The Smell of Bread and Death
The first time he realized that his family was different had been before he had even turned five. He would live a few years more and turn twelve before he fully understood, before that wet, cloudy day when his father did not even look in his direction as he said in an unusual voice (or as he would consider later, a guilty voice), or perhaps one could say he asked,
“Come with me…”
But there was still time left before that day would arrive, and Avet, who was not yet five, would never forget the loneliness that invaded him when he realized that his family was living in that town with the stigma of being different. No, he didn’t know that word yet, he didn’t remember which grade he was when he read the word “stigma” in a textbook for the first time and realized
