story The Abyss

[swahilimonkfish]

The Abyss

 

Part 1 – In the middle, somewhere

 

 

 

I first noticed The Abyss at the bottom of a bowl of cornflakes.

 

It was not the first place you expect to find it, in all honesty, but times had been tough and the pandemic had really buggered up my feng shui. I was having a right old gander at the bottom of my cereal and I realised something. I realised I was staring into The Abyss. I really should have noticed it sooner.

 

But this story doesn’t start with me staring into The Abyss. This is my story and I want it to start earlier. This story starts where all good stories start. In the middle, somewhere.

 

 

*-*-*-*-*-*

 

 

“Pawn?”

 

“No, porn”

 

“Th… that’s what I said”

 

“Pawn and porn don’t sound the same”

 

“Yeah they do. P – AW – N. Porn”

 

“British people are so weird. Like, you think you’d be able to speak English given that you guys invented it”

 

And this was what a phone conversation between me and Maria sounded like.

 

Maria was my best friend. And also my worst nightmare. Think Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. Think Pete Doherty and heroin. That kinda relationship. Love/Hate. Best of frenemies. A combination of fixation and jealousy. And we were chatting on the phone a couple of days after lockdown had been announced. Some blond buffoon, dishevelled like an old teddy bear, told us that we’d need to, and I quote, ‘flatten the sombrero’. That blond buffoon was our Prime Minister, and that ‘sombrero’ was the number of cases of coronavirus pervading through our vulnerable population.

 

Many of my future Abyss related issues stem from that scarecrow-looking arse-shepherd announcing lockdown.

 

“You are watching porn?”

 

“Oh, you can’t blame me, Nay-nay. It was either that or deal with the McLean account. And now you’re dealing with the McLean account and I’m watching porn. So, everything’s coming up Maria” she smiled, Basquely. She’s Basque, by the way. Did I mention that she’s Basque?

 

“So I’m doing all the hard work and you’re just masturbating to...”

 

“It’s called Big Titty Car Mechanic Cum Explosion and it’s really good. You’d appreciate the craftsmanship. The cinematography is excellent” she teased.

 

“How do you know a word like cinematography? English is supposed to be your second language”

 

“Third, actually. I’m Basque, remember?” See, I told you she was Basque. “And do you know what the word cinematography is in Spanish?”

 

“No?”

 

“Cinematografía”

 

“Oh. That’s not too hard to learn I guess” I admitted. I wish I could speak more than one language. I wish I was more like Maria. “Doesn’t excuse the fact that you’re watching porn while you’re supposed to be dealing with this McLean bullshit”.

 

“And the plot’s good”

 

“The plot’s good?”

 

“Of Big Titty Car Mechanic Cum Explosion. It’s got a good storyline”

 

“Big Titty Car Mechanic Cum Explosion has a good storyline? Did the car mechanic cum explode over some big titties? By any chance?”

 

“Oh. So you’ve seen this one?”

 

And on and on we go. It was only Tuesday of our second week of lockdown and we’d settled into a routine. We were colleagues for some B2B data server provider who had found ourselves working in an office surrounded by men with receding hairlines and crinkled shirts. Back in the office, work was boring so we’d lean on each other for sanity and conversation. Working form home, however, work was still boring so we’d still lean on each other for sanity and conversation. To aid the dreary drudgery of having to work from home, we’d chat about whatever conversation topic that sprung into our heads. And then take the piss out of it.

 

And we’d do so from the other side of Liverpool. She was an adotped woollyback who lived South of the Mersey. Born in Bilbao (which I thought was the name of a hobbit, but what do I know) but emigrated at some point. Not sure when. She spoke better English than I did, but would always insist it was her third language behind Spanish and Basque. The lauburu tattoo on the back of her neck was a small, inked shrine to her roots and her identity. And she held those roots in high regard. If you want to know how proud she is of being Basque, call her Spanish to her face and then see how long it is until she breaks your arm.

 

Me? Oh, I was a proper Scouser, born and bred. Right down to the phlegmy pronunciation and the idolisation of Steven Gerrard. My da even worked down the docks, until he hurt his back. He even had the Scouse curly hair and caterpillars for eyebrows. And I was just as stereotypically Liverpudlian. I’d do all the Liverpool things. I’d glass anyone who insulted the Beatles and I’d glass anyone who didn’t insult The Sun. The only thing that wasn’t Scouse about me was my name.

 

“So what are you wearing, Nay-nay?”

 

My name isn’t Nay-nay, though you’d be forgiven for thinking so. After all, it’s all that anybody calls me. Leading to a childhood that involved a lot of horse mimicry and bullying. But everyone calls me Nay-nay. Even Maria. Though Maria can call me anything she likes.

 

My name is Naomee. Yes, Naomee. You read that right. Two ‘e’s. Why? Fuck knows. Because my parents can’t spell? Probably. But yeah, my name is ‘Naomi’ but it’s spelt ‘Naomee’ like a supporting character from an American High School comedy who says the word ‘totally’ a lot. Which I totally don’t, by the way.

