Six Seconds Taught Me Math.
By Pamela Smith.
“Emma eats slowly. She must. She counts, she chews, she swallows—because she remembers what happens when you don’t.”
Monologue by Anahita Amouzegar.
Emma eats slowly. She must. She counts, she chews, she swallows—because she remembers what happens when you don’t.
She sits in her yellow chair—the one with the worn wooden finish, smooth under her fingertips. Her hands rest on the table as she aligns her plate ever so slightly. Everything is in order.
Six beans.
Six peas.
Six raspberries.
Six soft bread crumb balls. Lined up, precise.
She picks up a single bean, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. Lifts it. Lips part just enough.
Chew.
Pause.
Swallow.
Six seconds pass before she reaches for another.
Across the table, Amelie watches intently. Small body tensed, ears perked. The moment Emma’s fingers brush her lips, Amelie lunges—quick as a flash—snatching a bread crumb ball in her tiny teeth. She scurries back, nibbling, waiting. Watching for the next moment to strike.
The pattern repeats. It always repeats.
Breakfast.
Lunch.
Dinner.
The ritual. Slow. Measured. Safe.
Only breakfast is different.
An extra item.
Six raisins.
A laugh echoes in Emma’s memory—bright, careless. Fingers reach across the table, snatching fries, dipping them into a pool of ketchup without a glance. A burger, bitten into mid-sentence. Soda fizzes against lips. Grease shines on a cheek.
Then—
A cough.
A sharp inhale.
A sudden stillness.
The straw drops. A chair scrapes back hard.
Someone rises.
Hands—so many hands—grabbing, lifting, shaking. A body folded forward. Fingers pressed to a back.
A voice—Rachel!
There’s no sound now. Just the fizzing of soda slowing to a hush.
The ketchup cooling on the plate.
Only a thin slice of silence cuts through the room.
The next time Emma eats, her bites are smaller. Slower. She presses food between her tongue and the roof of her mouth until it’s mashed.
She isn’t sick. She’s careful. Controlled. She counts, she chews, she swallows. Safely.
Across the table, Amelie waits. Eyes locked on Emma’s mouth. Ready to snatch up whatever falls.
The first time Emma met Amelie, she didn’t like her.
She just stared, eyes wide open, like, ‘Whoa, is that a little monster or what?’
And Rachel?
‘Don’t worry, you’re gonna love her,’ she said, giving her sister a wink.
Six seconds.
That’s all it takes
to get your life mashed.
The Blood Pudding – May 10, 2026
Pamela Smith (she/her) is a Dublin-based writer exploring inner worlds, disorder, and transformation. Her work has appeared in Tint Journal, and in The Blood Pudding. When she isn’t writing, she drinks cappuccino and eats cinnamon rolls.
Artwork: Anahita Amouzegar is an Iranian-Australian visual artist based in Melbourne. Her art is a journey into the realm of the abstract, where the tangible and intangible intersect in a dance of color, form, and emotion. In her work, she strives to capture the essence of the human experience through figurative abstraction, exploring the depths of inner worlds and the interplay between reality and imagination. You can find her work here.