The Poverty of Hunger

This is where my story begins. I am hungry and even the smell of the cabbages our neighbours are perpetually boiling is enough to make my mouth water. I open the cupboard door, even though I have opened it three times already, hoping that maybe a half empty bag of cheerios will magically appear if I wish it hard enough.

A half empty bag of cheerios does not appear. Nor does any other food for that matter. I have maybe a couple dollars left, and the idea of using my last little bit of cash is extremely painful.

I slam the front door behind me. The gas fumes invade my nostrils and make me want to retch. The street is dirty. I run to the corner store and find the cheapest item they are selling, a pack of bubblegum. A pack of bubblegum will do nothing to quell my hunger. I buy a loaf of cheap bread and sit on the door step of the store, stuffing the bread into my mouth. I am eating like a rabid dog. A little boy points to me and laughs. I haven’t eaten for almost three days, so I don’t care, and I don’t stop.