 

And she was asking about what I was wearing not because this was that kind of phone call where you ask what the other person is wearing. We were colleagues, not lovers. Not yet, anyway. No, she was asking because this Scouser here – points to self – had been wearing her work uniform even though she was working from home. I’d even do my hair and make-up for it.

 

It just felt right. You know? Proper. It was still work, right? You should dress appropriately. Of course, Maria rarely dressed ‘appropriately’ even when she was at work. But that’s by the by. But I just wanted the routine. I wanted the maintained standards. I wanted to keep a handle on things. I didn’t want my normality to be fully eroded. It was bad enough sitting with my feet up and an old and over-heating laptop on my knees. But I wanted to keep as much normality as possible.

 

Maria wasn’t so convinced.

 

“Are you wearing work clothes or have you finally started wearing Pjs?”

 

“Pjs”

 

“Finally. Welcome to the dark side. We have cookies”

 

“I do like cookies”

 

“I’m naked, by the way”

 

“That doesn’t count as joining the dark side. You’re always naked”

 

“I know. I was practically born naked”

 

“You were literally born naked, Maria”

 

“So we’re both wearing our Pjs”

 

“Because… let me guess… you sleep naked?”

 

“I’m always naked”

 

“You are always naked, I will admit that”

 

She was. Maria was… uninhibited, shall we say. Liked to fuck around with the idea of fucking around. Even when we were in the office, an office that was an ode to shades of eggshell and with an air-conditioner that sounded like someone giving birth to a fully-grown Dwayne Johnson, she wore the tightest, most flattering, most revealing clothes she could get away with for somewhere that didn’t feature poles or tassels. She was… well, she was Maria. You’ll see. All in good time but trust me, you’ll see.

 

“How does it feel, Nay-nay? To be lounging around in your Pjs? To give in? To begin your descent towards the deep, dark Abyss?”

 

“Comfy”

 

“Is it a full-length nightie or do you have like the frilly top and the shorts?”

 

“Frilly top and shorts. I thought I’d make an effort. I am at work, after all. What about you?”

 

“I’m naked. Do you have amnesia? We talked about this like 30 seconds ago.”

 

“But what do you do when… y’know… Big Rab gets you on a Zoom meeting? Do you just have clothes lying around nearby or…?”

 

Big Rab was our boss. We call him that cos he’s 5ft6. We have literally zero respect for Big Rab. Nobody does. I’m not sure even Big Rab has respect for Big Rab. He had a moustache that made him look like he coached the under 12s of a local football team. His hair was thinning as the rest of him was fattening, until he looked like a cross between a trade union leader and Danny DeVito. Big Rab. Fucking Big Rab.

 

“Fucking Big Rab?” she said, phlegming it up on the ‘kkkh’ on ‘fucking’ like a native. Like seriously, how does she sound so local saying some words and sound like Puss In Boots other times? “Who cares what Big Rab thinks? Anyway, my laptop stand props it high up so he can only see my shoulders. For all he knows, I could just be wearing a strapless dress”.

 

“I don’t know how you get away with doing the shit you do. One day, karma’s gonna turn on you”

 

“Never”

 

“You have all the luck. It’s gotta run out at some point”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because… odds? Probability?”

 

“Luck isn’t something that happens to you. It’s something you do”

 

“Fuck off, no it’s not. It’s literally not”

 

“It is”

 

“No it’s not. It happens to you. You aren’t in control of your life, Maria Exterberria. We’re all just driftwood being dragged down wild rapids”

 

“Correction… you aren’t in control of your life. I am in complete control in my life. I’m not driftwood being towards The Abyss. Because I’m hot”

 

“I’m hot too”

 

“No, you are cute. I am hot. I sizzle. Tssss” She did the sound of sizzling. You can see why I hated her, can’t you? You can see why I loved her, can’t you?

 

She had a point. She was hot. Filthy hot. Irritatingly hot. It was a lazy hot too. The worst kind. She seemed to wake up with immaculate hair. Clothes always fit just perfectly without her needing to try them on. She never exercised or watched what she ate and yet she always looked like rice paper would give her bloating. Somewhere, Mephistopheles is counting down the days, I swear. Her face looked like it had been airbrushed. In real time. The bitch. The very sexy bitch.

 

And I was hot too. No, really. I mean, look guys, I know I’m biased. What with me being me. I’m invested. But I was hot. Genuinely. I had all the hot things that other hot people had. Hot legs, hot arms, hot… other stuff. Whatever you like. The entire range. So why did she say I was cute? I was hot! I sizzled! I went ‘tsssss’ too. I did. Stop looking at me like that, I did.

 

“And being hot means you never have to worry about… anything?”

 

“Exactly. Take Big Rab, for example. I could murder his only son...”

 

“I hate that kid”

 

“Me too”

 

“I mean, if you did his son in, you’d be doing us all a favour”

 

“Right?”

 

“In this hypothetical situation, of course. I’m not explicitly advocating murder”

 

“I could murder that little shit and Big Rab wouldn’t even fire me. I’d just have to lean forwards to give him a view of my cleavage” and yeah, she had great cleavage despite being skinnier than a fasting toothpick. She won the genetic lottery. And it was a rollover too. “…and he’d probably give me a promotion too”

 

“Men are so shallow”

 

“Mortals are so shallow”

 

“You’re not a deity, Maria”

 

“I’m a goddess?”

