➜ ꗃ cw: noncon, ruination, manipulation, psychological themes, generally dark fantasy
You're hired as a personal cleaner.
You were well known in local area. At first, your name was tossed around with praise. You were dutiful, seeking approval and doing the best you could.
Then you came in contact with someone a little far from town. You wouldn't usually agree, but you do when persuaded by extra money and a little sweet talk. Apparently, they're aching to meet you.
So, you meet. You clean. Easy enough.
You're handed a bag of treats in the name of generosity and good faith. You don't like to decline and truthfully, there's no reason to. Whatever was in that bag, alongside kind, encouraging gestures and more money; you're more than inclined to come back.
This time, small talk is made. You're asked about your work, the neighbourhood you live in and your hobbies on the side. You share what there is to know, that you're merely like everyone else trying to make a good living. Your appearance is praised. It isn't anything vulgar or suggestive, rather, your smile is sweet and your presence is welcoming. Like before, you're handed a bag of treats in thanks.
Needless to say, you arrive back again. The two of you talk a bit more about this self-started cleaning business of yours. You're asked if it's going well, which it is. You're asked if you're enjoying it and respond that you like making people happy. There's a lighthearted joke that you're simple minded; you're pleased easily and persuaded by little things. You don't question it, you take the cash and seemingly more treats than before along with it.
You arrive again, praising the treats you were given last time and making small talk about how it's too much for someone like you. You're treated with a visceral tut, as if what you're saying is blasphemy, then reminded how sweet you are. You give in easily to attention. You take more treats. They remind you of the feeling.
You show up again to no one's surprised. There's insistence on dinner as you've stayed so long, although you've stayed about as long as you usually have. Regardless, it's free food, there's no reason to pass it up. The dish you're presented with is rich, overwhelmingly sized. Albeit hesitant, you don't like to disappoint. You leave full, satisfied and, yet again, with more treats.
You typically see one another twice a week. That turns into three times, then four. Something about pets and the bothersome task of cleaning fur. No problem. You're insisted to let yourself at the fridge whilst cleaning and, as you're alone, you give in. There's a selection of food, notably the treats you're familiar with being handed and therefore, you eat. You leave an obvious space in the fridge, apologise profusely for it, only to be met with encouragement. Apparently, you could eat all the food in the fridge and there would be no complaints.
Some part of you takes that as a challenge. There seems to be a routine with it. You come around, clean, raid the fridge in the process.
As time passes, your work gets sloppy. People in the neighbourhood are complaining that you're leaving areas unfinished, counters half cleaned and floors soaked in 'dish water' with how bad you've gotten. People stop asking you to come.
You talk to the only person that doesn't seem to have any complaints. You're comforted quickly. You're burnt out, probably. People are asking too much and giving you too little. Your standards are fine, apparently.
In actuality, you get worse. You arrive at houses and expect the same treatment you get outside of town. You're hungry, so you need to eat. Not only do you leave houses barely clean, but you leave fridges empty. There's a name for you in the local area by now and contrary to before, it isn't a good one.
There's people saying you've gotten fat. It's not like you haven't noticed either, but it's not as bad as everyone's claiming. You only look fat because you haven't bought new clothes yet and obviously, cleaning exhausts everyone. It's normal to be winded.
Now that you've heard it though, you think about it. You start noticing that your shirt does ride up quite often. You're more conscious of your weight now, overtly aware that your arms jiggle whilst scrubbing counters. Your belly, especially, gets in the way often.
You don't count how often you need to readjust your clothes to keep yourself covered, because you've stopped doing that a while ago. You're alone, so why would you? You've gotten tired of fixating on your appearance. After all, it doesn't matter. You still have a nice smile and a welcoming presence.
You're sat in the most familiar house besides your own, the one that calls you far out of town. You're greeted by the usual presence of a thank you for your hardwork, handed a treat before the offering of dinner again. It's become a routine and, really, you need it. There's little income outside of this one house you supposedly clean.
You arrive each day now. There's a joke about how exhausting it must be for you to take the bus there, only there's a truth behind it. That walk from your house to the bus station, alongside the 'cleaning' you do, is essentially all you're doing and it shows.
Yet, despite the odds, you're comforted. You earn enough from such a menial job and have a free meal with food to take home each day. There's not much to complain about, besides the obvious.
You hate to disappoint.
There's one day where you don't finish your meal. The consequence of such is small, but it sits. There's talk about how the meal wasn't up to its usual standard and despite your desperate attempts to reassure, it falls flat. You learn not to leave your plate unfinished. It's impolite to do so.
It gets to a point where you're struggling. You have a designated seat in the house, but it creaks under your weight and seems to press against your hips now. You try to ignore it, but it's difficult. You're getting slower as the weeks progress, taking longer to finish your job and eventually staying for hours on end. Not only do you have one meal insisted upon you, but several. The routine continues.
You get to a point where hardly anything fits. You're left with shirts that leave your belly out, fabric that curls up your hip and sinks into your back rolls. The only items left that cover your lower half is sweatpants and underwear that's left on it's last seams.
It should be a sign to stop, but you can hardly remember where you've gone wrong. You've not been overeating, besides where you 'have' to. You're not ready to admit you're at fault and so the routine progresses.
You come over, sit, make an effort to clean and waddle around the house with something in your hand.
The coffee table digs into your belly, so you lift it just to reach all the way over. The sound that echos back seems louder these days and on today in particular, you've knocked something over again. It falls under the table, you groan.
Slowly, you move to your knees, getting on all fours and feeling your belly rub against the floor as you crawl underneath. Your breathing picks up. You can feel the fabric on your underwear pinch even more with the compromising position you're in. Your hip nudges against the table's leg, the entire thing shaking with the reminder to be aware of your own size.
You search for whatever has dropped, eventually finding a small, square device. You can't make it out at first. You focus on shuffling yourself out from underneath the table, getting to your knees with much needed effort and setting the device on the table.
You leave it there. You don't think about it, not until you notice a similar one placed atop the soil of a decorative plant. It takes you a lot of thought, mainly because your initial one seems to remind you how unfit you are.
You realise, suddenly, that's a camera. You make an attempt to pull your shirt down at the realisation before turning it away. You're embarrassed at the thought of being watched. Perhaps they're not active, but you're not yet dumb enough to consider why else they'd be here.
You keep it in mind as you clean. Terrifyingly, there's cameras everywhere. You're probably being monitored. Even in bathroom, one of the floors you've scrubbed whilst practically naked, there's cameras.
You're understandably furious and the confrontation comes consequently. Despite your agreeable nature, you're adamant that you're uncomfortable. For the first time, you're greeted with reality.
You're told how you've fattened up over the months. It's barely been a year, you're unrecognisable. You're reminded of your goals you spoke about that time, contrasted to now. You're stagnant. You're given the truth about how compliant you've gotten, far more than before only, right now, you're spoiled. You're reminded of all the times you've given in, all the times you've been unable to help yourself and each time you thought you were alone when you actually weren't.
Apparently, there's enough footage to make a whole documentary about you. A cautionary tale. There's a joke, or less of one, about releasing it; letting everyone know how and why their neighbourhood cleaner grew into someone completely different.
Your boundaries are pushed again with hands moving on either side of your body, gripping onto handfuls of fat that you believed wasn't there before. You knew you'd gained weight, but as it's said loud and clear, shown to you under the force of mocking hands, you realise how bad it is.
As you try to move away, you're ridiculed for the effort. The attempt. You have to give in, so you do. You ease into it, only to be greeted with contemptuous words about how indolent and pampered you are.
You don't stay the night, but you return the next day. Affectively, you have no choice.