Life in the attic felt strangely peaceful most days, though the noise of my family’s voices from downstairs kept filtering up, like an unwanted echo that wouldn’t stop. They’d try to talk to me sometimes—mom calling up the stairs, Sophia knocking once in a while, even one of my brothers occasionally poking his head in. I didn’t want any of it. Every time they called, I turned up the volume on my game or put on my headphones to drown them out. They’d had their chance; they didn’t get to act like they cared now.
One evening, the gnawing hunger got too strong, and I realized I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I was out of food, except for some old cereal that was stale and some bread that had gone hard. I pulled on my worn-out sneakers, grabbed some cash, and slipped out, making sure no one noticed me leaving. Walking to the store felt strange, like stepping out of a cave. The lights from the streetlamps felt brighter than usual, and the chill in the air reminded me of how long I’d been locked away.
At the store, I went straight for the aisle with the ramen. As I picked up a few packets, I felt someone watching me. Looking up, I saw a man behind the counter, his gaze steady, his face familiar. It took me a second to realize why I recognized him—it was the man from the bridge, the one who’d been there that night when everything felt like it was crumbling.
“Hey, kid,” he called out, his voice cutting through the quiet of the store. He walked over, looking me up and down with a kind of knowing look, one that made me uncomfortable but also curious. “Haven’t seen you in a while. You alright?”
I shrugged, not wanting to get into anything personal. “Just… getting by.”
The man shook his head, almost like he was disappointed. “Getting by, huh? You look like you’ve been through hell.” He leaned against the shelf, arms crossed, studying me. “You look like you’re starving yourself. What are you, 16?”
“Thirteen,” I corrected, feeling my voice come out flatter than I’d intended. “I’m just trying to find a place to rest. Someday.”
At that, his face changed. His eyes grew sharp, and before I knew it, he raised his hand and slapped me across the face. I stumbled back, feeling a sting on my cheek and looking up at him, shocked.
“What the hell are you talking about, looking for a place to rest?” he barked. “You’re a kid. You’re supposed to live, not hide yourself away.”
The words hit something inside me. For a second, I remembered Dad’s voice telling me, “Don’t let the world get to you. You’ve got to prove them wrong.” I’d always thought Dad meant for me to survive, but maybe he wanted me to do more than that. Maybe he wanted me to actually live.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
I put a hand on the man’s shoulder, something like gratitude mixing with the anger and pain inside. “I get it now,” I told him, and my voice came out steadier than I’d expected. “I’ll try. I’ll go through life. I’ll do it.”
He looked at me, and there was something like pride in his eyes, a quiet nod of approval as I gathered my things. I left the store with a bag of noodles and something else—a strange sense of purpose.
The walk home felt different. The wind brushed against my face, and I actually noticed the crunch of leaves under my feet. I thought about Dad’s words, how maybe they weren’t just about staying alive but about finding a reason to keep going. My heart beat harder in my chest, and I felt something like a spark flicker to life.
Back at the house, I slipped inside quietly, heading up to the attic and putting the noodles away for later. But as I sat there in the dim light, an idea formed. If I really wanted to try living, I had to start somewhere. I couldn’t stay in the attic forever. I waited until everyone was back, their voices echoing through the house, and then I took a deep breath.
“Family meeting in the attic,” I called out, my voice steady and loud.
The sound of footsteps started, and one by one, they came up, crowding into the small space, looking around with confused and curious faces. No one knew what to expect, and I didn’t either. I stood there, meeting each of their gazes, one at a time. Finally, I said, “I want to start going back to school.”
The room went silent. Mom’s face shifted between shock and confusion, her eyes searching my face like she was looking for something she’d lost. The others exchanged glances, and I could feel their surprise, even a bit of awkwardness. They’d probably forgotten what my voice sounded like.
Mom was the first to speak. “Are you… are you eating enough?” she asked, her voice soft, a bit choked. She looked at me carefully, taking in my thin frame and the hollow look in my eyes. “You look like… like you’ve been living off scraps.”
I shrugged, keeping my voice flat. “I’ve been fine. Mostly noodles. But that’s not the point.” I paused, looking each of them in the eyes, and I realized I couldn’t call them family. Not after everything. Instead, I used their names, one by one, like strangers in a meeting.
Each time I said their full names, I saw a flicker of hurt and confusion cross their faces, but I kept going. “I just wanted to let you know. I’m going back to school. That’s it.”
Mom’s eyes filled with tears as she looked down, then back up at me. She nodded slowly, her face a mix of sadness and something like guilt. Without another word, she turned and left, her footsteps soft as she went down the stairs. The others trailed out one by one, each of them glancing back, maybe waiting for me to say more, but I didn’t. I watched them leave, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction.
As they disappeared down the stairs, I stood alone in the attic, feeling the silence settle around me. It was my first step, the first crack in the walls I’d built around myself. I knew that forgiveness wasn’t coming anytime soon—if at all—but this was something for me. A way to make life my own again, even if it hurt.