 

“Not a literal goddess”

 

“Hmmm… yeah, no, I think I’m a literal goddess. So, I could get away with killing him. You? You are very attractive...”

 

“Cheers?”

 

“But you couldn’t get away with infanticide”

 

“Fuck you, I so could. And how do you know the word infanticide?”

 

“It’s infanticidio in Spanish”

 

“Is Spanish just English with a lisp and a vowel on the end?”

 

“So, this is why you feel like driftwood heading towards The Abyss and I feel like the mountain you’re tumbling down”

 

And, at this point, I suppose I should tell you what The Abyss is, shouldn’t I? Well, as it’s you, I will. Here you go.

 

Rhiannon stared into The Abyss. She worked in payroll, did Rhiannon. Lovely girl, but quiet though. Kept herself to herself. And Rhiannon gambled. We all knew she liked a flutter, but it turned out she actually really gambled. She was at that stage where she felt like she needed to gamble because winning was the only possible, conceivable way that she could ever get enough money to pay off her gambling debts. The gambling debts she’d accrued from gambling to win enough money to pay off her gambling debts. That particular vicious circle. Like a one-person pyramid scheme. An Ouroborous of debt. Well, as happenstance would deign it to be, she won. Big. Enough to pay off all her gambling debts. Even the little shitty ones. Despite it being deeply illogical, sometimes the universe is flawed like that. It rewards bad habits. Her win may have been a one-in-a-million occurrence, but there are 7 billion people in the world so maybe the odds were on her side. And so she did the inconceivable. She gambled her way out of debt.

 

And then she gambled her way back into debt. Because she figured her luck had turned and because it felt a waste to win all that money and only be back to zero. She wanted to win and be wealthy off of it, and felt cheated that she wasn’t. Last time I saw her, was lying down in an overgrown parka outside big Asda. I bought her a sandwich and coke meal deal. It was the least I could do. I always cared for the homeless. It wasn’t her fault she gambled her way back into the problem from which Fate had generously freed her. She’d stared into The Abyss. And The Abyss had stared back. That’s just how The Abyss works.

 

Well, that’s how we’d gossiped about it in the office, anyway. Setting ‘The Abyss’ as a catch-all for the inescapable pull of rock-bottom. And one of the people who’d engage in this deeply disrespectful gossip-mongering was Riyadh. Riyadh was a filthy gossip. Until The Abyss got to him too. In his case, he was caught cheating on his wife with some other woman that he also claimed to love. Both of them left him when they found out about each other and he went from having his cake and eating it to having no cake and starving. He took it badly. We found out how badly after he didn’t come in to work for a couple of days.

 

He’d committed suicide, and he didn’t even have the dignity to confine his wrist slicing to the bathtub. The people who lived in the flat beneath him, report damp on the ceiling. And then they reported that the damp was merlot red. Now, you might be thinking, what an over-reaction. Does a little itsy-bitsy heart-break warrant the shearing of his radial? But he’d seen The Abyss at this point. The Abyss had seen him back. And when he’d think of what his future held without either of those women in his life, he saw nothing. Just the vacuous space where one of them should have been, from here unto eternity. Or, that’s what we said, anyway. As we gossiped about it at work. It’s what he would have wanted.

 

“I am not heading towards The Abyss because I’m not wearing Pjs. Pjs that you bullied me into wearing by the way”

 

“I didn’t bully you, Nay-nay”

 

“Yes you did. By suggesting that I wear them in that sexy Spanish accent of yours. You know I can’t resist that.”

 

“If you call my accent Spanish one more time, I’ll rip your fucking throat out!”

 

“Oh, you object to me saying your accent is Spanish but you’re fine with me calling it sexy?” I laughed. There weren’t many people who could get away with calling her Spanish in any way. Neil from IT did it once and now he’s missing teeth. He didn’t report her though. Luck or sex appeal? You decide.

 

“I am sexy, Nay-nay. You’re just stating a fact”

 

“Is it a fact though?”

 

“Yes, and don’t test me on this. Especially cos I’m reaching a climax right now”

 

Yeah.

 

That caused me to take a beat.

 

She actually said that to me.

 

“You’re still masturbating? While we’re on this call?”

 

“Yeah” she said, as if it was normal. But, that’s not normal though guys? Right?

 

“And was it the porn that stimulated you, or all that talk of you finding yourself sexy that did it?”

 

“I am so fucking hot” she whimpered.

 

“Are you having phone sex? With… yourself? And I’m the third wheel in a two-way conversation somehow?”

 

“I am so fucking hot” she whimpered again, like that was a response. I just put the phone down and let herself finish herself off. It was kinda frustrating, kinda insulting, and all kinds of Maria. She just existed in her own space, doing her own thing, and the world would just have to work around her. This was a woman who could get breathy at just hearing herself give herself compliments. It’s alright for some.

 

I sat up and looked at my laptop screen and tried to put her breathy groans out of my head. But the alternative was dealing with the McLean account, and the thought of that made me queasy. Honestly, it was the comment about The Abyss had made me a little queasy. I wasn’t anywhere near any Abyss, which wasn’t real anyway. I’d worn pyjamas. Big whoop. They were cute Pjs anyway. I don’t know why I felt so defensive. It seemed to hit a nerve that I didn’t realise was showing.

