Martha

Chapter 4

I tell you; I was mortified. Horrified. Terrified. Every mixed feeling smashed into one. I finally found my answer. I just wasn’t ready for it. Now the only thing I can do is try to show that I know what happened and maybe then…Maybe then Martha can move on in peace.

I hopped into my van and drove back over to Emily’s. I hadn’t been here in a few weeks and its as if there is a dark cloud over her home. As soon as I stepped out of my car, the air felt heavy, almost suffocating. I pushed through the front gate and made my way to her front door. Her grass, completely overgrown; her property, absolutely littered with trash--a far cry from who Emily truly was.

I pounded on the door. “EMILY?!” I pounded it again. This time, I heard nothing. I opened the door and stepped inside and was immediately hit with the smell of fry grease. The once-tidy home was in an even worse state than before. Empty food containers, wrappers, plates, pizza boxes, everything strewn across every surface. I began checking every room in the house, Emily was nowhere to be found. I eventually went upstairs to where her bedroom was, “Emily?” I called out. I gingerly stepped over mounds and mounds of empty takeout containers. And when I entered the bedroom, my eyes landed on a massive blob lying atop her straining bed. Her belly was gigantic, her fleshy sides spilling over the edges of her California Queen. She was in her underwear, and they were stretched to their limits; her fat, bloated body bulging out every opening; the seams, on their last thread. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and as I walked over, I had to lift my hand to set it atop her belly. It was sticky with food mess, as if she wore it like a trophy to show her gluttonous triumph. It was also completely taut, packed so full of fattening food that she had to be close to bursting. I stepped back toward the doorway and called the paramedics.

“More…I need more…” It wasn’t Emily.

“Martha. You need to leave this house at once. You are not welcome here.” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

“I need to eat more…Feed me more…” Emily’s hand heavily reaches around her trying to find something more to eat.

“Martha, I know how you died. FRANK killed you.” The mention of Frank’s name sent a whirlwind of through the room followed by a scream between the fabric of this reality. The food containers rose into the air and slammed against me in a wave, almost drowning me in the trash. “This isn’t you; you need to leave here at once!”

Another wave of empty food containers pelted me from across the room.

“Emily? Can you hear me?”

“It’s not my fault,” she gasped, clutching her swollen stomach. “She made me do it.”

“I know. I know!”

The tornado in her bedroom swirled faster and harder.

“Martha, she won’t leave me alone. She’s always so…*urp*… hungry. Always demanding more.”

“I understand, Emily, it’s not your fault. You need to fight back, take back control!” The disembodied scream rang loudly into the room.

“She always wanted more… More…”

I could hear the sirens in the background.

“You have to end this, Martha, we know what really happened, you have to move on!” The disembodied scream rang in my ears, followed up by Emily’s own scream as she tried to break free of Martha’s grasp. I felt a blast of wind fly past me as the front door opened, the floating food containers fell to the ground with a thud. I hear a cacophony of voices and of a gurney being rushed up the stairs and her bedroom door slams open. The paramedics rushed in, and were in complete disbelief at the fattened, bloated ball of flesh that was Emily.

“What...did she eat?” One of them asked me…

“E…Everything.” Was all I could muster. I could hear Emily sobbing, saying she was sorry, that it wasn’t her fault, pleading for help. The men took their time, and carefully tried to lift her on the gurney. “She’s too heavy,” one of them muttered. “We need to be careful.”

They managed to somehow squeeze her through her doorway, the gurney creaking dangerously under her mass. But it wasn’t until they made it to the staircase that it happened. As they went to lower her down, the legs snapped.

I can’t express to you how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t even want to write you such a detailed story but it’s one that has to be heard. One, to let you understand that despite what you see at her funeral, despite the rumors you may hear, Emily’s death wasn’t her fault, and her last days weren’t how she normally spent her life. I tried. I tried to help her, to save her. But I failed her.

Well, I need to wrap this up. All this talk of food has made me a bit famished, despite my late lunch and early dinner. I seem to be extra hungry these days. Must be a coping mechanism.

Sincerely,

-J-u-l-i-e-

Martha