Size Matters

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‘Why is it always so bloody difficult?’ thought Josh, crouching down, trying his best to pick up the shattered fragments of mug from the floor.
‘I only wanted a coffee. Now look what’s happened.’
He snatched at one of the larger shards of crockery a little too hastily, catching a finger on a serration, drawing blood instantly.
‘Fuck me.’
The last he spoke out loud, slapping the floor angrily with the uninjured hand, feeling the weight of the world against his shoulders, the apparent barrage of mundane problems piling on top of him, feeding his frustration.
‘You talking to me?’ Emily called from the front room.
The girlfriend.
Long-suffering.
Good hearted.
Patient beyond all reason.
Hugely overweight.
No,’ Josh snapped, a tad more forcefully than he intended. ‘I’ve cut myself.’
‘How’ve you done that?’ she demanded from the adjacent room, then he heard movement, could picture the effort being employed, chubby forearms shaking as the top half of her attempted to take her full weight, legs wobbling beneath her, hoisting herself out of her comfy chair like a bull elephant removing itself from a muddy wallow.
‘No need to come look. It’s nothing.’
‘Too late,’ she replied as she stepped into the room, breathless. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’
Dutifully, Josh stood, pointing the wounded finger at her as she approached. She clasped it, bringing the digit up to her face, the better to peer at it.
‘That it?’
‘I said it was nothing,’ he smiled, enjoying the well worn routine; he the mischievous schoolboy, she the tough but caring school mistress.
‘You are naughty aren’t you?’
He dropped his head, staring at the ground.
‘Please, Miss. I didn’t mean to do it.’
‘Didn’t you now? Well, you say the same thing every time you find yourself here in my office. Whatever am I to do with you?’
Josh’s shoulders began to shake up and down, as if weeping in distress, but he found it difficult to stay in character, the humour of the situation over-riding the improvisation.
‘You think this is funny, do you?’ Emily demanded, a sharpness to her tongue that ended the mirth.
‘No Miss.’
‘Well, we’ll see about that. Turn around.’
Josh didn’t move, his assumed persona defiantly standing his ground.
‘Don’t make this worse for yourself, young man. I said turn around.’
Still nothing.
‘I’ll give you until the count of three and, if you still haven’t done as I asked, things will get very unpleasant. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, voice barely audible, more a squeak than a genuine word.
‘Three.’
Josh continued to stand stock still, eyes locked onto the lino.
‘Two.’
He shook his head, as if an inner battle were being raged.
‘One.’
Suddenly, he span around on the spot, presenting his back to Emily.
‘Drop the trousers, young man. You need to be punished for your mischief, don’t you?’
He did not reply, instead fumbling excitedly at the belt of his jeans, tugging at it, slowing the process inadvertently. Finally, buckle navigated, he plucked at the three buttons, pinched them open, allowed the denim trousers to fall to the floor.
‘And those,’ Emily barked.
Josh yanked down his briefs, bending at the waist to push them over his knees, affording Emily a splendid view of his buttocks as he did so.
‘Stay bent forward, boy,’ she instructed, and Josh waited, hearing the sound of a draw being opened, his excitement building, the awkwardness of his posture putting pressure on his lower back, the dull ache only adding to the sensations that coursed through him.
‘You’ve been very, very bad,’ he heard her say behind him.
‘Yes, Miss,’ he agreed.
‘And you know what happens to bad boys?’
‘No, Miss.’
She chuckled delightedly.
‘They get thrashed,’ and, as she spoke the last word, she flicked her well-proportioned arm forward, catching Josh’s bare buttocks a perfect blow, the flat surface of the rolling pin she held smacking off his flesh nicely.
He gasped, half swallowed the sound, catching it in his throat, not wanting to peak too soon.
‘Thrashed,’ she repeated, slapping his arse once more with the kitchen utensil.
Now, a groan emanated, one he could not control, and it took all of his effort of will to remain where he was, the urge to turn round and ravish his tormentor almost overpowering.
‘Naughty, naughty, naughty,’ she admonished, each repetition accompanied by a blow to the backside so that he could take no more. Spinning round, he took her in his arms, and she went there willingly, yielding to his desires, allowing him to fondle her where he wished, his hands eager but expert, knowing just where to touch her and how so that, within a matter of minutes, she too was filled with yearning, and the moment took them, Josh lowering her great bulk onto the kitchen floor, aware of the broken crockery, knowing she had chosen this spot precisely because the lacerating shards were there; wanting the possibility of bloodshed to be part of the act and, with an abandon most teenagers would be proud of, they sated their desires.