 

I mean, I could take a leaf out of Maria’s book, I guess. What was it called? Big Titty Car Mechanic Cum Explosion? I mean, I could type that into Pornhub’s search filter? I could let my hand slip down my fancy working-from-home nightwear. I could, couldn’t I? Maybe be the mountain that the rapids poured down that carried the driftwood, for a change.

 

I got up to close the curtains, shaking off the crumbs that had been caught in my top as I rose. And doing that caused me to pause and reflect. Reflect at how maybe I had flirted with a little sneaky side-eye at The Abyss after all. Reflect on the real reason I was wearing nightwear as workwear, besides Maria’s gentle coaxing to her covetous dark side. I had been snacking far more than usual. And I was struggling to button my work trousers.

 

I’d gained 20lbs in the past 6 weeks.

 

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what I meant when I told you that I was starting this story in the middle, somewhere. Because the weight gain that you’re presumably all here for, was already a WIP. I’d gained 20lbs, and found them in my middle, somewhere.

[swahilimonkfish]

50 minutes ago, berserker1 said:

I already gave you the feedback on DA so I'm just gonna say here, in case anyone is hesitating about if they should start reading "The Abyss": Do yourself a favor and start reading it right now. It's amazing.

As ever, that's really kind of you to say. Cheers mate

[swahilimonkfish]

Part 2 – Je ne regrette rien

My weight gain began in the usual way. After my yoga instructor broke up with me on Valentine’s Day.

Now, I recognise that sounds a little more Desperate Housewives than any real life scenario should, but it also hung, drew and quartered my heart. My bendy lover with the strong command over their breathing saw fit to cast me aside by fucking Email. Email! Who dumps someone by Email in the 21st Century? Well, Liverpool’s sixth most popular yoga instructor does, that’s who.

That was 24lbs ago.

And that was where my story really began.

As I was trying to explain to Maria on one of our phonecalls.

“Because that’s when I started gaining weight”

“So what?”

“So, I’m suffering from a few, minor sartorial issues”

“Like what?”

“Like, I’m having trouble finding clothes that fit, Maria”

And now we wait for the response from her. And I’ll give you the following odds on what happens next: Sympathy 20/1. Reassurance 15/1. Dismissal 5/1. Reference to The Abyss 3/1. Teasing 2/1. Out and out bullying – Evens.

In the meantime, shall we talk about what you’ve missed? Well, let’s see. There’s the fact that it’s now the third week of lockdown, and it’s taking its toll on my sanity. God, I feel trapped in here, clawing at the same four walls. I miss open spaces and not having a roof over my head and vitamin D and, oh, the sight of other living, breathing human beings. Remember other human beings? God, that takes me back.

But I can’t go out. Partly because lockdown forbids it so. It’s apparently ‘illegal’. And yes, I’m quotation marking the word ‘illegal’. But also because zips and I haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye lately. Hence the above and below conversation.

“Are… are you getting fat, Nay-nay?” and she could barely stifle her giggle as she said it.

“No I’m fucking not”

She replied with nothing but a wall of silence.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Maria Echeverria!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t need to. I know exactly what you’re thinking”

This wasn’t strictly true. Nobody truly knew what Maria was ever thinking. She was a riddle, wrapped in tight leather, shrouded in expensive perfume. You never ever got the full picture with her. There were puppet strings being pulled in the background and mischief happening in the corner of your eye always.

But I knew roughly what Maria was thinking. She was thinking about the A word.

Abyss. She was thinking about me be pulled towards The Abyss.

Anyone have The Abyss at 3/1?

“I’m thinking that this is a reason why we should hang out, not a reason not to hang out. We could have so much fun clothes shopping. I have great fashion sense and an American Express card that just loves being used. Come on, let me spend some of my enviable riches”

“That’s real generous of you Maria. Though that’s tempered by the gloating, you showboat. But the shops aren’t open and, even if they were, I wouldn’t fancy gracing their good selves with the button on my jeans undone” I told her, before adding on the end “It’s a self-consciousness thing, you wouldn’t understand”

“Shop online. We can shop online”

“Yeah, but for clothes? Don’t you want to try them on?”

“Well, durrr… I want to. But it’s not the end of the world”

“It’s not the end of the world? Are you sure? Have you seen outside?”

“Okay, I’ll admit, it’s possibly the end of the world. But shopping online is fine. And you can always return things that don’t fit. I’ll come round and we’ll sort it out together”

“Fine. I guess. But you’re not allowed to judge me for my appearance”

“Too late. I did that when we first met”

“I remember” I say to the blank screen of a phone that has already been hung up. Without even saying bye, like she’d learn how to do phone conversations from American movies. And I sat there, in my Pjs, listing regrets in my head like I was the anti-Edith Piaf.

Oui, je regrette beaucoup.

So, while we wait for Hurricane Maria to wash up on these shores, how about I tell you what about this weight gain then. Let me tell you how this story actually began.

