Meals as Chains

Chapter 1 – The Why of Mass

Arthur awoke slowly, as always, beneath the weight of his own body. The first thing he felt was not the chill of morning or the smell of the house, but the pressure of his stomach, heavy and round, pushing against the blanket and pinning him into the mattress. Each morning began the same struggle: waking up meant negotiating with his body.

His breathing came deep and heavy. The blanket had once been light, but now felt like an extra burden, stretched tight across the hill of his belly. With a sigh, he shoved it aside, though even that simple act took effort.

To sit upright, he had to use his arms, not as effortless helpers, but as heavy columns slowly forcing him toward the edge of the bed. His back protested with every shift, and his knees crackled as though preparing for a day of battle. Warm, sticky sweat pooled at his neck before his feet even touched the ground.

There he sat, panting, legs spread wide to make room for the belly that sagged heavily between his thighs. His toes searched for balance against the cold floorboards. For a brief moment he closed his eyes. A new day had begun. Another day to display his body at the Bacon Factory, his father’s fast-food restaurant.

The scale in the bathroom stood in the corner, always present but usually ignored. Yet this morning, something drew him to it. He lumbered forward, shuffling, the floor creaking beneath his weight. Stepping on was a ritual: one foot, then the other, then wait as the needle quivered and searched for balance. The number appeared mercilessly: 185 kilos.

Arthur stared without much emotion. It was no revelation, only confirmation. Numbers meant less to him than the mirror staring back. His body was no longer that of an eighteen-year-old boy; it was a living advertisement. Proof that the food at the Bacon Factory was good.

He pulled on his favorite shirt, a blue cotton one that had once been loose. As he tugged it over his head, the fabric rasped against his arms and shoulders. It stretched, but not enough. It clung tightly to his chest, and where it ended, his stomach took over. His gaze drifted toward the mirror on the wall.

What he saw was both confronting and fascinating. His lower belly spilled over the waistband of his pants, a soft mass making no attempt to hide itself. He placed a hand on it, pressed lightly, and felt how the flesh gave way, his fingers sinking into it. It was as if he were looking at someone else, yet undeniably himself. He hadn’t noticed before how much his stomach jutted beneath the shirt, and for a fleeting second he wondered if it had grown overnight. But that couldn’t be. Stomachs don’t swell that much in a single night. For the first time in ages, his heart beat a little faster. Not with fear, but with a strange curiosity. What if he were just a little less large?

The thought lingered as he descended the stairs. Each step groaned beneath his weight, a familiar complaint he had long ignored. Below, the morning light and the smell of food filled the house.

The dining table was, as always, a display of abundance. Pancakes, still steaming and glistening with butter. Towers of croissants, their golden crusts crisp and inviting. Bowls of sausages, fried to a crisp and dripping with grease. Eggs in every form: boiled, fried, scrambled. The air was thick with salt and fat, and Arthur’s stomach reacted, even after the thoughts that had weighed on him upstairs.

His mother was ready, a smile on her face. “Good morning, son,” she said, setting down yet another platter of bacon. Her hands moved quickly, by habit, as though feeding him were a ritual beyond question. His father, as usual, had already gone to open the Bacon Factory.

Arthur picked up a plate slowly. He looked at the abundance as though faced with a choice larger than food itself. He decided to start small. Just a fraction of what he usually took. Two pancakes instead of five. One croissant instead of three. A few sausages, not the whole pile. He placed them carefully, as if his choices might shatter the air around him.

His mother noticed at once. Her smile faltered into a frown. “Are you sick, my boy?” she asked with concern, stepping closer to feel his forehead, as if she expected fever. She paid no mind to the slab of flesh spilling beneath his pink shirt.

Arthur shook his head and smiled faintly. He wanted no argument, no fight. This was his quiet rebellion, his attempt to claim a little control.

But as he chewed, he realized how heavy that small choice felt. His stomach grumbled, used to far more. Each bite reminded him of what he wasn’t eating. His eyes wandered toward the untouched piles, the smell pressed into his nose, his throat dried. His body protested, unable to understand why he would deny it.

His mother watched him closely. “You must still be hungry,” she urged, almost pleading, her hands tightening on the platter of pancakes. “I made this just for you.”

Arthur smiled again, but it was forced. He nudged his plate slightly away, as if distance might help. His stomach pressed hard against the table’s edge, his pants straining at the seams. Sweat trickled anew along his temples, not just from warmth, but from the battle inside him: between habit and desire, between loyalty and his own curiosity.

The meal passed in silence. The clink of cutlery, the sounds of chewing and swallowing, filled the room. His mother’s eyes lingered on him as though he might collapse at any moment. Arthur felt the weight of her gaze, but he endured.

When at last he rose, his plate still half full, the chair groaned with relief. His stomach swung heavily as he turned, and he felt his mother’s eyes on him again. Sharp and suspicious.

Arthur walked away slowly, his footsteps dull and heavy against the floor. In his mind, only one thought remained, stubborn and ominous: this was only the beginning.