Hunger hurts...

My waistline looks like I just swallowed whole a gigantic doughnut. I wish I did. My thighs are Siamese, glued together.  My breasts suffocate in a worn-out bra, and I got two chins for the price of one. 

I look nothing like the anchorwoman on TV who always talks about my hometown; or that other girl who interviewed me, sympathized with us and never came back.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My stomach is roaring. I’m starving. I haven’t had food for two days and my three kids had bread – only, yesterday.

I know he will be coming anytime now. My children rush out screaming happily: “Mr. Hero! Mr. Hero!”
To them, he is. He brings fresh milk, eggs, bread and sometimes candy. Today, he carries sandwiches, too.
He points to a small clearing a few meters away from the tents. The kids take the sandwiches and head there. 

As they walk away, he snaps his fingers twice, calls me “oil barrel” and commands me to turn around and bend down.

It’s clear to me now that he gives me this name because of my skin color and shape; and it only seems clearer that he doesn't like to see my face either.

He reeks of nicotine and sweat.
He lifts my skirt. It usually takes him fifteen to twenty minutes. My torture has a time frame.
My cheeks soak in tears, my body stings in disgust and my heart shatters in shame.
As he finishes, I wash myself, fake a smile and go eat with my babies.

To my kids, he is honorable. To me, he is extremely despicable.