Seven weeks ago, when The Abyss was just a twinkle in the milkman’s eye. Seven weeks ago, when I thought Wuhan was followed by the word Clan to make a hip-hop band. Seven weeks ago, after my break-up with Liverpool’s seventh most popular yoga instructor – no longer the sixth since I’ve been spamming criticisms under different guises on her Facebook page ever since we split like the mature woman who was taking the break-up well that I was – I had a reservation for two at La Torre and I was looking for a plus-one.

So, of course, I told her this during one of our coffee breaks at work. And Maria had volunteered to be my plus-one.

“But it’s Valentine’s Day? And you’re… you. Don’t you have like a million dates as it is?” I had told her.

“I can probably fit it in” she had replied.

“Fit it in, my arse”

She had cocked her head to the side at this point, as I back-pedalled as fast as my heart-broken legs could back-pedal.

“No… not ‘fit it in my arse’. I said… meant… fit in in. Full stop. New sentence. My arse”

“What am I fitting in your arse?”

“Nothing. ‘My arse’ is just what you say when you don’t believe the preceding sentence. I was just calling bullshit, not providing an instruction manual for anal penetration. You… you know that, don’t you? You’re just winding me up, aren’t you, you cheeky fuck”

“It’s fun to see you squirm” she’d smiled to me. “I’ll see you at 7”.

It wasn’t a date. Not a date date. It was just Maria riding in to rescue me, the damsel in distress, as a favour. Between mates. And boy did I want to mate with her.

And then I just waited for Maria to knock on my door.

When Maria knocks on your door, you feel a sense of unease. It doesn’t matter if you’re Brad Pitt or a rocket scientist or you own a car (wtf, Shania?), you’re gonna feel deeply unimpressive in her company. But that goes doubly when you’ve just been dumped by the downward-dogger of your dreams just a few hours earlier. And that was the situation I was all those weeks ago.

She looked sublime. As frigging usual. She always looked sublime. I opened the door to see 5ft10 of feminine slink, a feline predator with a shimmering physique. Her hair had that Joan Jett roughness that takes hours of polish, and her eyes sparkled like the pole star. Her neck was long, but in a regal way. Or a praying mantis way. Yeah, in a praying mantis way. Her waist would whittle in fiendishly beneath her disturbingly sufficient chest. And she had an arse on her, but flatteringly so. Daily-routine-features-squats so. Oh, and she was wearing a black leather crop top and leg-gripping trousers like she was cosplaying as Xenia Onatopp.

“Sorry I’m looking rough, I slept in”

“Oh haha Maria, you… that is not what looking rough looks like… and how did you sleep in?”

“You know I like to sleep”

“Yeah… with people”

“I need my beauty sleep. And, as you can see from looking at me, it works”

It did.

“But I thought you had multiple dates”

“I did. Including one with a couple of Liverpool footballers. You’d probably know who they are”

“Men’s team or women’s team”

“Men’s team and women’s team”

“So what happened?”

“I cancelled them all. Because you needed me, Nay-nay”

She said that with those piercing eyes locked onto me like a tractor beam. I was entranced. I guess, my break-up wasn’t going so bad after all.

It was humbling and guilt-inducing to have Maria Echeverria, the one and only, make sacrifices for little old me. I mean, we were good friends and everything. But I always felt like a convenient friend more than a good friend. Like the human equivalent of fast food to her. The social options were limited in our office, unless you liked 50 year old virgins. At least I wasn’t a 50 year old virgin.

But there I was, 7 weeks ago, standing in front of the most attractive woman this side of the Pennines, who’d made time for me on her busiest day of the year.

And, also, how did she look so good if she’d only just gotten up?

And this is what I asked her as we sat down at the restaurant.

“Good genes I guess. Plus, the painting of me in my attic looks like shit”

Don’t mind Maria just dropping another classic literature reference. More brains and looks than anyone non-fictional. This woman is so perfect she makes Mary Poppins look like Scully or Hitchcock. Because my references aren’t quite so classic or literature.

“But… how do you look like that without make-up? You look like you’ve been Vogue-d, or at least Grazia-ed”

“Diana’s lip is not more smooth and rubious”

“Are you speaking about yourself in the third person?”

“It’s Shakespeare. I was quoting Shakespeare”

See what I mean about the literature?

“But I thought you were Spanish… Basque, sorry”

“Can’t you quote Miguel De Cervantes?”

“N… no. No I can’t. Is he the windmills guy?”

“Wow. ‘The windmills guy’. You called the writer who practically invented post-modernism 300 years before modernism… the Iberian answer to Shakespeare… ‘the windmills guy’”

And we laughed and drank our wine while the tasting menu was delivered to us.

It was an Italian place, La Torre. Real high-end. And on Valentine’s Day, high-end is expensive. I mean, on Valentine’s Day, even Maccy D’s is expensive. But La Torre? You’d need to remortgage your place just to go there, if it wasn’t for the fact that my generation were priced out of the property ladder to begin with. But some yoga instructors are worth it.

Or so I thought, before he pulled my heart out of my chest and shat on it.

