Pancakes and Broken Glass

Sylvie's POV

My alarm blares, slicing through the pathetic hours of sleep I managed to steal. I drag my aching body out of bed. My stomach muscles scream in protest. The dull ache of Declan’s fist still pulses deep beneath my ribs. He swaggered in late last night, hurling his heavy backpack right at my chest. When I stumbled and failed to move fast enough, he punched me. I spent the rest of the dark hours hunched over the kitchen table, finishing his schoolwork on top of my own. God, I despise him.

I shuffle toward the bathroom, pausing at the battered mirror resting on my shabby dresser. I force myself to look. Large, dark circles shadow my dull blue eyes. My skin is a sickly pale, framing a face I know is ugly. My blonde hair hangs in frizzy, lanky strands around my thin shoulders. No amount of cheap soap ever tames it.

Everything I own comes from the clearance bins of local thrift shops. I slide into faded jeans with holes torn through the knees. Over my torso, I pull a ratty, oversized sweater that swallows my thin frame, the hem drooping past my thighs. Sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, I cram my feet into my threadbare sneakers. I trace the worn-out soles with my thumb, grimacing. They are dangerously thin. Soon they will give out, and I dread the day I have to scrounge through charity bins hoping to find a replacement pair.

Pushing my bleak thoughts aside, I head for the kitchen. The house is coated in the stale stench of cheap beer. I pull the frying pan onto the stove and get to work.

I manage to get the bacon sizzling and a stack of pancakes browning on the griddle just as heavy footsteps sound in the hallway. My father staggers into the kitchen. He drops into his usual chair, rubbing his puffy, bloodshot eyes. He looks hollowed out and exhausted. If he keeps showing up to work looking like a reanimated corpse, he is going to lose his job. Not that it bothers him.

"Here is your coffee," I murmur softly. I slide the hot mug right next to his elbow, stepping back with my muscles tensed. I brace myself, vehemently hoping he just drinks it this time instead of flinging the scalding liquid across the room. A wave of quiet relief washes over me when he wraps his trembling fingers around the ceramic and takes a long gulp without a single complaint.

Declan storms in next. He slumps into the chair across from our father, glaring at my back. He drums his fingers hard against the wooden table, his impatience radiating through the tight kitchen air. I flip the pancakes as fast as I can. Just once, I wish one of them would get off their lazy backsides and give me a hand. Declan is old enough to fry his own bacon. I bite my tongue. Speaking up will only earn me another bruised rib, and I am not in the mood to bleed before the sun is fully up.

"Here," I say, keeping my voice flat. I set two heaping plates of bacon and pancakes down in front of them.

I retreat to the far end of the kitchen counter where my own breakfast waits. It is a pitiful sight. A single, measly strip of bacon and one dry slice of toast rest on a chipped saucer. It will not touch the sides of the hollow hunger gnawing at my stomach, but I do not dare take more. If they catch me eating a full portion, there will be hell to pay.

Before I can take a bite, Declan pushes back from the table. He stalks over to my end of the counter, eyeing me with a malicious gleam in his dark eyes. A heavy dread rises in my chest. I stare down, forcing my expression to remain perfectly blank so he cannot feed off my fear.

"What do you think you’re doing?" he demands.

My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Eating breakfast," I answer nervously.

His hand shoots out faster than I can blink. He smacks his palm against the edge of my saucer. The plate flies off the counter, crashing onto the hard floor. The ceramic shatters into jagged shards. My single piece of bacon and dry toast scatter across the dirty linoleum. I stare down at the ruined meal in absolute dismay.

"Oops," Declan sneers, his voice dripping with sly amusement. "Guess you’re going without, fatty."

He turns his back and saunters over to the table, digging into his warm, delicious breakfast. I say nothing. Calling me fat is a sick joke. I am practically bone and skin because they rarely leave enough food for me. But arguing is pointless. I shoot a desperate glance at my father, but he keeps his eyes glued to his coffee mug. He will never step in. His silence is a ringing approval of every torment my brother puts me through.

Blinking back hot tears, I drop to my knees. My stomach gives a pathetic, hollow growl. I stare at the piece of bacon resting on the floor. My mouth waters, but it is covered in dust and grime from our father's boots.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and begin gathering the broken shards. My fingers tremble. A sharp edge of ceramic slips and slices deep into my index finger. I stop moving. I just sit there on my knees, watching the thick drops of dark blood well up and drip down my skin. I stare at the crimson beads in numb fascination. It does not even sting. Nothing hurts anymore.

I wipe the blood on the frayed hem of my sweater. I scoop the dirt-covered food into my hands and dump it into the trash bin. That was my only chance at a meal. I know with a sinking certainty that I will spend the entire day starving until dinnertime.

Declan finishes his plate, grabs his keys, and heads out the front door. The roar of his car engine fading down the street brings a wave of intense gratitude. At least I do not have to ride with him. My father leaves shortly after, shuffling out the door without uttering a single syllable to me.

Finally alone in the suffocating house, I grab my worn-out school bag. I step out into the crisp morning air and begin my long walk to school. I force myself to walk slow, taking my time with every single step. I want to prolong this solitary journey for as long as humanly possible.

When I was little, the school building used to be my sanctuary. It was a place away from the dark mood of my house. But not anymore. Now, it has morphed into my own personal hell. It is a hunting ground where bullies run rampant, a stage for my brother and his friends to torment and humiliate me in front of everyone.

The sprawling brick building finally looms into view at the end of the street. My stomach drops, twisting into a painful knot. I know exactly what is waiting for me inside those double doors. My whole body begins to tremble with cold fear as I step onto the campus grounds and push through the main entrance. I traverse the busy halls toward my first class, keeping my head down, clutching the straps of my bag. I hold onto the tiny, desperate thought that maybe today will be different. Maybe, just for once, I will be left alone.

Deep down, beneath the hunger and the lingering dread, I know it is a futile hope.