Chapter 1 - Title

It sits under her skin. Sits underneath, built up, compounded, layered, rounding her soft skin into a tenderness which bends at the touch of your fingers. At your pinch it resists, but it is a pathetic resistance, made weak by unhealthy eating--the countless hours she spends forcing the worst kinds of foods into her organs which rail against such abuse. They rail; they rage, rage against their abuser by lashing back. The abuse her with fat. They become revolutionaries of the body, rioting workers who refuse to do their job--those railing organs of hers, they neglect the shipments of fat at the docks, and at those docks of transition, the waters build. Oh, they build, they churn, they clog and they bloat. They bloat on her, underneath her, seeping behind her skin to force it outwards and sit under it with thick determination. Whispers of it at first; only murmurs and rumours of fat. Tender, rubbery, weak fat that bends at the pull but does not tremble, so stubborn as it is. It favours, by way of chance or necessity, be it what it may, some places on her body over others, as if to say "here!, I will fall here, and here, and perhaps here, too", and so it builds.

On the legs it builds, on the arms it wakes. In the breasts it grows loud, on the back it begins to ooze. In the twin mounds of the rump it expands, across the stomach it rises--Oh yes, on the stomach; on the belly it rises. In infancy, it holds and clings without a shake in its resolve, but she abuses her organs again, and so the revolutionaries rebel, yes they rebel; the docks clog, the build, they bloat, and she enflames. Oh yes she does; she enflames.

She finds a tightness now. It is in her clothes. It is in the way the waistbands and seams close around her youngly fattened skin so that they may wrap tight and restrict her outwards growth. But then she abuses her organs; they revolt, she builds, she clogs, she expands, the clothes seeking to hold her back fail--her flesh rises to push over their limits, to spill, to bulge. They attempt. They try, her clothes do. But she sheds them like a snake sheds its skin; she has no need for shackles any more--your girl is on her way out.

There is an expanding within her eyes, now. Not of width, or height, or depth, not even of fatness. No; it is an expanding of light. Your girl has never been so awake.

It declares its presence, now. It shows itself through the veils which seek to hide it. Yes, it turns the attention, if attention were a gaze, to the way it imprints the shape of itself onto its confines for the world to see, and if the world can see, then the world can observe, and if it can observe, then it is also held to judgement.

They tell her of it, they do--politely, they think. She responds with a laugh or shrug. Some glance at it, unspeaking, silent lest she be offended. Some tell her what to do, and your girl replies with a lie: "You're right, I do need to lose it," but she will not, no, for she has never been so awake. Never will she go to sleep again.

She abuses her organs again. They revolt in a new anger, this time, such insipid, bruised fury that they go to such lengths as to not only dismiss the newest shipment, but also to go and dump extra, scavenged trash in the docks, and so they build, they clog, they bloat and they overflow more than ever before, and your girl; she shines. It flares underneath her skin. It builds, it clogs, it expands with such carried anger that her skin cannot weather the assault and its frontlines break. They split. They tear into faint, pink, raw little marks denoting the fury of her body. The fury of the substance beneath her skin, now trembling briefly in rage when provoked. You provoke it often--at different angles, different volumes, different levels--just to watch how it trembles, just to see the brief tremor, the shake, the jiggle. Your girl, her eyes are wide. She lets you inside them to share a moment together of same understanding, same experience, same sensation, side by side.

The world, they grow, too. They grow concerned. Some tilt their heads in sadness, a faint grief. Some press their lips into dismay, some into disgust. And yet some climb up the mountain of confoundment, ascend its slopes so far they fly off the peak to transcend into the final stages of absurdity: laughter. They laugh. At this, your girl plunges so far below she feels she will never be so high again--your girl; she cannot transcend above.

Your words; they are just words. They are just sounds to her ears, dead to the concepts they match and excite, for she can only now hear some deep hushed guilt for the light she has; for how awake she really feels. The world will never feel so awake, and it calls her to sleep. Calls her to sleep.

But you; you call her awake again, and she turns to you, her eyes trying to open, to let you in while the world hold them shut. And you; you put your hand to what sits underneath her skin. She lays to rest her searching hand upon yours, and the contact; your touch under hers; it draws her to light. You will make her see again, yes you will.

Her organs not long ago rebelled, and your girl not long ago felt the waste crawl in to sit underneath once more. It pushes her skin outwards, ever outwards. Gravity has heard rumours of it now. Gravity begins to imagine its weight, imagine what it will become, dwelling there under the flesh, hanging off the bones, pushing over the walls of her clothes and hovering above her thighs as she sits silent beside you with your hand in hers, her hand in yours. Something faint like an ember blinks inside her and as she tilts her head, she guides your hand over her body's landscape while her ember starts to flare.

Breasts like twin peaks hanging with weight but not yet sunken with weakness of flesh; and the valley between, the warmth of it, the smoothness to the fingers. Deep. Flowing down, under, outwards and up, roundly up; the skin failing like rubber under the press on your palm and swelling gently around it, between the webs of your fingertips.
In a room lit only by the ember within, you kindle her flame throughout the night.

[Excerpt from a conversation 2 weeks later where a 'friend' of female character is bitching to another 'friend']:

"But yeah, like, basically she got really ***ing fat all of a sudden, hey. What a pig... For some reason she like, still thinks she can wear her old clothes or something, but all that happens is her fat ***ing gut hangs out for everyone to see how it jiggles when she walks; like a ***ing sack of water. Hey, that was a good one. I'm gonna totally use that on her! ***, I can't even eat when I'm around her without feeling gross. God... What a pig, I can't believe her. I mean, can't you control yourself? How do you let yourself get like that? Oh my god, like, last Saturday right, we were all eating lunch at the food court and she had to come along. Anyway we were getting sushi from a nice sushi bar but she just had to get herself McDonald's, so we just sat there afterwards watching her gobble down food in like, total awkward silence. It was gross. And she had some stupid old shirt on for everyone to see how fat her ***ing rolls were, god damn, they were like legit rolls. Legit bakery rolls, but rolls of fat! But I swear to god she gained weight on the ***ing spot from all that maccas... She kept having to tug her shirt back down and stuff. So nasty..."

Sorry for the random change of style, lol.

THE END