I am hungry. I am so hungry. It hurts. It hurts in my stomach, in my chest, in my throat, in my bones. But not just that. It hurts in my soul. It hurts at the very centre of my very being, and I cannot take this hurt.

My papa lost his job. A week ago. It’s only been a week, but the hunger is already setting in. Thank the gods that my mama still has her job. But actually, no. I’m not going to thank the gods that my mama has to go spend most of her day every single day at that unbearable factory. I don’t want her to be hurt just to help me. I don’t want her to have to keep sacrificing herself, sacrificing something worse than her life, sacrificing her dignity, just to help me.

We were hungry even before papa lost his job. We were still hungry. We were still hurting. We were still aching. I have been hungry all of my life, I have never known anything besides hunger, I have never known anything except for hunger. And, no matter what the rich say, hunger is not something you can get used to, it is not something anyone can get used to. But still, with our income halved, this hunger that I feel right now is more desperate. Not worse. Not deeper. But more desperate.

My papa is not with us all day, though he does not have to go to work. He says that he misses my three younger siblings and myself. I know that he misses my three younger siblings and myself. But he has to go out to look for another job. And looking for another job keeps him out all day, only letting him return after my mother has already returned from her job.

He feels ashamed. I know he feels so deeply ashamed that he cannot provide for us, that he cannot put food on the table for us. My mama puts food on the table, but still, with only one income the food is not nearly enough. And we never even had a table to begin with so this idiom is only an idiom really. We have tried to tell papa that we understand him, we forgive him, it’s not his fault that he got fired, but still, he hates himself for it.

I am filled with hatred too. Not hatred against my father. But hatred against his bosses for firing him. Hatred against this horrible situation. I look at my younger siblings, I look at Aleka and Marisa and Donno. And I see the hunger in their eyes. And it makes me feel rage in my heart, makes me feel hatred in my heart. I’m their older sibling, I should be able to save them from this. I know that hatred against papa is misdirected. I love him immensely and he loves us. But still, my hatred swirls and splashes in me, and I hated everyone who made or sustains this horrible system we live in now.

My hatred and my hunger gnarls and snarls and prowls, each beast mixing with the other, each beast wrecking havoc on all my insides. I cannot sleep, as my heart aches, my mind aches, my stomach aches, my whole body aches. It’s pure torture what I am going through. But it’s pure torture families like mine have to go through every once in a while anyways, as punishment for our family members not listening to the bosses perfectly enough.

My grandmother told me, years ago when I was just a small child and she was still alive, that I could look at the moon when I was having trouble falling asleep. That looking at the moon would help soothe me, help me calm down. She told me that her grandmother’s grandmother had told her grandmother, and her own grandmother had told her. They were all eldest children like me, tasked with passing knowledge on to their generations. She said that so far it hasn’t worked for her, but maybe it could work for me, if I ever needed it to.

And I have never needed it to work as much as I do right now.

I turn my head to the small window on the small wall of our small hut. I have to shimmy around a little, moving quietly and slowly so that I don’t wake up the others sleeping on the floor around me, but I manage to get into a position from which I can see the moon. The moon that is peeking through the window, in the blank darkness of the sky.

The sky is not dark. Not really. And it doesn’t feel dark either. So many artificial satellites are in the sky, emitting tiny bits of light. You cannot see the stars because of the artificial satellites. You cannot even see the satellites themselves. You can only see a not-darkness which is deeply disturbing and terrible. But still, I try to get used to this darkness anyways. I try to focus on it so that I have something else to focus on besides the hunger. It does not work. I am still hungry, so hungry. I am still so full of hate. I am just deeply disturbed on top of all of that now.

And looking at the moon does not help either. It is deeply scarred. It is deeply scarring. It is cut through with dark metallic lines that twist and writhe. A face with the mouth sown shut. Unnatural, fractal tendrils reaching out, ever-hungry for more. Besides the dark lines, there are many splotches of colour, misshapen and garish. They stretch across the surface of the moon like bruises. Like many bruises. Like many, poisoned bruises. The moon is just as aching as I am, if not more so.

This doesn’t give me peace. It doesn’t give me peace to look at this. All it does do is, it sends me screaming inside. As if I am witnessing a massacre. I suppose, though, that I am witnessing a massacre. A massacre that nothing in the human mind has ever been prepared to witness. A massacre that none of us were made for, none of us were evolved for.

I try to turn away, but I cannot turn away. I can only cry and pray to the gods that somehow the people and the universe can survive all of this. I still believe in the gods, no matter how much the penalty for being caught as a believer is. The authorities won’t be able to find me anyways. I still believe in them, because it’s impossible to not believe. It’s impossible to let myself not believe. But can the gods save our people? Can the gods save the moon?