'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.'
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 herplate 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 aflash—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.
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.
Anahita Amouzegar is an Iranian-Australian visual artist based in Melbourne. Her practice explores the intersection of abstraction and figuration, where colour, form, and emotion converge to reflect the complexity of human experience. Through layered compositions and expressive gestures, Amouzegar investigates the relationship between the tangible and the intangible, navigating themes of memory, identity, perception, and imagination. You can find more about her here.