Chapter Two: Hunger Pains
Twelve Years Earlier – Age 16
The power had been out for two days.
Alora sat cross-legged on the cold linoleum floor of the cramped one-bedroom apartment, staring at her younger brother Jayden as he slept, curled beneath a worn Mickey Mouse blanket. His breath came in shallow rhythms. The asthma was getting worse. She could hear it.
The air in the room smelled of damp socks, rotting food, and something she couldn't quite name — something like despair. Outside, traffic hummed on the street below, but inside, everything felt still. Silent. Forgotten.
She shifted her legs carefully, trying not to wake him. Her stomach growled — loud, ugly, insistent. The kind of hunger that gnawed at her ribs and clouded her thoughts. They hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday. A few crackers. That was it.
Their mother hadn't come home. Again.
It was Wednesday. Alora had skipped school to wait for her — again. She told the attendance officer her stomach hurt. That wasn't a lie. Just not the full truth.
She reached over to Jayden's side of the floor and pulled her school bag close. From its front pocket, she retrieved the last five-dollar bill they had. She held it like it was sacred. Folded. Fragile. All that stood between them and starvation.
"Stay here," she whispered, brushing a curl from Jayden's forehead. "I'll be right back."
He didn't stir.
Fifteen minutes later, Alora stood at the front counter of a corner store three blocks away, trembling as she placed a loaf of bread and a can of baked beans on the counter. The cashier looked at her with tired eyes, chewing gum slowly, the fluorescent lights making his skin look pale.
"$5.25," he muttered.
Alora's heart sank. She only had five.
"Can I leave the beans?" she asked, her voice small.
He rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
Back on the street, she clutched the bread to her chest like treasure. Rain began to fall, just a drizzle at first, then heavier. She didn't run. There was no point. Her sneakers already had holes, and the soles peeled away like tired skin. She just walked.
The apartment door stuck when she tried to open it — swollen from humidity and years of neglect. She shoved harder. It gave in with a screech. The room was still dark, and Jayden was still asleep.
She set the bread down and broke off a piece. Dry. Stale around the edges. But it was food. She nudged her brother gently awake.
"Lo?" he mumbled.
"I got us bread."
His eyes opened just enough to see her, and he smiled. "You're the best."
Her chest ached at that. No sixteen-year-old should be raising their sibling. No little boy should call a starving teenager the best just for bringing home half a loaf of bread.
Later that night, Alora lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Her mother still hadn't returned.
She thought of all the dreams she once had — to be a writer, to travel the world, to change things. But how could she chase dreams when survival was the only goal?
And yet, somewhere deep inside her, beyond the hunger and exhaustion, was a whisper.
This isn't the end of your story.
You're going to make it out of here.
She didn't know how. She didn't know when. But she clung to that whisper like it was oxygen.
Tomorrow, she would return to school and pretend like everything was fine.
Tomorrow, she'd wear the same jeans again, pinning them at the waist so they didn't slip.
Tomorrow, she'd sit in the back of the classroom and hope no one noticed she hadn't showered.
But tonight, in the dark, with only her brother's soft breathing for comfort, she let the tears fall silently.
She didn't cry because she was weak.
She cried because she was still here.
And being here — despite everything — was its own kind of strength.