A Slave to Your Body

Chapter 1 a prisoner of your own appetite

The alarm blares, a shrill reminder of the day’s beginning, but you don't stir. Not yet. Your body, heavy and sluggish under the weight of your own flesh, demands more rest. The sheets are warm, tangled around your legs, and the soft mattress cradles you like a lover’s embrace. But the hunger gnaws at you, a relentless beast that won't be silenced by sleep. Groaning, you push yourself up, slowly, painfully aware of every roll of fat that shifts and squishes against itself.

Your hand reaches out blindly, fumbling for the remote on the nightstand. The TV clicks on, and the familiar sounds of morning news fill the room. You barely register the words; your mind is already racing to the next meal. Your eyes drift to the clock: 7:30 AM. Time to start the day, time to feed the addiction.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool against your bare feet. The simple act of standing feels monumental, your thighs rubbing together in an uncomfortable friction as you rise. You glance at the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall, your reflection staring back with hollow eyes. The woman in the mirror is unrecognizable, a bloated caricature of yourself, her cheeks puffy with excess, her belly straining against the fabric of her oversized pajamas.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, your voice thick with self-loathing. But what choice do you have? This is who you are now—a prisoner of your own appetite, a slave to the cycles of binge and regret.

You shuffle to the kitchen, each step a laborious effort. The fridge door creaks open, revealing its contents: a half-empty tub of ice cream, a carton of fried chicken still in its greasy box, a few slices of pizza long past their prime. You reach for the box first, the cold metal handle sticky beneath your fingers. Plucking a drumstick from the carton, you take a bite before you even make it back to the table. The salty, fatty taste explodes on your tongue, and for a moment, all the anxiety and shame melt away, replaced by pure, unadulterated pleasure.

As you chew, you think about how much you despise this ritual—how pathetic you must look, hunched over the table, stuffing your face like some kind of animal. But then the hunger rises again, insistent and urgent, and you grab another piece of chicken, and another, until the entire box is empty. Your stomach growls in protest, but you ignore it, reaching for the tub of ice cream next.

You sit there, spooning globs of sweet, creamy goodness into your mouth, feeling the cold slide down your throat. The sensation is exquisite, almost orgasmic, and you close your eyes, savoring every second. When the tub is finally empty, you lean back, feeling the stretch in your abdomen, the fullness pushing against your ribs. It’s uncomfortable, bordering on painful, but you welcome it. This is what you live for—this fleeting moment of satiation.

But it never lasts. The high soon fades, replaced by a gnawing emptiness that no amount of food seems capable of filling. You glance at the clock again: 8:00 AM. Too early for lunch, too late for breakfast. But who cares? You need more, always more. Your hand shakes slightly as you pick up your phone, scrolling through delivery apps. Pizza? Chinese? Maybe something Mexican? The choices overwhelm you, but you know what will win out in the end.

You place the order, your fingers trembling with anticipation. As you wait, you can feel the minutes ticking by, each one dragging on forever. The hunger claws at you, making you jittery, anxious. You pace the living room, your footsteps heavy, your breath coming in shallow gasps. When the doorbell finally rings, you nearly sprint to it, tearing it open without bothering to check who’s on the other side.

“Pizza’s here,” the delivery guy says, his voice flat, expressionless. You hardly notice him, too focused on the bag in his hands. He hands it over without a word, and you snatch it from him, slamming the door shut before he can even turn away.

You tear into the bag, ignoring the grease that seeps through the cardboard box. The scent of cheese and pepperoni hits you like a punch to the gut, and you moan softly, your mouth watering in response. You pull out a slice, the cheese stretching between the crust and the box, and take a massive bite. The flavors burst on your tongue, a symphony of salt and spice that makes your head spin. You moan again, louder this time, your hips swaying unconsciously as you devour the slice.

One after another, you consume them, not even pausing to breathe. By the time you finish the last piece, your stomach is stretched to its limit, aching with the effort of digesting so much food. You lean back in your chair, burping loudly, feeling the warmth spread through your body. For a moment, you’re content, sated, but it doesn’t last. The dull ache of hunger returns, quieter now, but persistent.

“Fuck,” you whisper, clutching your stomach. You know what’s coming next—the guilt, the shame, the inevitable spiral into self-hatred. But right now, none of it matters. All that exists is this moment, this brief respite from the hunger. You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion take over, and drift into a restless slumber, only to wake up a few hours later to the same cycle all over again.