Bellyache

Dinner at Mom and Dad's can be a tense affair, but the sound of eating Mom's cooking tends to hide the worst of the silences. I spear a small slice of beef with my fork and raise it delicately to my mouth. It's so tender that it almost seems to melt over my tongue.

"Don't you think it's time we changed the lights around here?" I glance up from my plate. My eyes meet my younger sister's.

"Alice," I say in a warning tone.

She shoots me a confident look from across the table. She doesn't stop.

"It's too dark in here," she continues. "I can barely see what Mom made for dinner."

"I would hazard a Sunday pot roast," Dad replies. "I haven't touched mine yet – when you're done complaining, you can try it with me."

"Please?" Mom says to Alice, patient as ever. "It would make me so happy if you finished at least half."

Between Dad's dryness and Mom's warmth, it's the warmth that sets her off.

"Well, I won't eat it. Not with all of you breathing down my neck like this," she snaps. "You know what the dietician said!"

"I don't remember seeing 'light bulbs' anywhere in your treatment plan," Dad says. His voice is soft, but his jaw is tight. His eyes take on a familiar gleam.

"I think I'd like to excuse us from the table," I say.

Alice's mouth falls open. "But I-"

"Now," I say, harshly enough to shut her up for once.

"You can go, but don't be long, okay?" Mom smiles at me. Her voice is strained.

I get up from the table and hurry out of the dining room, grabbing Alice's hand and pulling her along as I go. I lead her upstairs and into our parents' bedroom, then shut the door. I press on her shoulders until she sits on the bed, but she's honestly so frail that it doesn't take any force at all.

The lights in the room cast a dim yellow glow, like everything else in this old house. Family portraits line the walls, a procession of dark, curly hair and wide, matching smiles. It's quiet, save for Alice's breathing and the blood rushing through my ears. Downstairs, Dad says something that I choose not to make out.

"I hate it when you do this," Alice says, her voice trembling with anger. "Always... always trying to keep up appearances."

Heat surges up the back of my neck as I turn to face her. "Appearances?" I hiss. "What the fuck is wrong with you? I just want us to be together without you and Dad going for each others' goddamn throats!"

"It was your decision for me to come here!" she snaps back. "With nothing better to do than to sit around in silence eating fucking pot roast. Mom and Dad know how I feel about meat. They're doing this to spite me!"

"But it's not about the food, is it?" I reply coldly. "It's never about the food. If it was, you would've just eaten the potatoes instead of trying to ruin everything."

"Right, right, I'll do that next time!" Alice shouts. "And then you can eat my share of the roast! Go on and be the show-pig you want me to be!"

I suck in a breath to shout back at her, to unload 22 years of hurt and rage and resentment. But before I can say anything, the sound of breaking glass cuts through the air. A scream spirals up the hall from downstairs. It's deep, low, and guttural, a sound I've never heard either of our parents make.

Alice jumps to her feet. Swaying for a moment, she calls out, "Mom? Dad? Is everything alright?"

Silence.

She moves towards the door. I cut in front of her and lock it.

"What are you doing?" she demands. "Mom and Dad are in trouble!"

"No." I shield the doorknob with my body. My heart is in my throat. "It sounds like an animal, not our parents. We need to stay right here."

"You're insane," Alice gasps. "We need to-"

"Call the cops," I say hoarsely. The doorknob digs into my spine. "Right fucking now."

"And tell them what? What do I tell them if we don't know what the fuck is going on?"

"Tell them-"

A loud, wet-sounding groan comes up under our feet. My hands start to shake, and I realize that I've balled them into fists, fingernails digging into my palms.

"Terry," Alice pleads. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Call the cops," I say softly. "But stay in here. When I step outside, I want you to lock the door behind me. I'm going to see if Mom and Dad are okay. Please, Alice... please just listen to me this time."

"Okay. Okay. Fuck..." Alice pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. While she punches in the passcode, I look around for something, anything that I can use as a weapon. There's a letter opener on the dresser. It'll do.

The blade is cool to the touch, sharp enough to make my index finger bleed. Sucking the tip instinctively, I move towards the door. Alice opens it for me, mumbles, "Be safe," and then I'm alone in the relative dark of the hall. The door clicks shut behind me.

The handle of the letter opener feels slick in my hand as I tiptoe downstairs. My stomach, though full from dinner, growls, and I curse inwardly at how loud it is. Terror blunts hunger, but my stomach doesn't stop growling, not even when I'm confronted by the scene in the dining room.

The letter opener falls from my slackened grip and clatters against the hardwood floor.

Something in Mom's dress is hunched over something in Dad's suit.

No groans this time, no screams either, just the sound of eating.

The thing in Mom's dress looks over at me, what looks like skin hanging between its teeth. It gives me her sweet smile.

I'm afraid that if I'll throw up if I try to scream, so I don't. I turn and run into the living room, blood in my mouth from biting my tongue. I dive behind the couch so fast that the rug burns my hands.

"Terry," says the thing as it crawls around the couch.

"Terry," says the thing as it crawls towards me. I flip onto my back and kick at it, as hard as I can. I miss. It grabs my bare ankle, squeezes it so hard I scream.

"Finish at least half," says the thing as it clambers onto me. Its hands grab either side of my face, prying at my jaw.

Her mouth opens up like a sinkhole over mine. I taste blood, bone, and pot roast. It's in my throat. I can't help but swallow.

After some time, my stomach stops growling. The hunger's all gone. Mom was just trying to feed me. I feel like such a fool for being scared. I try to get back on my feet, but the world tilts and spins crazily, so I figure crawling on my hands and knees is the better choice. Mom is back in the dining room. The sounds of licking and sucking start to fade as I make my way back upstairs. Soon enough, I'm in the hall.

"Alice?" I call out. My tongue is heavy. I slur her name.

"T-Terry?" she says from behind the door. "The cops called me a prank-caller..."

"Alice, open the door. Mom and Dad are okay."