Either way, the food’s very fancy. And you know the food’s fancy because the portions are tiny. It was a seven course taster menu, where they spend ages pouring wine that you can’t afford into a glass that’s always on your lips while they eventually get around to bringing around foams and morsels and dots of food. Usually on something that isn’t a plate. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was very tasty. And, in a romantic setting, with the yoga instructor of your dreams, I have no doubt it would be delightful.

But with your best mate who I swear moonlights as a siren, it was a bit weird.

“You know, I’m gonna end up getting fat. And lonely. Maybe I should get cats. Is that the next step in my evolution? Behold, Naomee Heaney, cat owner extraordinaire!”

“Oh, that’s just the wine talking, Nay-nay”

I mean, I was feeling pretty loose-tongued at this point. It probably was.

“No it’s not”

“Why will you get fat?”

“Cos I can’t do yoga any more, can I? I can’t do all that stretchy, breathey bollocks in the same room as that motherfucker”

“I would. I wouldn’t give a fuck about Jerome”

“Well, yeah. But you’re… you, Maria. The rules don’t apply to you”

“Fucking is right, they don’t. But you’re not gonna get fat eating portions this size anyway, you’ll be fine. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless we go to get something from Nandos after this”

“A cheeky Nandos?”

“It doesn’t have to be cheeky”

“It’s Nandos. It has to be cheeky”

I don’t make the rules. But every Nandos is a cheeky Nandos, and that’s just the way of things.

“Fine, a cheeky Nandos. Because this is just chicken feed. After this, we should actually feed on some chicken”

“Fine. But only because life is meaningless and god is dead”

“No I’m not”

“How many times Maria, you’re not a deity! You just look like one”

Okay guys, so Nando’s is a British institution. Or at least it was, before the pandemic. You see, Americans think British people drink tea and eat cucumber sandwiches. And the tea bit’s true, I’ll grant you. But, mainly, we eat peri-peri chicken after a night on the town getting fucking trollied on JD and coke, interspersed with shots of Sambuca and listening to Steps megamixes, while sticking our tongue down the throat of some bloke called Kev who fixes up cars for a living and fixes up cars for a hobby. That’s really what it is to be British.

She ordered us a platter. Which is a lot for a post-meal meal. There was enough chicken to give Colonel Sanders are stiffy. There were halloumi sticks and coleslaw and peri-salted chips. But there was mainly chicken. Chicken and regrets.

Like I said earlier… oui, je regrette beaucoup.

“How do you eat so much and stay so thin?” I asked, bloatedly watching her eat more than her fair share. I crammed a halloumi stick into my mouth as I spoke, my bloated stomach wincing as I did.

“Habit”

“Habit? That… that’s not what habit means” I grab a piece of spicy chicken and swallow it, washing it down with lemonade.

“I don’t put any effort in or anything. I just eat what I like, do what I like, and always end up looking like this” she said, gesturing at herself.

“And I sweat myself to my wick in front of a yoga instructor who thinks dumping people by email is socially acceptable, and still end up looking like this” I said, gesturing at myself.

I was hot. I know I told you this last time and you didn’t believe me, but really that’s more of a ‘you’ problem than anything. I was hot. I had good genes too. Back when I could fit in jeans. That was a… that was a genes/jeans pun and I’m not sorry about it.

I had come from a sporting family. My ma played netball for England and my da got buzzed and shouted at the telly everytime Steve McManaman ran down a blind alley. I’d played a bit of football myself, a bit of netball too. A bit of anything that involved competition and lauding my superior prowess over boys who thought they’d be able to beat me because I was a girl. There’s no high quite like schooling boys that are older than you when ‘you are just a girl’.

The competitive sports stuff died down as I grew up. I kept my eye in with all that witness-able fitness that Instagram likes so much, on cross-trainers and rowing machines, but it was mainly out of vanity rather than the thrill. You hit 30 and you suddenly realise that your priorities must have changed at some point over the past decade but you have no idea when. Just a gradual drift, as you allocate more emotional resources to paying council tax and dreading your MOT being due. Life happens, I guess.

But I was still hot. I had my mum’s blonde hair – thank God not my dad’s Graeme Souness tribute act of a mop-top – and her freckled face to go along with it. I had my dad’s square shoulders, unfortunately, but the rest of me was in good nick. Slim and sporty like a proto-Spice Girl. And I had what we call in the business a rack on me.

In short, I looked hot. And I knew that I looked hot as I reached for another piece of chicken to push into an inn of stomach that simply had no room.

“You look hot”

See, I told you I looked hot.

“Thanks” and I swigged some lemonade again.

“I mean it. Do you wanna have sex after this?”

“Sex is on the table?” and now some peri-salted chips.

“Sex on the table is on the table. Honestly, you should totally have sex with me. It would open your mind. It would open your eyes. It would open all your orifices”

“I’m… pretty sure my mind isn’t an orifice?” and back to the chicken.

“I’m just saying… you must be hot because I’m here if you want me, and I’m amazing. We can go back to your place?”

“I’m not fucking you, Maria”

She paused.

“Really?”

“Yeah, sorry but...”

“Again?”

