The Bad Doctor

Chapter 1

I woke to the soft hiss of machinery and the scent of antiseptic.
My wrists weren't tied, but they didn't need to be. The mattress beneath me curved around my body like a mold, cradling me so deeply I could barely move. Every shift sent waves through flesh that no longer felt entirely like mine. My arms were thick, heavy things resting at my sides. My stomach rose before me like a hill, disappearing the rest of my body beneath its immense slope.
And standing beside the bed, smiling behind round spectacles, was Dr. Vale.
"You're awake," he said warmly, as though greeting an old friend. "Excellent. I was hoping you'd see the final stage."
My throat tightened. "What did you do to me?"
He adjusted the blanket with absurd tenderness. "I perfected you."
Memories came in fragments. A routine appointment. A calm voice. A needle prick. Then days-weeks?-of drifting in and out of sleep while rich shakes slid through tubes, while injections burned beneath my skin, while hands measured and recorded and praised every gain.
At first I had fought. I remembered that. I had screamed, thrashed, begged.
But my body had grown faster than my will could keep up.
Now even drawing breath felt like lifting weights. I sank deeper into the bed with every exhale, vast and immobile, my form spreading outward until the mattress itself seemed too small to contain me.
Dr. Vale saw the panic in my eyes and stroked my forehead.
"Don't be frightened," he murmured. "You spent your life trying to become smaller. More acceptable. More efficient. You let the world carve pieces off you."
He gestured toward me with pride.
"I gave you abundance."
I tried to lift a hand and managed only a tremor beneath layers of softness. He seemed delighted.
"There," he said. "Still some spirit left."
He moved around the room, checking gauges connected to the bed. Pumps hummed quietly. Nutrient lines. Hydration feeds. Climate controls. Everything designed around me now, because I could no longer adapt to anything else.
I was the center of the room.
The center of his world.
"How long?" I whispered.
"Long enough for genius to bloom." He leaned close. "You are nearly twelve hundred pounds."
The number hit me harder than any blow could have.
I stared at the ceiling, unable to comprehend it. Unable to comprehend myself. My body filled the room with its presence: the slow shifting of weight, the heat of so much flesh, the helplessness of being transformed into something monumental and dependent.
He noticed my tears and smiled sadly.
"You still think in old measurements," he said. "Weight. Mobility. Shame."
He pressed a button. The bed slowly tilted, repositioning me with mechanical care I could never provide for myself.
"I think in devotion."
A tray rolled from the wall, bearing a silver cup with a straw. Thick cream swirled inside it.
My stomach clenched despite everything.
"No," I said weakly.
"Yes," he answered gently. "You need your strength."
He held the straw to my lips. I turned my head an inch before exhaustion defeated me. The first sip was sweet, warm, decadent. My body accepted it instantly, traitorously, greedily.
"There," he whispered. "Good."
I drank because resisting required energy I no longer possessed.
I drank while he praised me.
I drank while the bed adjusted to accommodate another subtle spread of my body.
I drank while the room around me hummed like a shrine.
When the cup was empty, he kissed my forehead and dimmed the lights.
"Sleep now," Dr. Vale said. "Tomorrow we see how much more perfection you can hold."
And as I lay there, buried in my own immensity, unable to rise, unable to flee, I understood the most terrifying truth of all:
There was still room to grow.