When you wake up, everything is bright. Too bright. Like someone turned the sun up too high. The air too sharp, too clean.

  Your arms ache. Your ribs feel wrong. You can’t remember. Not clearly.

  But you hear the humming.

  The familiar sound.

  You smell pancakes again.

  Your mother is standing by the stove. She turns to you with that smile, that perfect smile. Same humming. Same pink apron.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, her voice soft. She doesn’t look tired. Not like you.

  “Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”

  You sit. The chair feels too hard. You feel the pressure in your chest. But you don’t say anything. You don’t want to.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Your mother sets the plate in front of you. It’s the same as always, golden and warm. Her hands are steady.

  There are no bruises on her face.

  None. Not even a red mark. Not even a scratch. You’re happy about it but isn’t it impossible? She’s bright, too perfect.

  But your back hurts when you breathe, and your mouth tastes like blood.

  "I’m sorry if they taste a little off," she says, setting the plate down. "I don’t feel too good today."

  You nod. You don’t mind after all she made you your favorite, Pancakes. You cut into the pancake.

  It folds instead of tears. It folds, it just bends, It’s moist.

  You chew. You want to spit it out, but you don’t. You keep chewing anyway.

  The pancakes feel wrong.

  You don’t know what’s wrong with them, but when you bite down, it’s not the sweet warmth you expect. There’s no softness, no taste that lingers like it should. It’s wet in a way that makes your mouth feel thick, like you’re chewing something that isn’t meant for eating. It makes you sick, you feel like you’re about to throw up. This is not meant to be eaten.

  But you don’t stop. You chew anyway. You keep swallowing, because that's what you do. You’re hungry, and for hunger you eat.

  “Do you like it?” she asks, her voice sweet, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

  You nod, forcing a smile. You don’t know why it doesn’t taste like it used to. It’s not the way she makes them. Not the way they’ve always been.

  You swallow another bite, but it sticks to your throat. It’s like trying to swallow something hard, like a rock, but you do it anyway.