Chapter 2 - mummy

“You’re making him walk?!”

She’s here. You wanted all of the chores to be done before she arrived - for the room to be tidy, the bedsheets clean, for you to have been bathed, but it’s taken you far too long to get out of bed, and the exertion of the few steps you’ve taken has rendered the bed bath you’ve had all but pointless. Still, none of that matters because Mummy is here, and she’s perhaps the only person who can make this all better. Mummy doesn’t lumber gracelessly across the room like you - she glides. She’s in front of you in seconds - a trip that would likely take you half an hour to complete. You try to greet her but your heart is thundering in your chest and you feel as though you can barely breathe. She touches your face gently, her expression the picture of concern.

“Sweet baby,” she croons, “Let’s get you into your chair, I know you can do it.”

You can. Barely. As you collapse into the armchair that could fit all three of the women in the room comfortably, you feel your body squishing to fill it like a cup of jelly. The arms of the chair are pinching at your rolls. You must be gaining at a staggering pace; you’re certain that you still fitted this chair comfortably not so long ago. Mummy perches on one of the arms and mops your brow with a cool cloth, watching you breathe like a landed fish.

“I can’t believe you made him walk that far,” she says coldly. “Doesn’t he have a wheelchair you can use?”

“He’s too big for the wheelchair,” you hear one of the carers reply, defensively, over your head. She sounds very far away. “I’m not sure we’d be able to push it anyway, there’s only two of us.”

“I need… more breakfast,” you repeat, gasping. The carer makes an incredulous tutting noise.

“Of course you do, sweetness,” Mummy agrees, cradling your doughy cheeks in her slender fingers. She pulls a styrofoam box out of one the many bags she has brought with her and pops the lid, revealing eight fat pancakes. She has remembered the extra syrup, and she pours it over the stack, rivulets of sugar running off the edges of the cakes and pooling in the bottom of the tray like a deep moat. You moan, your mouth watering, eliciting a broad, dazzling smile in return. Mummy places the box of food on your huge shelf of belly, bending back down to the bags at her feet and pulling out a can of whipped cream, which she crowns the pancakes with liberally. As you set to eating, the world falls away around you and becomes meaningless. It’s all forgotten now; the torture of walking, the helpless feeling of being denied your food, the judgement of these women you are so utterly reliant on. You can hear yourself moaning and gulping down huge mouthfuls, but you feel disconnected from this too. All you can really feel is your belly stretching and the rush of endorphins as you take in more and more of the sugar and fat that you are so hopelessly addicted to.

“We need to keep him walking, or he’s going to lose his independence,” one of the carers says to Mummy as the three of them strip the bed. “How do you think he’s ever going to lose any of this weight otherwise?”

“I’m curious where you got the impression that he has any intention of losing weight,” Mummy replies, flashing you another grin across the room. You’re half way through the stack of pancakes already, and though your breathing has begun to settle back to normal, the intensity of you glutting yourself is still making you feel a little breathless. The three women are looking at you, with very different expressions on their faces. You hiccup thickly and return to your food. Mummy continues, “As for independence… Well, I don’t think that’s very high on his list of priorities either, is it, cutie pie?”

You grunt and shake your head, your mouth too full to reply. When the pancakes are finished, you pick up the tray and bring it to your pudgy lips, the bands of fat around your upper arms weighing you down a little and making you clumsy. You hear Mummy give an amused little sigh as you guzzle the mixture of syrup, melted butter and cream from the bottom of the tray in huge, sticky swallows. You lean back in the chair, satisfied at least for the moment. She carefully, fastidiously, washes your hands for you, and then turns her attention to your chins, which are glistening with syrup. The look on her face as she washes you is that of utter adoration. In the very fleeting moments of doubt you’ve had these past couple of hundred pounds, it is the thought of her looking at you this way that keeps you eating.

“Do you want to go back to bed, sweetness?” she asks after a time, and you nod, the thought of the trip back to the bed filling you with dread.

“I can’t walk, Mummy,” you mumble in a low voice. “It’s too hard.”

“I know you can’t, darling. Not any more,” she replies gently, “It’s going to be okay. Last few steps, now.”

She is standing above you, offering her hand (as though she could possibly pull you up all on her own) and all of a sudden you feel so much lighter. This is it. You have been expanding towards this event horizon for the past few years. There can be no turning back after this. Standing to return to the bed is so much easier than standing to leave it, you note. Eight last steps - just eight, unsteady, ponderous steps - and you will have eaten yourself past the point of mobility for good. Mummy walks backwards, her eyes on you, her hands gently enclosing yours, and you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. Your huge, swinging belly precedes you into the frame. As you stagger forwards with your hands outstretched, your plump legs trembling with each step, you look like an enormous toddler taking his first steps towards his mother. This is how walking began and now this is how it ends, with Mummy beaming proudly at you and guiding you every step of the way. You would follow her another hundred steps to the fate that awaits you now, you muse, as she helps you to get comfortable in the enormous, throne-like bed once more. There is nothing for you now but more food, and ever bigger mattresses.

“How do you feel, baby boy?” she asks you tenderly, stroking your hair out of your flushed face once more.

“Famished,” you reply, truthfully, between laboured breaths, and she beams.

“You’ve done so well, little pet,” she tells you, kissing you deeply, “I’m so proud of you. You finally did it.”

As she brings you the next meal, you grin wickedly back up at her, your flabby cheeks creasing. “I haven’t done it yet,” you tell her. “I can still move my arms, after all.”

Her eyes widen… and then glint mischievously.

“For now. But not for long.”