“Yeah, I’m saying no to you again. It’s nothing personal, it’s just… I’ve just had my heart crushed. You probably don’t understand since people are just nibbles at a buffet for you. But Jerome broke my heart when he left me. Tonight’s been lovely, really nice even. But I just want to go home and cry into my pillow and maybe eat a box of chocolates”

I didn’t really want to eat a box of chocolates. The going home part was true. The crying into my pillow part was certainly true. But there was no way on God’s green Earth, this side of Hell freezing over, could I possibly even contemplate eating a box of chocolates after all I’d eaten today. I thought, as I pushed another halloumi stick in my mouth. God, that stuff was moreish.

“You can go to my home. Cry into my pillow. Maybe eat my box of chocolates”

“I’m not fucking you Maria”

“Nobody’s ever said no to me before. And you’ve said it twice now”

“You know how that makes me feel?”

“I’m sorry Maria”

“It makes me feel horny”

“What?”

And for the first in seemingly hours, my mouth stopped chewing.

“Come back to my place. I promise we won’t have sex. I have something I want to do with you”

“That’s not sex?”

“I didn’t say that”

“Yes… you literally did”

“Come on, you’ll see”

And I did. I saw. You won’t believe what I saw, but I saw… something. And I’ll tell you what that something was, another time. My story, my rules, remember?

Which takes us to the sound of Maria knocking on the door, 7 weeks later. And me feeling all the unease that comes with it. Because, as I believe I’ve mentioned, the sound of Maria knocking on your door is a cause of unease. And doubly so when you’re reeling from finding yourself 24lbs heavier than you were 7 weeks ago. It’s hard to look hot next to Maria at the best of times. And these were the worst of times.

See, I can do classical literature references too.

I was dressed in frilly night wear top and shorts. Pastel pink with white spots. It would look deeply unflattering on anyone South of Maria in the looks department in all honesty. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking with it. But it was merciless on me. Everything looked frumpy. It left the lower half of my abdomen visible, an abdomen that was sticking out a little more than the mannequins in clothes shops tell me it should. The short sleeves of it reveal thicker arms. The shorts hanging on my bum like a goat on the wall of a dam. I’d seen better days. I’d hardly seen worse days.

“Sorry I’m looking rough, I slept in” I told her as I opened the door.

“That is not what looking rough is” she told me, with a crooked smile, before inviting herself into my place.

She was wearing a thin chiffon night gown that she opened upon entry to reveal just negligee underneath. Her body ached with femininity and power. She would walk with a catwalk swagger, seductive hips swaying with each progressive step. The compare and contrast between us was a knife in the heart.

“You drove wearing just that? What if you were pulled over? I mean, we’re not even allowed to travel during lockdown? Let alone, escorting ourselves about while looking like an escort.”

“Then I’d take it off. I’m sure the officer wouldn’t mind. And escorts don’t dress like this, Nay-nay, you sheltered pony” she said as she sauntered through my main living space. “So, what are we drinking? I’m thinking, tequila?”

“I’m thinking tea?”

“Come on, live a little” she smiled coquettishly.

“That’s because you only want me to live a little”

“You’re still going on about that? That was seven weeks ago Naomee. Move on. How about gin and tonic? Sounds classy, yet potentially messy. Plus, we need something to drink while we talk about your weight”

“I thought we were just going clothes shopping?”

“No”

“No?”

“No”

“Well, we’re not having sex Maria”

“Still?”

“Still”

And I hoped that would see her put her clothes back on. I felt a bead of sweat dripping down my forehead. It wasn’t even that hot in here.

“This is an intervention, Nay-nay”

“An intervention?”

“Yes, but the bad kind of intervention. I’m intervening, but not to rescue you. I’m intervening, to push you a little further. This extra bit of squish you have going on, 20lbs or whatever. I think this might be the reason I introduce you to my old friend”

“What old friend?”

“The Abyss” she said, sitting on my sofa and staring at my body. “I think it’s your turn to stare at The Abyss. I think it’s time for The Abyss to stare at you.”

I gulped.

I had been tossing and turning at the thought of it, for the past seven weeks. That The Abyss isn’t something that you stare at first. It stares at you until it catches your eye. And I had felt its eye on me for the past seven weeks. Her eye on me for the past seven weeks. I’d learnt a lot about Maria over those seven weeks. About what she was capable of.

“Naomee, do you want The Abyss to stare at you?”

“No sex though?”

“I can’t promise that. I have feelings too, you know”

“Fine”

“Fine?”

“Yeah, I mean what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Naomee… the worst that can happen is what I’m asking you to commit to”

And that’s when I committed.

Best mistake of my life.

Oui, je regrette beaucoup.

[swahilimonkfish]

13 hours ago, xandercroft said:

Tish, that’s French!  

 

[swahilimonkfish]

6 hours ago, watashiismyaccount said:

Logged in to make a rare comment, just needed to say this was a really good read and you're by a country mile the best active writer around, you're such a pleasure to read.

Genuinely one of the nicest things to read, this. Thank you so much

[swahilimonkfish]

6 hours ago, berserker1 said:

I'm so in love with this story that I couldn't help but drawing something for it.

