This Is Not a Tragedy

4 | Story of My Life

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Usually, when I leave for school, my mother is asleep. This morning, I can hear her shuffling in the kitchen downstairs. After getting ready, I try to dash down the stairs and out the door fast enough, before she can see me and try to feed me breakfast.

I make it down the stairs and halfway to the door when she calls, "Natsu!" Halting, I pivot on my heels to face her in the hallway. "I made you breakfast." Her lips are curved into a weak smile.

On the plate in her hands is fried spam and eggs. Just the smell is nauseating. "I don't want it."

Her eyes glass over momentarily before her eyebrows pinch. "Why not? You used to eat it when you were little."

"I'm not hungry." I turn away, attempting to leave again.

"You're never hungry," she snaps. "Just eat it like a normal person."

We stare at each other for a moment before I walk towards the dining area—no sense in triggering her.

I sit down at the table and stare at the plate. Since I've always had a smaller appetite than most, my mother learned that she can trick herself into feeling like I'm eating enough by giving me more modest portions. So, why did she fix so much? I definitely can't eat it all. Will she be okay if I leave some? Should I eat the bland rice first? Or shove down the processed meat product and collection of membranes to get it out of the way? I decide to just eat them together—eggs, meat, and rice—bite by bite. When it's half gone, I put down my chopsticks.

"Eat it all," my mother orders, scrutinizing me.

"It's too much."

With a sigh, she rolls her eyes. "Why can't you be normal?"

I look up at her. Why can't you be normal? I bite my tongue only halfway and ask, "Why did you fix so much? You know I don't normally eat breakfast, to begin with, and then you've fixed this much..."

Her brow crinkles. "You want to blame this on me? It's my fault you're like this? Of course not!" She slams her palm on the table, causing the dishes to rattle. "You're just like him."

Hearing those loathsome words, I lose all patience and sympathy and rise from the table.

"Stop trying," I snap. "I'm fine when you're not here. I'll be fine if you do nothing."

Without another word, I leave.

***

When the bell rings for lunch, I make my way to the vending machine near the school store. The taste of spam and eggs has persisted all morning, so I want to rinse it out. Although I don't eat like a normal person, I'm able to drink regularly. When I reach the store, there's a mass of people and a line for the machine. Troublesome. Should I go to another machine elsewhere? Though, only this one has green tea.

As I deliberate, I spot a small, familiar head within the crowd. The shiny-eyed boy pops out between two bodies, small arms full of individually packaged bread. He stumbles, and a pork cutlet sandwich falls out of his arms and onto the floor. Before he can situate himself to retrieve it, I bend over to pick it up. Our eyes meet.

"Oh!" After he realizes the person to aid him is me, his eyes flicker towards his arms, then dart around.

"Who is this for?" I ask.

His gaze radiates shame, and I know exactly what's going on. This small body is not taking in six rolls of bread. And it isn't a favor for a group of friends. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

"Who?" I repeat.

"C-class...mates..." He repeatedly blinks, clearly apprehensive of my next move. Again, he reminds me of my mother.