Not a word

Chapter 1 - Not a Word

It started out slow. Just a pound or two here and there. We both noticed it, but neither of us said a word.

It started out with just a little more dinner, a second serving of mashed potatoes, a package of chips between meals, an extra large helping of dessert. You always did have a sweet tooth.

But the habit grew.

And so did you.

First, you started getting out of breath. The morning jogs stopped, and then so did the gym membership—though you held onto that long after you stopped going. Soon, it was a chore even to walk up the flight of stairs to our apartment, leaving you flustered and out of breath.

“I really need to get back to the gym,” you’d say.

But you didn’t.

Not that it would have mattered. What good is a few hundred calories spent when you filled yourself with thousands each day? It would have been wholly inadequate. A raincoat in a flood, so to speak.

We both noticed, but neither of us said a word.

Your appetite grew, slowly at first, and then with a snowballing pace, like nothing could ever keep you satisfied. Suddenly, you were eating more in a single meal than I’d eat in a day, then a week.

It wasn’t long before it was too much of a hassle for you to go out at all.

What was the point? We were happy here, in our own space. And groceries could be delivered. It was oh so much more convenient.

Do you remember the first time you ate so much you fractured a rib? Your stomach filled so full of food that your bones could no longer contain it? 

You almost stopped then. Do you remember? You were afraid what this new addiction was doing to you, afraid that it would have consequences that you couldn’t bounce back from.

But it was already too late.

The next day, you ate even more.

Your body was always full, one way or another, full of your last binge, or full of fat, enough that your system couldn’t keep up. Your ribs slowly expanded inside of you to make more room for the thick slabs of fat and the mass of food churning in your stomach.

And there were other consequences, too. With so much going in, you couldn’t keep up with enough going out, either. Your intestines started to grow distended, as well, always forced to take on the contents that your stomach pushed through, even when there was no room left.

Soon, that weight, too, began to take its toll. Your hip bones began to widen, forced apart by the burden constantly filling your abdomen as your fatty organs and overstuffed digestive system fought for room inside you, ever growing like a malignant pregnancy.

Oh, and your poor muscles. Your abdominals had long since given up the ghost, so stretched and spread that they were hardly useful for any movement anymore. All they could do was attempt to hold back the heavy mass inside you, trying to keep you from splitting at the seams.

It was about then that you stopped walking entirely. It was just too much of a hassle, and we were happy, anyway. Sponges and catheters were more convenient for hygiene anyway and you were so tired. Eating so much drained your energy. It made more sense to give your body the rest it needed so that it could spend its energy on the most important task: digesting your latest feast.

After that, you became even more focused.

If you were awake, you were eating, even if you were still painfully full from last-night’s binge. You were never satisfied. Mouthful after greedy mouthful was forced down your throat until you were so full it started creeping back up your throat.

It was your addiction, you pleasure, and your obsession to eat, to grow, to fill yourself. Creating immensity and vastness with the canvas of your own body. So full, the perfect combination of softness and the heavy hardness of a massive meal that would soon convert into your greatness. You were truly a sight to behold, even then.

And now look at you.

Your breaths come in heaving wheezes as you struggle to expand your lungs, crushed between the fat caked onto every inch of your body and the food packed into your distended stomach.

You whimper. It’s a sound somewhere between pain and ecstasy. Delicious torture.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been able to move much more than a finger, and even that is too much for you now, thick and stuffed as sausages.

Your entire body has bloated and distorted, skeleton, muscle, and tendon stretched and warped by the heavy fat padding out every inch of you.

Your face is cradled in fat, held aloft from the sea of your chest by the inner tube of your second chin, the one that ate your neck as you grew and even now chokes the breath from you if you lean too far back.

You whimper again and I know you’re hungry. The constant trickle of liquid calories through your nasogastric tube is never enough to satiate you for long.

“Pl- *huff* Please *huff*,” you wheeze, though even that little effort has you gasping for air, lips puckered and slick as they fight against your cheeks for mobility.

You are immense, fat creeping to the edges of your bariatric bed, belly overtaking your thighs and knees, overfull stomach rising proudly above your mass.

You shift—or at least try to. Your entire body shakes with the effort and you gasp harder for breath, the oxygen tube in your nose not enough to satisfy your body’s needs. You raise one ham-like hand to rub at your groaning belly.

There’s no way you are hungry, not really. The bloated outline of your stomach is still visible even underneath all that fat, but your brain can no longer tell the difference between the pain of hunger and the bursting pressure inside you.

You are helpless against the desire.

And I am helpless against you.

You groan, eyes moist and pleading where they stare out from your puffy face.

And I give in.

Like I always do.

I’ve already got a cake large and decadent enough for a wedding ready. And it's all for you. But you’re tired, so I pick up the fork myself and press the sweet succulence to your lips.

This can’t go on forever. We both know it. But neither of us say a word.


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