sooooomething

Alfred's finger slips along the bottom of his empty plate, bringing the crumbs left from his meal up to his mouth. His eyes open, flicking around the busy restaurant as he hopes no one saw him, chastising himself as he does so.

"Seriously, get a hold of yourself man, you know better." He thinks angrily, his fist bouncing on his thigh. Even as he does so, his mind flicks back to his youth, back to the source of his poor manners.

In his mind's eye, he's a young boy of 5 again, his wavy brown hair replaced with curly blonde locks, pushing them out of the way as he stares up at his father. "Dad, I'm hungryyy. Make me something!" He never forgot the look he saw on his father's face, a mixture of despair and shame. "No no, you have to wait for dinner, Al. You'll be fine then." He says, a smile plastered over his face. The last few days, they had had one meal a day, or even every other day, so the boy was used to it. However, there was no dinner that night. The boy thought he might have misbehaved, or something, so he went out of his way to be good the next day. His tummy rumbled, and his hands shook a little bit, but he did his best to ignore it. He asked again, much more polite this time. "Dad, may I please have some food?" His father didn't look at him. "Wait for dinner." Was all he heard. He didn't ask on the third day.

His father would gather all the children up, cuddling them all to keep quiet their little whimpers, no one really having the energy to move. Al was at the end of the bed, as always. "The Footdoor" They'd call it. When everyone cuddled up, there wasn't a lot of room, so someone ended up at the foot of the bed, to protect from the "Ching-chings" Walking scissors that lived under the bed at nap time. (A ploy to keep unruly children in bed, Al's adult brain interjected). No one moved, all anyone could do was nap or think, no one spoke. Al, tired and hungry, squeezed his eyes and slipped from the blankets, moving to the "thing room". A normal bedroom that was turned into a storage room, that no one went into. He slipped into the unused bed, wrapping the stiff blankets around his body as tears started slipping from his eyes. He was so hungry it hurt, his hands shaking as he kept thinking about food as much as he tried not to.

On the fourth day, Al dragged himself to the bathroom, drinking lots of water to try to push hunger out of his body. He felt famished, all of his joints aching and hurting as he crawled back to the thing room, not wanting to be around anyone. He slept most of that day, because being awake was just more pain. His dreams filled with confusing shapes and colors, food always just one step in front of him. He lost track of time, waking up in the dark as he heard the front door open and his mother's voice. She called everyone into the kitchen as she pulled out ham and bread, lots of it along with these cans of apple juice, which was al's favorite.

He never forgot that night, the feeling of seeing food again. He had a glass of juice as he waited for sandwiches to be passed out. The taste was sharp, cloying, sweet. Too sweet. He gasped, before trying it again with the same result, pushing it away, before pouring it into his sister's cup when no body noticed. Finally, he gotten his sandwich too, taking a bite and chewing it slowly, the taste of the ham forever imprinting into his head. Just as he was about to take a second bite, he heard his brother whimper out. "I'm still hungry." Al's eyes opened as he looked over at his brother's plate, already empty as everyone ate. "You'll get more tomorrow, Daniel, too much will make you sick." One of his parents said, he couldn't remember which. There was something off about the tone, hidden concern that made Al's tummy turn. Al waited until everyone's attention was gone, 5 children tend to make a hectic household. He took the opportunity to slip his food to his brother, his finger to his lips to keep the toddler quiet.  Al's finger brushed over his plate as before, picking up the crumbs and pushing them into his mouth, trying to satisfy himself with that before washing his plate and thanking his parents.

Al's mind snapped back to the restaurant, the sounds of people around him flooding back in, embarrassment with it. His eyes opened as he stood up and went to pay for his meal, his thoughts lingering back still. His siblings couldn't remember those four days, the few times he has asked about it, as they were all too young. Al never could drink apple juice again, the taste having morphed into something gross and full of bad memories. He had also picked up the bad habit of trying to get every bit of food, without even thinking about it. Every drop of a drink, every crumb of food he'd try to get unconsciously. He never could stand wasting food, from anyone, always getting upset if people threw things away. He got made fun of for it all the time, everyone blaming it on his weight, and him not bothering to correct them.