i_ate_all_yourfood
I was born in a house whose lock was turned from the outside more often than from within.
The paint on the walls was cracked, but the cracks were not the deepest thing in that place. The floor held onto dark stains that would not disappear no matter how hard they were scrubbed, and the smell of dampness always mingled with a faint metallic trace. I learned to distinguish their footsteps by sound alone; the heavy ones meant I should hide, the hesitant ones meant I should breathe slowly, and the quick ones meant I must not move at all.
I counted the days by the bruises I could conceal beneath my clothes. My brother was the only light in that house-not because he was strong, nor because he was older, but because he was my hope, the last remnant of family I had. He would split a loaf of bread into two unequal halves and give me the larger one without looking at me, as if it were by chance. When he escaped, he did not say goodbye. He only left his window open.
I searched for him the way the starving search for crumbs. I asked faces that did not know me, followed rumors, slept in places unfit even for cats. I thought the street would be harsher than the house. I was wrong.
That organization did not look like an organization. An ordinary building, clean corridors, doors that closed quietly. They never raised their voices. They did not need to. They took my name first, then cut my hair, then taught me how to look without blinking. They tested my ability to remain silent the way others test metals under fire.