The TV babbled in the corner of the room, both sets of eyes keenly observing the action. On screen, an American action type was running as hard as he could, gun drawn, bellowing at those he pursued that they give up, there was nowhere to run.
Happily, for the sake of the drama, they ignored him.
‘I used to be a good runner,’ Emily said.
‘I know.’
Josh spoke from his position on the settee, head resting in his girlfriend’s lap, her hand placed comfortingly on his head, occasionally playing with his hair, teasing it between her fingers.
He felt happy.
Warm.
Secure.
The bulk of her thighs served as ample cushioning for his head.
‘Second fastest in my year over 1500m,’ she stated.
‘I know. You’ve told me before.’
‘Well, I want to tell you again.’
‘Ok, sweetness. Tell me.’
No annoyance. No irritation. No sense that, really, all he wanted to do was watch Jack Bauer pump some bullets into a suspected terrorist.
‘It started at primary school. We’d run around the field three or four times. Can’t remember the exact number now. So long ago. I’d always come in first. Every time. Even when I wasn’t really trying. Then, a new girl started in my year. Donna. The first time she came out with us for P.E. she beat me. It was close, though. My little legs were pumping as hard as I could manage, but I just couldn’t quite catch her. Then, every time after that, it was the same. I wanted to break her fucking legs.’
As the last sentence was uttered, Josh felt the hand on his head tighten a little, felt a lock of hair pulled a little too tightly.
He said nothing.
‘I thought I’d be rid of her when Primary School ended but, no, she followed me to Secondary School too and, as we grew, so the distance between us grew, too, so that by the end of the third year she was four seconds faster than me over 800m, a full nine seconds over 1500.
Bitch.’
She yanked at the hair, now, actually causing his head to move lest the lock be yanked clean out.
He did not complain.
On screen, Bauer seemed to be interrogating somebody using an exposed electrical cable as incentive to talk.
‘It’s why I stopped running. Fourth year sports day. Hundreds of parents there watching, and I just couldn’t catch her. The humiliation was too much to take and, after that day, I never ran again. I still look back on it, Josh, still wonder what might have been if that fucking
(yank)
bitch
(yank)
had never moved into the area, had never started at my school.’
He moved a hand, stroked her leg just below the knee, not willing to speak, his emotions too raw, too intense. Though he had heard the story many times before, still it provoked a response each and every time and, always, he knew were it would lead.
‘Maybe I would have kept on running. You know. All I wanted to be was the best at it and, when that was taken away from me, consistently, over many years, it was like I lost a piece of myself. Lost my purpose. Can you imagine that? Being denied something you crave for year after year. Even at that age, it pierced me, Josh. It fucking pierced me.’
She was slapping at his head as she spat out the words, as if lying on her lap was not her boyfriend of seven years, but Donna: Winner of Races.
He remained mute.
Eyes locked on Bauer and his torture tactics.
‘I could have found another way to exercise, I suppose, but running was what I did. Was what I liked. Why should I make the effort to find a replacement?’
She let the question hang in the air, not really expecting a response, not getting one either way.
‘And look at me now,’ she said, as Josh knew she must. ‘Look at the state of me. Look what I’ve become. I am a grotesque, Josh, no matter what you say.’
Josh stroked her leg some more, overcome now, eyes awash with tears, head spinning, a tumult of emotions rendering him unable to respond even if he had wished to do so.
‘I’m out of breath by the time I reach the third step on the way upstairs. Getting out of this seat is becoming increasingly difficult. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed leaving the house, Josh. The people look at me. They stare. They see me as a freak. I’d like to say a freak walking amongst them, but it’s more of a waddle these days, isn’t it? My hideously deformed body waddling amongst the normals.’
Her voice was getting steadily louder with each passing sentence.
‘And look at you. Thin as a rake. How can it be, Josh? How is it possible? We eat the same fucking food.’
She lashed at him with renewed ferocity, raining blows against his head with chubby, clenched fists, and he did nothing to prevent the assault.

