

A strange, bitter relief washed over me. Maybe I’d finally escape the hunger, the cold, the pain. Maybe I could rest.

In this life, I finally got to eat meat—but it tasted awful…

It was the worst meal I’d ever had.

I woke up to cold water splashed on me.

It hit me like a slap, jolting me awake. I gasped, coughing and sputtering, blinking up at a ceiling the color of fresh cream.

When I came to, I found myself in a beautiful suburban home.

The room was warm and bright, thick carpets muffling every sound, heavy curtains drawn tight. It was the kind of place I’d only seen in library magazines.

Before I could make sense of things, a fierce-looking old woman pinched my nose and forced a bowl of cold, sour, stinking oatmeal down my throat.

She was strong for her age, her hands rough and unyielding. The oatmeal was lumpy and the smell turned my stomach. I gagged, but she held me fast, making sure I swallowed every bite.

After that, I was taken to my uncle’s study.

The halls were lined with old photos and dusty trophies—reminders of better days. I shuffled behind the old woman, my stomach churning.

Inside, he was talking to a doctor about me.

The doctor was young, wearing a crisp white coat and glasses that kept slipping down his nose. He fidgeted with his clipboard, glancing nervously between me and my uncle. I watched him, unsure what to expect.

“So, she bit me because she was too hungry?”

Uncle sounded incredulous, like he couldn’t believe a kid could do something like that.

The doctor nodded.

He cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up. “Yes, sir. Extreme hunger can cause… unusual behavior in children.”

“Yes. If she’d gone hungry much longer, she would have starved to death.”

His words hung in the air, heavy as a tombstone. I looked down at my bare feet, toes curling in the thick carpet.

Uncle waved him away. The doctor left respectfully.

He gathered his things and slipped out, pausing to shoot me a look—half pity, half apology—before he closed the door behind him.

I was dragged in front of my uncle.

The old woman’s grip was iron, hauling me across the room. I stumbled, nearly falling to my knees. My heart thudded, but I kept my chin up.

He looked furious, his wrist—where I’d bitten him—wrapped in white gauze. He stared at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe.

His eyes narrowed, and he flexed his injured hand. The gauze was already stained with blood, blooming through the fabric.

“Starving and didn’t think to say so? Or was it just an excuse to get back at me?”

His voice was sharp, every word digging deep. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady.

I looked at him quietly and spoke softly. “Mr. Redford, the first thing I said when I saw you was that I was hungry. I asked if you could spare a dollar for a sandwich.”

My voice barely made it past my lips, but I meant every word. I stared at the floor, refusing to let him see me cry.

He was stunned for a moment, clearly remembering. Then his frown deepened, annoyed.

His jaw clenched, and he shifted in his chair. I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, maybe, or just discomfort. My own chest tightened.

“Why don’t you call me ‘uncle’ anymore?”

His tone was almost mocking, but I could tell he wanted an answer. Maybe he needed it.

I pressed my lips together and lowered my head.

I remembered calling him “uncle” on the street, how strange the word felt in my mouth. Now, it was just impossible.

When I first saw him, I did call him ‘uncle.’ But now, I didn’t want to anymore.

The word tasted like dust. I’d rather be silent.

He lifted my chin with the tip of his shoe.

The leather was polished, cold against my skin. I flinched. I didn’t pull away, though. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Lost your tongue?”

His words were a challenge. I met his gaze, silent and stubborn.

He sneered coldly.

His mouth twisted, eyes full of disgust. I stared back, refusing to break.

“Still want to eat? If you want to eat, take me to your mother. I want to see what’s so great out there—wandering for nine years and refusing to come home. Now you’re out of money, so you come crawling back.”

He spat the words, every syllable sharper than the last. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

I nodded.

I kept my voice steady. “Give me grilled cheese sandwiches and I’ll take you to Mom. Oh, and the sandwiches must be fresh and hot. Not like that cold, sour oatmeal from earlier, or I’ll get a stomachache.”

The old woman behind me immediately dropped to her knees with a thud.

Her knees hit the hardwood with a crack. She looked up at my uncle, eyes wide with fear. I wondered if she’d ever been this scared before.

“Mr. Redford, please, I clearly fed her hot oatmeal with ham and egg. She’s lying.”

Her voice quivered, but she tried to sound tough. Her eyes darted to me, full of panic and resentment.

Uncle looked at me with even more disgust.

He shook his head, muttering, “Just like her mother, always causing trouble.” His glare made my skin prickle.

“Just like your mother—can’t be presentable.”

His words were a slap. I stared at the carpet, forcing myself not to cry.

I glanced at the old woman, raised my hand to my throat, and vomited up the cold, sour oatmeal she’d just forced down me.

The taste was worse coming up than going down. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, breathing hard. My stomach heaved again, but I managed to stay upright.

The mess on the floor made my uncle jump back several steps in shock.

His shoes splattered with oatmeal, he cursed and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose. The smell was enough to make anyone gag.

I looked at him calmly.

My voice was flat. “See? After sitting in my stomach a while, the oatmeal is still cold. My stomach isn’t made of ice.”

He looked at the mess, the sour stench making him step back, face twisted in disgust.

He pinched his nose, face pale. “Disgusting,” he muttered, shooting the old woman a furious glare.