Hunger Strike

I didn’t eat dinner that night. I woke up the next day with a growling belly, but when my mother brought me breakfast, I refused to eat that, too. I could ignore the rumbling complaints of my stomach. It was worth it, this little hunger strike. Besides, I wasn’t really hungry. I was too sad to be hungry.

When my mother came later that afternoon with my supper, she saw that I hadn’t eaten anything since the day before.

“Sioni, you need to eat or you’re going to be sick.”

I sat at the table, staring at the mirror I held in my hand. It was silver and embellished with an elaborate design: the handle of the mirror was engraved with a carefully etched vine that was wound around the handle, its tiny leaves so life-like they seemed to shoot up of their own accord.


My face was reflected in the murky water-like surface of the glass. My eyes were a deeper green than usual, the color of moss.

My mother sighed. “Fine, suit yourself.”

Not long after she’d left, I heard pebbles being thrown at my window.

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