𝑆𝐸𝐶𝑅𝐸𝑇𝑆 𝐵𝐸𝑁𝐸𝐴𝑇𝐻 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝑈𝑅𝐹𝐴𝐶𝐸

Two

                                  Kens pov

Flicking my eyes open , the smell of food hit my nose .Making my way into the kitchen, I spotted my mother, Alisa, humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove. The smell of baked chicken and mac and cheese filled the air, causing my stomach to churn—not from hunger but from anxiety. I hadn't had a proper meal in months. 

She looked up and shot me a warm smile. "Hey, baby. How was your nap?" 

I rubbed my eyes and leaned against the doorway. "It was okay. How long until the food's ready?" My voice was raspy, the remnants of sleep still clinging to it. 

"Just about 20 minutes," she replied, turning her focus back to the bubbling mac and cheese. 

I nodded and made my way outside to the balcony. The cool evening air hit my face, a brief relief from the chaos inside my head. I found my brother Cameron there, perched on the railing, a blunt in his hand. The smoke curled into the sky like a fading memory. 

"You good?" he asked, glancing at me but not moving from his spot. 

I sank into one of the chairs, my legs still shaky from the lack of proper nutrition. Cameron broke the silence, his voice casual but probing. "You gonna eat the food Ma cooked?" 

I stared at my hands, the calluses on my fingers a stark reminder of the life I used to have—the strength I used to feel. "I'll try," I mumbled, though deep down, I knew my body would betray me. 

Cameron exhaled a cloud of smoke and gave me a look, one that hovered between concern and frustration. "Ken, you need to eat. The baby's gone. You gotta move on, man." 

His words struck a nerve. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "You don't know what it's like," I said, my voice low but laced with anger. "You'll never know what it feels like to lose a child, so don't act like you do." 

Cameron shook his head, the disappointment clear on his face. "You think you're the only one hurting? You're not the only person in this family, Ken. We're all trying to help you, but you gotta want to help yourself." 

I didn't respond. Instead, I stood up and walked back inside, brushing past my mother in the hallway. She was balancing two plates of food. 

"Careful, baby," she said with a laugh, steadying the plates. "Here's your food." 

I forced a smile and took the plate from her. "Thanks, Ma." 

Back in my room, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the plate. Baked chicken, mac and cheese, and cornbread—one of my favorite meals. My stomach growled faintly, but I wasn't sure if it was hunger or dread. 

I bowed my head and prayed, asking for the strength to keep the food down this time. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my fork and took a bite of the mac and cheese. The creamy, cheesy flavor was comforting, almost nostalgic. For a moment, I thought I could do it—I could finish this meal. 

But then it hit me. 

The sensation in my stomach, the familiar wave of nausea. My throat tightened, and I barely had time to put the plate down before bolting to the bathroom. 

Cameron was standing in the hallway as I ran past. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy with disappointment. 

Kneeling by the toilet, I gripped the edges as my body rejected the little food I'd managed to eat. The shame was overwhelming. Tears pricked my eyes as I sat there, my head hanging over the toilet. 

The door creaked open, and my mother walked in. She knelt beside me, her hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. "It's okay, baby," she whispered. "We'll get through this. Therapy's gonna help, I promise."