Chapter 1 - baby

It’s far, far too early in the morning. You look at the clock in dismay to double check what you already know - it’s 09:00 and despite the fact that you’ve only had one breakfast so far, the carers are asking you to get out of bed. Out. For some reason, known perhaps only to them, simply turning you as they change your linen won’t cut it this morning. You’ve been walking less and less recently. The effort is becoming more and more unwelcome and the prospect of having to do it on… well, not an empty stomach, but one filled with such a meagre amount as simply one breakfast… It is not a pleasant thought. Your belly grumbles in agreement with you, but it’s no use - there’s no more food on the tray that you’ve been brought and apparently no hope of more until you’ve been subjected to standing. You can barely even remember what was on that tray - your first breakfast is more of a necessity than a pleasure. Sleep is the longest you go without eating now, and you’re usually desperate for food when you awaken.

Currently you are sitting up in bed with a soft, fluffy towel tucked under your belly and another one tucked under the enormous roll which, at one point, had been your tits. The carers had started your bed bath whilst you were still eating for some reason. Perhaps you’d spilled something as you were eating. You rarely notice insignificant things such as that any more. You’re finding that it gets harder and harder to focus on anything when there’s food in front of you, and there so often is. You wonder, idly, how much you weigh now. There comes a point where it’s easier to stop counting. 700lbs? Maybe closer to 750. The bed where you spend the majority of your time is getting fuller and fuller as your body continues to expand, and you’re only dimly aware of your toes now. All you can see is the huge, sloping mass of your belly; rolls upon rolls which slosh up and down like ocean waves with each laboured movement you make.

“Come on, it’s time to get up,” one of the carers repeats, like it’s so easy, and you scowl up at her.

“Not yet. I need more breakfast,” you argue again, to no avail. Your voice frequently has this petulant quality to it now - as you’ve gotten greedier, people have become much less willing to keep feeding you unless you give them a bit of a hard time.

“If you want us gone so you can have privacy when your guest arrives you’re going to have to get up now, she’ll be here any minute,” the stone faced carer replies firmly, and then you remember. You had asked for this stupid wake up call after all. You just forgot because, well… there had been food. Still, this is important too. Your mind now made up, you steel yourself for the exercise in front of you. The other carer has brought a frame around to the side of the bed for you to grab onto, but it still takes both of them, plus every ounce of strength that you still have in those wasted legs for you to struggle your way to the edge of the bed. You sit there for a long time, sweat rolling in huge beads off your forehead into your non-existent lap as you huff and pant. Your belly is dripping off the edge of your knees and squishing up against the poles of the metal frame, oozing around them as if to engulf them entirely. When in bed you normally spread your legs as far apart as possible, letting your stomach fill the space between them in order to take the weight off - the pressure of over 300lbs of gut pressing down on those swollen thighs is intense. Your heart is pounding. It would be so, so much easier to just settle back down in the bed, and it seems that your carers can see this thought crossing your mind.

“How about I find you something else to eat when you’re in the chair?” one of them suggests, and your eyes light up a little. You’re so pliable now, your mind dull and ravenous.

It takes what seems like an age for you to stand up, and the sensation of all of that fat dropping with gravity feels as though it’s going to pull you through the floor. Your thighs, your belly, your huge, jiggling arse, even your chins, all sagging with the weight of the millions of calories you’ve eaten over the years. Your belly drops way below your knees, and stands out from your body so far that the frame is now useless for support - your arms can barely reach past your gut when it’s hanging here in all its glory. The chair is about eight paces away but it might as well be a mile. The carers are on either side of you, impatiently helping you along as you take great, plodding steps, gasping for breath as you inch forwards. The agony of it surprises you - admittedly it’s been a few days since you deigned to get out of the bed but you were sure you had more mobility than this even then. You stop half way across the room, wheezing, and slick your hair out of your face, sweat sticking it down to your forehead.

“I can’t do this,” you whine, and you see a look of exasperation flit between the two carers. Your cheeks are burning, from both embarrassment and the sheer effort of remaining standing. You’re about to beg to return to the bed when a voice from the doorway cuts you off.

“You’re making him walk?!”