The Hunger That Remained

My spoon clangs against the bowl like a gong. The sound echoes in the empty room and echoes inside my chest. I remember when my mama used to make this exact meal for me. I would wake up to the smell of deep, rich chili. She would use flavorful onions and fragrant garlic, an aroma that would fill the whole house. Each time she added a spice or a new ingredient, the smell would change just slightly, but we always knew when she was making chili.

It seems simple, a stew with carrots, potatoes, celery, tomatoes, and ground beef, yet it touched somewhere deep within myself every time I brought that first spoonful to my lips.

I pretend to be in that memory now. I pretend I am back at home and my mama is sitting beside me as I bite into the crispy, buttery, and freshly baked cornbread. I pretend that I am back at home with sunlight streaming through the front windows and the smell of cut grass wafting in on a soft breeze. I pretend because all I have left of my mama are the memories.

Memories before my daddy came back and my life turned to shit. Before he started to put his hands on Mama.

Every heart that slowed, every last breath I felt, every life that I watched disappear from a man’s eyes, I only ever saw him.

People said I should have felt guilty, that it was never my place to decide if a man lived or died. But I never felt guilty. Not even once. I don’t feel guilty now, even knowing what comes next. I bring another bite to my lips and savor the salty tang of tomatoes on my tongue. I stare into my bowl, at the rich hues of red and brown and it seems oddly reminiscent of the faces I saw once. The eyes I stared into as the light left them.

Psychologists say that your first high is unlike any other. They say addicts become addicts because they spend their time chasing that first high for the rest of their lives. They say that about killers, too. I guess I fall into that statistic. I would like to say it was never just for me, that it was for the people I was trying to protect. But I know the psychologists or professionals or whoever will say I am in denial about the monster I am. I don’t think I am a monster but most of us tell ourselves that. My daddy sure did. And all the ones who followed did, too.

I inhale the sweet scent of cornbread and think of my mama again before I let the memories wash over me. I think of her smile on a summer day as she tried to cool off from the heat. I think of how she held me every night as a young child until I would fall asleep. I think of how she laughed without restraint and brought joy to nearly every person we knew. I think of how we shared this meal together time and time again.

I can feel the pain of that hole in my chest. That pain where my mama used to live. A pain that could never be filled or replaced even with the greatest chili or the sweetest cornbread.

I wish I could blame my mama but I don’t know how. I knew she thought I was missing out on a father figure. Maybe she believed he was different. Maybe he changed. That’s what she said anyways. But he never did and now he never will.

It started with petty disagreements and accusations. She never did things to his liking or was too nice or flirtatious with a checker at the grocery store. It led to pushes and apologies, claims that he never meant to hurt her and it was an accident. How many times can something be an accident? Eventually it turned to fists and bruises, to screams and endless tears. My mama always told me that one day she would find a way to get us out. Too bad she lied about that, too.

The mouthful of chili turns leaden in my throat as I attempt to swallow it down. Tears begin to slip down my face. Not because I regret my choices but because I wish things would have turned out different. I wish that my mama had chosen us and her life instead of choosing him. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and hear the jangle of metal chains clink against each other. I never understood why they had to cuff me down. We all know I am not going anywhere. I take another bite and let myself wander back to the day when I found my meaning, my purpose.

They had gotten into another fight and this time it seemed like it would never end. My mama never let me intervene even when I tried, even though I was bigger and stronger than she was. I was growing stronger than Daddy, too. I tried to block it out like I usually did, expecting their fight to end at some point, waiting for the sniffling and tears that came at the end of the fight. Instead, the banging got worse and worse until the house fell eerily quiet. No tears, no crying, no yelling. No slamming doors, no car engine starting, no angry tearing out of the driveway. Just. Silence.

I made my way down the hall until I heard it.

“No no no no no no no oh God, oh God, oh God!”

That’s when I saw her. Eyes open and lifeless. Blood seeping out of her head. There was no breath, no pulse, nothing.

“Son, I don’t know what happened. I… I didn’t mean to.”

There was not a word on my lips as I launched myself at him. As I climbed on top of him and held him with every ounce of strength I had. Not a word as he begged me to stop and I watched his life leave his eyes. Not a word as I held my hands around his throat and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. I knew at that moment what I was meant to do.

I often found them in public places: restaurants, grocery stores, parks, and the like. A dad who easily lost his temper, a dad who would smack or hit or berate his children. They always seemed big and strong until I had their throat in my hands. Their strength turned to pure dust as they wet themselves and cried to be given another chance. Funny, how people never want to change until they will never have the chance to.

Maybe I am a statistic or a “psychopath.” Maybe I have daddy issues or mommy issues or whatever the psychologists say. What I know is that those children will never be hurt or harmed or watch their mother die in front of them as long as I could help it.

This meal will never satisfy the way my mama's food did. In the same way no death could satisfy my need to rid the earth of sadistic, worthless fathers. Hunger is funny that way. It satiates for a time, yet comes back until you are starving, depraved, nearly driven mad from the feeling of it. My hands will always hunger for justice just like my soul will always hunger for one more moment with Mama.

A watch beeper goes off and I hear a guard cut the sound.

“You have two minutes.”

I take another inhale of the meal that brings me back home. The meal that reminds me of before.

They’ll stick a needle in my arm later today to end my life. Ironic, isn’t it? A death sentence because they say I wanted to play God. Aren’t they doing the same thing, though?