Sometimes you dream of open skies. Flowers and fresh air, cool blue water, shades by the lake. The smooth stroke of swimsuit elastic, ready for the plunge. A baking summer, there to be taken. To be remembered.
You wake up covered in wires. Damp sweat seeps through the cotton of your straining hospital gown as you writhe, grunting, groaning for breath. A tingling twinge pinches your tremoring heart. The young nurse squeezes the sponge over the bucket by your bed.
“Morning sunshine,” she smiles, fingers warm on your cheek. “Or should I say afternoon?”
You blink at the clock - too high for your stricken arms to reach. The long hand points to an ever higher number. The sharp tick, counting you down…
You watch her circle your globular form, pale flesh like putty in her grip of her surgical gloves. She peels them off with a snap, heels clipping closer in measured strides.
“Hasn’t your hair’s gotten pretty?” She reaches for your tresses. “So long…”
She lifts, dipping a hand into the bucket, coursing a wet comb through your strands, humming as she draws out the knots in a rhythmic motion. Warm water drips down your forehead, down your cheeks and chins, a lone rivulet pooling past your chest, over your folds, deep into your cavernous belly button.
“It’s grown a lot,” She adds a drop of conditioner, smirking a little. “Kinda suits you, don’t you think?”
You jiggle, soft breezes drifting through the window as she works your scalp. She teases you with more water, laying your mane out over your shoulders, massaging in the shampoo in gentle, caring waves. A rogue hank pulls from the nape of your neck. Without a word, she reaches over your gut, hugging your chest, freeing your hair from the thick rolls supporting your back. She lingers a moment, sighing, snuggled in your chest before she pulls away.
“Sorry,” she shrugs. “Should’ve bought you dinner first, shouldn’t I?”
She laughs. Yellow soap oozes between her slender fingers. You can’t speak. Too tough to mouth words through your breathing mask. She bites her lip.
“Don’t look,” she mumbles, taking a backward step. She twists around. You close your eyes, listening to the muted chorus of machines, twitching your toes, ankles wrapped in throbbing fat, layer after layer heaped on your lumbering thighs, fixed by a boundless belly. She slips a fingernail under your pout.
The mask lifts. Your eyes bulge. A jelly donut rests in her hand. Golden, icing like liquid ecstasy, fluffed with calories. You redden. She doesn’t ask.
She pushes it into your mouth, her knee on the bedframe, palm against your lips, watching your soft jowls wobble. Intensity fills her deep blue eyes as she watches you swallow.
“I’m doing my job, right?” She looks you in the eye. A second donut leaves the bag. You’ve barely swallowed. Moaning, you open wide.
“I’m making you feel better.”
You nod and nod, tongue flooded with frosting. Two gulps and the thick, juicy treat is half-gone. A belch builds under your ribs.
“Better about being so gosh-darn helpless. Hmm?”
She squeezes what’s left of your right bicep. What little there is, long outstripped by the sheer weight flapping from your arms. You try to curl, an itch raking your stretched-out skin. You only succeed in making her giggle.
“Keep you nourished. Cared for.”
Your stomach swells in anticipation of a third donut, the warm sugary smell drifting up your hoggish nose. Your fat tongue beckons, carbs clogging your throat. A bite sends a blob of cream squirting out, trailing your chin, landing with a plop on your chest. A burp follows, deep and voluminous.
“Ooops,” she chimes. “Piggy made a mess? Not to worry. I’ll get some big strong men to clean you up…”
You moan. The thought of being rolled again rocks you to your core. So heavy. So massive. So weak.
Such a gasping, lolling wreck.
“Then we can look forward to dinner. I like it when it’s just the two of us. Even it’s just me doing the talking.”
You wince, flopping, fingers curled, muscles in agony. Your useless arms drift, leaden by your aching sides. The warmth builds between legs you’ll never move again. You mewl. A fierce sting strikes your chest, a breathless fuzz building in your vision.
“What’s that? You gonna tell me what happened to you, fatty?”
Your eyes plead. She squeezes your cheeks. The mercy of the valve edges closer.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
She presses the mask back on your face.
“And I’ll make it so you never leave.”
She twists, kicking the bag under your bedframe, seizing her clipboard and spinning, leaving the echo of her heels in the turgid, musky air. The pain begins to ease, the pleasure starts to consume you. Your shoulders loosen. From your eyelash to the cusp of the plastic tube, a hot, lone tear runs, and runs…
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