“The kids need to eat.”
Yes, that was my answer.
I had failed as a man, as a provider.
I had failed as a husband. As a father.
And now, I had failed as a person.
I lay there, unable to move, unable to do anything but listen.
People came and went. She asked, begging them to take her. But none did.
She was too thin, too tired-looking, just another broken woman in a city that had no use for broken things.
Not even for a few coppers, the price of a cheap meal at an inn.
I almost smiled at that.
Happy that no one would touch her.
…Angry that she was of no use.
That flickering relief didn’t last long.
A few men bought her for an entire night. Took turns on her in some filthy alleyway, no different from the one we called home. And I was there, lying on the cold ground, hungry as always, listening as they used her body like she was nothing more than a piece of fuckable meat.
She screamed.
They laughed.
And I…
I covered my ears.
The same hands that once shielded my children from the harshness of this world now shielded me from the reality of my own failure.
They cried. My children, my blood, my babies.
They wept and begged me to do something.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t listen; I didn’t dare to. Like a coward, I turned my back on them, curled up, and prayed for the Reaper to come take me away.
Cold was my body, as was my heart. On that night, in this freezing place, I lay—broken in both heart and body.
The night stretched on, endless.
The air was colder than usual, or maybe I was just numb.
Eventually, my exhaustion took over, and somehow, despite the horror of it all, I slept.
My children’s small hands tapped my back all night, seeking comfort, a father, anything.
But I remained motionless.
A corpse breathing.
When I woke up, it was the next day.
A day I thought wouldn’t arrive, one I wished never did.
I turned to my side and saw her lying there.
She looked miserable. Many times more than usual. Eyes puffy from crying, her clothes torn, barely covering her bruised body. Hair matted with filth.
But… she was smiling in her sleep.
She must’ve eaten.
Bought something with the money she earned while I lay there like a rotting dog.
The kids seemed to have eaten too.
Their bellies were not as sunken.
She might’ve left something for me. But I didn’t dare touch it.
Because even though I had abandoned my responsibilities last night, I still had some semblance of… of…
No.
Nothing was left.
I ate it all.
Like an animal, I tore through the bread, stuffing it into my mouth with shaking hands.
I didn’t even taste it. I didn’t even think about what it meant. I just consumed. Devoured. And for a fleeting moment, I felt alive.
But then the hunger was gone. And all that remained was thirst.
I staggered to my feet, searching.
My eyes darted across the filth-ridden street, desperate, feverish.
Then I saw it—a half-drunk waterskin, discarded near a crumbling wall.
I lunged for it.
Drained it in seconds before anyone else could.
And, as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, a woman approached me.
She looked… clean. Like she belonged in a different world. A world where people weren’t crawling through garbage for survival.
She held a kebab in her hand and tossed it to me.
“Come by if you want more. ——————’s Kitchen. That’s the place.”
I nodded. I think I did. I wasn’t listening.
I didn’t even thank the woman, my mouth latching on to the meat.
Then… then it was gone before my brain even registered the taste.
I had eaten the entire thing without a single thought about my children’s or wife’s well-being.
Rather, instead of thinking about them, I was busy regretting the way I ate that piece of meat.
I was sure that it tasted incredible, divine, as if it came from heaven itself.
It was truly unfortunate that I couldn’t taste it.
Really unfortunate.
For the first time in forever, I felt full.
God almighty blessed me today.
I basked in this wonderful moment.
But it didn’t last long.
My sanity returned.
Realization struck like a blade to the gut, slow at first, then all at once.
Guilt replaced any fleeting satisfaction that had once bathed my body in its false warmth.
My wife had given her body to jackals for one night, and I…
I had taken the meal meant for our children.
I hadn’t just failed them—I had stolen from them.
The very children I swore to protect.
The very woman I swore to cherish.
What kind of man was I?
No. Not a man. Not even a beast. Beasts killed to feed their young.
I was something lesser, something foul, something that didn’t deserve to crawl beneath the sky of this accursed world.
A monster.
That’s what I was.
No better than the men who had used her.
Maybe worse. At least they paid for what they took.
My stomach twisted, and for the first time in a long time, it was not from hunger but from the weight of my own disgrace.
My feet found the earth, one step, then another, and before I knew it, I was running—sprinting away from the alley, away from their sleeping forms, away from the shame curling like a viper around my throat.
I had to get out.
I had to move.
I had to do something before I lost the last sliver of what made me human.
I prayed as I ran.
Not to God. Not to anything holy or merciful.
I prayed to the void, to the silence between breaths, to whatever cruel force had shaped this world and cast us into its filth.
‘Take them from me.’