I

He sits on the front porch as always, staring at the sky. The sunlight hits him straight on the face, and the shadow of his figure hides everything behind. As always, he is in his stained white overalls that are hard to tell their initial color.

He can smell it. Roasted chicken, it must be.

How long has it been since he stepped into the dinning hall for lunch?

He struggles and sighs. As always, he stretches out his arms and leans forward, fingers pointing at the sun, as if to get hold of something. He pulls himself up from the stairs, and he pants slightly.

He drags his feet up the stairs, one, two, three.

II

The mother is already at the table, her younger son sits next to her. He pulls out a chair and sits opposite to them.

The mother is feeding her son. She scoops up a spoonful of soup, puts it near her mouth, and blows on it slightly. She then sends it to his mouth, watching him swallow it. She repeats the action countless times until the cup is empty.

He just stares at them. His gaze moves from the apron her mother is wearing to her smile, and then to her son: his expression while being fed reminds him of someone that is familiar. He gazes at his mouth. It moves and sucks up the soup like a machine. He swallows uncontrollably, in the same rhythm as he sucks up the soup. He feels the urge to eat.

He stares at the dishes placed in front of him, not wanting to admit his desire.

He just stares at them in silence.

He has to choose. The fork on his left, the knife on his right, and he just needs to pick them up and reach out. They are there for him. They are there, for him.

He picks up the fork, then the knife with trembling hands. He holds them, tries to keep them still, but fails. He can't keep still. The fork and the knife are trembling in front of his eyes, and the dishes in the background are shaking out of control.

"Smack!" The sudden sound keeps him sober.

"Do you eat or not?" He looks up and sees his mother's indifferent face. Her smile fades away. Strangely, he feels relieved, as if something returns to normal. He gazes at the fork and the knife that were thrown by his mother. They lie there, for him. The image of the mother's son's throat going up and down swallowing the soup suddenly appears in his mind. He jumps off from the chair, scoops them up from the floor, plunges into the roasted chicken, starts to tear it up. He eats, and he eats. His eyes are red, filled with excitement.

He stuffs a large piece of meat into his mouth, and after chewing several times, he starts to stuff another large chunk of meat into his mouth. More, he wants more. He stuffs more chicken meat in until it is about to explode. He can't wait for himself to swallow all of them, he wants more. It's the first time he physically feels his stomach. He is excited, he feels ecstasy. The oil stains his white overalls. Then he retches. His eyeballs protrude. He feels something else. He can feel his stomach contracting, one, two, three.

The mother is scared, she doesn't know what's wrong with him. She remembers since last month, he started to behave in a strange way. Every time he just stares at the table, as if trying to make some decision. He seems unable to control his body, he trembles and makes the table shake violently. In the first few days, he would eat some, but then rush out of the dining room, she just hears the sound of water flushing. Later, he never appears again every time for lunch. But she doesn't care much, she has a son to feed.

But today, it's the first time he behaves in such a way.

III

He sees the boy sitting at the dining table with soup.

"Mama, let me feed him."

His mother freezes for a second and says, "Of course."

He imitates what his mother did previously, scoops up a spoonful of soup and smells it. He blows on it slightly for a second and sends it to the boy's mouth. He stares at him intently, when the spoon touches his mouth, he gives a slight shudder. He watches him move his mouth and suck up the spoon of soup, throat moving up and down. He swallows, as if the person who is having the soup is him. When the cup is empty, he starts to feed him the roasted chicken. He thrusts the meat into his mouth, one, two, three. His mouthis full, but he still keeps tearing the chicken and stuffing it into his mouth. And they cry.

IV

He sits on the porch as always. It's another sunny day. He looks up at the clear sky. No clouds floating over. The sunlight hits his figure, and the shadow of his figure hides everything behind, including the porch.