The bathroom mirrored fogged, the heat from the shower misting up the air quickly. Emily wiped away the condensation, staring at her own features intently, studying herself.
Her eyes; sunken, too small for the rest of her face.
Brow; billiard ball smooth, hairline too far back from the rest of the features for her liking.
Cheeks; podgy, permanently swollen, as if she always had food secreted in pouches inside her mouth.
Chin; indistinct from the rest of her image, the bloated nature of her features merging chin to cheeks, chin to neck. Not really a double chin, she thought, more a face that melts into the rest of my body.
Tears formed, and she fought them back, ashamed of herself on multiple levels.
The mirror misted over again and, slowly, not really wanting to, Emily turned away from the bathroom cabinet and began to shed her clothes. Even this, she knew, would not be an easy task.
At twenty five stone, nothing was ever easy.
Nothing that required any level of physical exertion, anyway.
Using the sink for support, she managed to remove her skirt, casting the vast expanse of material to one side, not even wanting to look at it. Then came the knickers, the stooping action required to stretch them over her knees a struggle, but eventually the undergarment was removed and, again, unceremoniously ejected from view.
Naked, now, she moved to the shower, but even here she found things to traumatise; the doors, specially widened to allow her access; the access point, dropped to just above floor level so she didn’t have to lift her legs too far in order to get in and, once in, the greatest indignity of all: The seat, moulded into the wall, a permanent symbol of all that she had become.
Carefully, not wishing to slip on the wet, plastic floor, she swivelled on the spot and closed the doors behind her, having already ensured the shower head was angled to strike the area of the seat. Using the specially fitted grab handles attached to the side of the shower unit, Emily lowered herself into position, reaching for the bottle of shower milk as soon as she was settled. Removing the cap, she squeezed a palm-full into her hand, lathering her shoulders and neck with the coconut infused lotion. The scent reached her nostrils but, to Emily, the aroma did not invoke images of tropical beaches and exotic foods, instead the odour struck her as nothing but a lie.
A cruel, sadistic lie by the manufacturers.
‘Sure, they can make it smell how they want, make my skin smell anyway they like, but it doesn’t change who I am. It doesn’t change me.’
Another squeeze of the bottle, and this time she rubbed the soapy broth over her breasts, taking care to lift each one in turn to ensure the sweaty underside, where skin met skin, was cleansed.
‘How has it come to this,’ she thought, unable to control the stem of negativity she felt, the blackness of her mind cascading now, gushing with the same force as the jet of water from the showerhead, the tide of despair aimed squarely at her own perceived worthlessness.
‘Sitting on a plastic seat, covered in coconut juice, having to lift up my breasts to clean underneath them. This isn’t how I imagined it would be.’
Another palm of lotion, smeared over her belly and the top of her thighs, before attempting the tricky bit: getting to the undercarriage. With difficulty, she lifted herself half up on one arm, using the other to direct more lotion between her legs, dropping the bottle down for a moment to allow her to scrub at her femininity, disgusted by what she found for, even here, she felt nothing but flabby excess; disgrace heaped upon disgrace.

Josh listened at the foot of the stairs for the tell-tale sounds from upstairs, waiting to ensure she was actually in the bathroom before heading for the kitchen. On the stove, a pan full of water was being brought to the boil, ready for a couple of handfuls of dried spaghetti. Josh preferred fresh pasta, of course, but times were tough, so certain sacrifices had to be made.
While the water steadily rose in temperature, he began preparations for the main aspect of the dish, a simple tomato and basil sauce, minced beef, some chopped garlic and onions, finally finished off with a sprinkling of fresh coriander.
Josh poured some oil into a frying pan, heated it, and began to brown off the mince, adding the spaghetti to the now boiling water, lowering the heat and giving it a stir so the strands of pasta did not stick to the bottom of the pan. Satisfied, he completed the browning of the meat, and set it to one side, using the same pan now to cook the onions and garlic. While the aromatic cousins bubbled away, he mixed together tomato puree, dried basil, powdered chilli and two beef stock cubes into a cup of hot water, then repeated the process in another cup. Bending down, he retrieved a large tub from the cupboard, and unscrewed the top, grabbing a tablespoon from the draining board. Carefully, he scooped out a spoonful, then another, stirring them both into a single cup of the tomato and basil sauce, having to apply some vigour to ensure every speck of powder was dissolved.
Satisfied, he replaced the tub in the cupboard, making a mental note of which of the cups of sauce had been doctored for, even under close scrutiny, the pure protein powder would be undetectable. Tasteless and, once mixed, invisible, he was anxious to ensure that he did not eat the altered food by mistake.
For six years now he had been the sole person responsible for cooking.
For six years he had completed the duty, gladly.
Not once had Emily ever suspected his deeds. Oh, she knew about the protein powder, but that was explained away easily enough: ‘Helps with the press-up routine. Builds more muscle.’
All true.
Protein certainly builds muscle, but only in the active. Fed to a sedentary individual, the muscle that would have been gained does not manifest and, instead, the excess energy provided by the protein ensures weight gain.
‘Extra weight gain,’ thought Josh, a tiny smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, the image of Emily consuming her meal arousing him instantly.
With one hand, he stirred her sauce into her half of the meat and onions. With the other, he gently caressed himself.

