Chapter 5 - home cooking

After my father finished explaining their plan, I decided to stay with him for awhile. I settled my things into my old room while he cooked up some dinner. Climbing the stairs to the top floor had proved extremely difficult. In my apartment building, I just took the elevator, usually sweating by the time I made it to my door just from the pure exhaustion of walking. But this was torture. Three steps in, I was huffing and puffing, having to take a pause while leaning on the railing. I was horribly out of shape to the point it was almost comical. I'm just glad my dad wasn't in the room to see such a pitiful display. What a whale his daughter had become.

When I finally made it up the stairs, twenty minutes of struggling later, I made my way to my room. Getting in was tricky. The door had not been designed to fit someone of my current width, so I had to adjust a couple times to fully get through. When I finally did, I waddled my way over to my childhood bed and plopped myself down in a sloppy heap. Part of me expected the bed frame to give out under my weight. Luckily it didn't, but if I was just a little bit heavier, I'm sure it would have.

I laid down and eventually fell asleep. My dreams were filled with disturbing images of excess. I saw food swirling around me. Every delicious dish my imagination was capable of conjuring up. I saw the Kanamits with forks in their hands and their silent mouths wide open as they stuffed themselves with the obese. I saw myself in my normal thin body before it inflated like a balloon filled with lard, taking me well beyond the dimensions I was currently stationed at. And through it all, I heard a distant voice calling out to me. Telling me to eat. Telling me to go back. Telling me to get fatter.

I eventually woke up when the smell of pork hit my nostrils. My father brought me a plate with my favorite home cooked meal on it; smothered pork chops, potato au gratin, asparagus, and cranberry sauce. He would make it any time I did something worth celebrating or whenever I was feeling down. It was my comfort food and I was definitely in need some comforting. Every time I ate it growing up, I distinctly remember how swollen my belly would get. How I had to unbutton my pants and rub my distended stomach each time I finished. How I'd have to stay sat at the table because I was too stuffed to move. The meal was insanely heavy, especially for a scrawny thing like me. Looking at it now though, I could barely see it tickling my appetite. The portions I had been consuming up until then were so ridiculously large that this famously dense meal looked like little more than an appetizer, and a small one at that. I wondered how much it would fill me up, if it would even fill me up at all.

I thanked my father as he left the room, the plate propped up on my globular gut. He said that he was going to sleep, but that we would start working on getting me thin again tomorrow. The thought of eating healthy and exercising bordered on the abstract. After barely making it up the stairs, I dreaded the thought of doing push-ups or jumping jacks. But I did know they were necessary. I didn't want to be fat. The fatter I was, the more likely I was to be eaten. So I decided to just enjoy the food in front of me before fruits and vegetables took over as the dominating part of my diet.

I scarfed the food down, leaving no room for savoring the flavor. It was good, but for some reason, I couldn't help but think the Kanamit version would be better. I used to love my father's cooking, but something just didn't taste right. As the last of the plate's contents slid down my throat, I realized that my hypothesis had been correct. I wasn't full. If anything, I was more hungry. And I was only hungry for Kanamit food. It was then that I realized that their must've been something addictive about their offerings. Not just that they were tasty, but something artificial. The cravings grew more intense as I tried harder to ignore them. The screaming in my mind and stomach grew louder with each passing moment like I had just spend a day going cold turkey on heroin.

I started freaking out and headed to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face, hoping it would help. It was like my father's food was causing a bad reaction, like a bacteria being fought off by antibodies within in. The more I rejected the Kanamit food, the more I craved it. If I wanted it to get better, I was going to need some medicine.

I looked in the mirror as I leaned over the sink. Fat face and double chin staring back at me with panic. But once the water hit me, I looked back up and saw my old features staring back. The hunger was causing delusions. But the longer I looked, the more content I felt. I was seeing the image that made me the most comfortable. If I wasn't fat, then I had no reason to diet. Slowly, the fog started creeping back in until my entire brain was filled with it. I smiled dumbly at my reflection and calmly made my way out the room and down the stairs, grabbing my keys off the counter and waddling my way to my cramped little car. It was time to go back to the city. It was silly for me to leave. I needed to food. There was no conspiracy back there. Just yummy treats for me to eat. And I was going to eat them all.