Page 11 of Disarm
The memory is sharp. Real. But she doesn’t push. She just waits.
Then I try.
I’m five.
The kitchen floor is cold under my bare feet. My stomach gnaws at itself, a hollow pain that won’t stop. I haven’t eaten in days—three, maybe four—but I’ve stopped counting because it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The air smells sour. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Something burned. My mother’s boyfriend is yelling from the next room. I can’t make out the words, but the tone is enough. Fear tastes metallic in my mouth. My hands shake at my sides.
I cry quietly, small sobs I hope no one hears. That hope dies when my mother’s hand hits my cheek. The sting burns worsethan the hunger bites. I press my hand to it anyway, trying to make it stop.
“You useless little shit,” she spits. “I should’ve never taken you with me when I left that asshole.”
That asshole being my biological father. Someone I don’t remember.
Does he think about me? Does he remember my name?
Her eyes are empty, distant. I remember thinking I must be invisible. Or maybe already gone.
I shuffle toward the fridge, desperate. Maybe something—anything—will be there. I open it. Nothing. Just condiments and a half-empty beer bottle. My stomach twists. I stare at the shelves, hoping for some miracle that never comes.
She grabs me by the shoulder, shoving me toward the hallway. “Shut up before he comes in here and gives you a reason to cry,” she hisses.
I stumble, knees scraping against the floor, but I keep my head down. Too small to fight back. Too scared to even scream.
The hallway smells like mildew and old carpet. I hear his footsteps somewhere above, but I don’t look toward the stairs. I don't want him to see. I don't want anyone to see.
I curl into a corner, press my face to the wall, and cry silently.
Hunger. Pain. Shame.
All tangled together until I can’t tell which one hurts more.
The ceiling feels low. The walls are closing in. I wish I could vanish. I wish someone would just take me away.
But they can’t.
They never could.
A hand on my shoulder.
Not hers.
Not now.
My eyes snap open, the office around me, the warm light, and Dr. Kaur’s soft voice pulling me back.
“Alright,” she says, gently. “You’re safe. You’re not five anymore.”
I shake, trying to breathe through it. I must have said some things while I was out of it, to where she knew how old I was in the flashback. The memory is still raw, fresh under my skin, but her words are a lifeline.
For a second, I allow myself to imagine a world where someone really could protect me. Where hunger and fear don’t rule me.
And then the present comes rushing back. My chest hurts. It feels like it's trying to crush itself from the inside out. My hands won't stop trembling.
But I'm alive and I'm here. Every breath is jagged and shallow, like I’ve been holding it under water for far too long.
“Caleb,” Dr. Kaur’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and steady. “Look at me. Focus on my voice. One… two… three. In… out…” She counts with me, slow and deliberate. Her fingers lightly touch my shoulder, grounding me, reminding me I’m not five anymore.