‘Enough,’ she said aloud, tears streaking her face, misery her master now as, overcome, she hauled herself from the plastic seat, barging out of the shower altogether, slamming the door shut behind her. Panting, she stood on the shower mat, stark naked, having to stoop, resting her hands on her knees, the effort it had taken to extricate herself from the shower cubicle almost too much. For a moment, she thought she was going to pass out. White dots swam before her eyes and her legs felt weak; jellied. Slowly, she regained composure, found her strength again, her breath too. Back at the bathroom cabinet, now, this time she did not bother wiping the moisture away, knowing all too well the sight that would greet her were she to do so, choosing to spare herself that particular sadness. Instead, she opened the cabinet door, groped within, found what she sought.
A plastic safety razor.
Bic.
Orange and white.
She brought it up to her face.
Studied it for a moment, as if she were a Great Ape trying to figure out exactly how it worked.
She knew its function, of course, but today she would set it to use on a slightly different task for, if the blade were capable of cutting away hair, surely it would be sufficiently sharp to cut away other stuff, too.
‘Let’s find out,’ she thought, placing the angle of the neck and blade against the edge of the sink and pressing down, hard, snapping the casing. Carefully, she plucked at the blade, which wiggled in its housing, unwilling quite yet to be liberated from its plastic prison. Another tug or two at the plastic surround finished the job, and she was able to remove the blade altogether, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger of her right hand, her good hand. Dropping the plastic wreckage into the sink, she looked at the blade for one second, two, then took it to herself, slicing at the first ridge of flesh at the top of her gut, the metal implement slicing through cleanly, the skin either side of the blade peeling apart as easily as that of a banana, the gaping rent formed filling quickly with blood.
She felt pain.
Exquisite pain.
Thought nothing of it, noting only the excitement it brought, the warm sensations spreading through chest and loins.
Working quickly, aware that blood loss was a danger, she sliced down a few inches, then back, then up, forming a six inch by six inch incision. Digging in now, she used the blade to slice beneath until, with a liquid slurp, the whole surface area came away and she was left holding a dripping, squared section of her own matter.
She dropped it into the sink with the plastic casing.
‘Personal weight loss programme,’ she thought, and laughed aloud dementedly.
She carved some more.

Josh sat at the table, places set appropriately, food served.
Upstairs, he cold hear the shower still running but no movement.
‘What’s taking her?’ he wondered, moving back to the foot of the stairs.
‘Emily?’ he called.
No reply.
He mounted three stairs and called again.
Still nothing.
Just the sound of water cascading.
Than a crash, something heavy, falling.
He raced to the top, made his way to the bathroom door, knocked loudly.
‘Emily.’
No response.
He was getting worried.
Tried the door.
Locked.
She never locked the door.
‘Emily, answer me right now or I’m gonna smash my way in.’
A pause of two seconds.
‘I mean it.’
Five more seconds, and he stepped back, barged his shoulder against the door, shaking it in its frame, but not quite dislodging it Again he tried unsuccessfully but on the third time the door yielded and Josh burst into an abattoir.
Emily lay on the floor, the blade still in her hands. Her eyelids fluttered, on the point of passing out, yet still her hand worked the blade into her own flesh, cutting herself, trying to rid herself of her own meat.
Josh collapsed to his knees. Slid to her, through the blood and muck.
Looked her up and down.
Her entire stomach region was a bloodied ruin and, in places, she had punctured the abdominal wall so that thick worms of intestines squirmed to be free of their fleshy cage. Down one flank, large portions of skin and other fibres had been removed and she had started to work on her breasts when, it seemed, she had been overcome.
Her eyes snapped open.
Found Josh’s.
Stared at him.
Hard.
‘Why, Emily?’ he asked.
‘I wanted you to love me,’ she said.
Tears filled his eyes.
‘I love you just the way you are.’
She died

© Ian Stevens (2012)
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