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Okay…but…my name isn’t Charlie.
And the woman to my left isn’t my momma.
Or my mom.
Or my mother.
Not my real one anyway.
She’s just the person who has been calling herself that for the past five years of my life.
My real ma?
She calls me Slater.
And my real dad?
He calls me champ.
I think he wants me to play sports.
His favorite is hockey.
Or…it was his favorite.
When I was home.
I don’t know what he likes now.
Maybe he hates it.
Maybe he hates it the way I hate stupid spam.
“What did I say, boy?!” the silver haired man bites a second time before hitting me again in the same spot, much harder.
Hard enough that my head bounces forward.
He always hits so hard.
And the ring he wears.
His…wedding ring, I think?
It always makes it hurt worse.
Much worse.
Slaps hurt.
But his punches hurt more.
That’s what will come next if I don’t force myself to open my mouth and eat.
That’s what always comes next when I don’t.
I should eat.
I can throw it up later like I usually do.