** Mind that this is a FREE INTERPRETATION of the story. I talked to swahilimonkfish about making an illustration of the story and he told me to trust my guts and draw whatever I feel like. I don't know if the story will go in the direction of the illustration or not. As I say, this is a free interpretation based on the two first chapters of the story with the goal to spotlight and draw more attention to this excellent story **

Hope you like this vision of Maria and Nay-Nay!

 

I love this vision of Nay-Nay and Maria, it totally captures the spirit of their relationship. Thank you so much, for the art and all the encouragement you've provided lately

[swahilimonkfish]

19 hours ago, AdiposeAdorer said:

Just gonna drop in to add another endorsement here. This is a piece in classic Swahilimonkfish style. By which I mean to say: it's damn good!

 

Cheers mate. I do wish I didn't have a 'style' per se, but at least you think it's a good one!

 

22 hours ago, Maverick said:

Nice work!  Love the third-wall asides and the interplay between the characters.  In lesser hands, I'd be screaming "get to the gain!" but your dialogue is so good I really don't care how long it takes. 

Maverick

 

Oh my god, I know what you mean about how frustrating stories like mine are. I'd be shouting the same at this story if I was in your shoes. And it's very kind of you to say that you don't mind too much. Especially from a writer I admire as much as yourself

 

23 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Fucking A man, I'd been waiting to read this in one go because your stuff is always so good but here I find its only a couple excellent chapters.

 

Sorry about the lack of one-go-ness of it, but I appreciate the kind words. Especially because that is how I treat your writing lol!

 

On 8/18/2020 at 5:11 PM, mal57 said:

Absolutely. I found him here and followed him back to DA, the first to prove to me that FA/WG fic can be as deep and well-written as "real" literature and inspired me to up my own writing game.

 

Oh mate, you didn't need to up your game. You came out of the womb a bona fide wordsmith, and everything you've written has been good. But thanks for the nice words, it feels good to hear them.

[swahilimonkfish]

7 hours ago, berserker1 said:

I wasn't planning on making another drawing, I swear. But I think the abyss caught me.

Wow, I was not expecting this. What an utterly unanticipated delight. Honest to God mate, this is brill. Thank you so much. I feel like you understand Maria, the way you capture her is fantastic

[swahilimonkfish]

Chapter 3 – Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle

 

A chair facing the wrong way. A slender leg either side. Maria rested her arms on top of the chair’s back, and rested her head on her arms.

“Dance”

I put my hands in the air and closed my eyes. Listening to music that wasn’t there, I slowly, gently twisted into shapes. My shoulders flowing to a lazy rhythm. Slow, swaying, serpentine hips meandering to an unheard beat. A smile appeared on the bottom lip that I was biting.

“Come closer”

I waltzed towards her, step at a time. Drawing closer to her, step at a time. My bare soles seeping into thick carpet. My head spinning like a child’s mobile. Like a careening satellite that’s slipping out of orbit. Before crashing.

“Closer”

She wanted to feel my breath. Hear my lungs swell with heavy intakes of oxygen. See my pores glisten in the window-light.

“I want you”

I smiled again, my eyes opened and looking at hers.

“Well you can’t have me”

“I want to do such terrible, terrible things to you” she said, leaning forward as she said it.

“No. Golden rule – I’m not fucking you”

“That’s a shit golden rule. But, I can’t complain when the view’s this good” she laughed as she leant back again with her arms crossed as I slowly began to grind on the chair that she was sitting on. My blonde hair tumbling down my face. I’d swat it away but my thoughts were elsewhere.

As you can tell, clothes shopping was going swimmingly.

Look, I’d love to make excuses for this behaviour. Something about Mercury being in retrograde or you know how Pisces be when they get with an Ares. But the reasons were a little less celestial. A little more down to Earth. I was head over heels in love with the idea of being loved by somebody I hated and loving someone who hates me.

It was now week four of lockdown. And this was the fifth day in a row that she had come round my place under the pretence of clothes-shopping. And, each time, the pretence was getting flimsier. It felt almost like code now. Shallow justification. I don’t know who we were kidding; ourselves or each other. Either way, the excuse worked. But only because we wanted it to.

And, as an aside, I’m not entirely sure that the view was good. But I’m not entirely sure that wasn’t the point. As I slowly groaned and gyrated on my living room carpet in a nightie that no longer fit correctly, I’m not quite sure I understood what the point was at all. It was a quantum delight. An uncertainty principle of our own. It only existed when we didn’t think about it.

It wasn’t the most conventional relationship. And it certainly wasn’t the healthiest relationship. And speaking of healthy...

“Hungry?”

“Why do you ask?”

“To ascertain the answer” she said, her voice not rising or dropping in inflection as she said it. But holding steady, like a bullet.

“I’ll ass-ertain you”

“That’s not a real word”

“It means I’ll entertain you with my ass” I giggled, turning around and shimmying like some dollar-store Cyrus. 

“No… I got that. But it’s still not a real word”

“It is”

“No, it’s not”

“It’s a portmanteau”

“But not a real one”

“I’m English. Only I can decide if it’s an English word or not. It’s my language. And I vote that it is.  Now let me ass-ertain you” I said, twerking away with my rear to her face and strong thrusts from a mushy pelvis.

“Fuck you” was her only response. I took it as a compliment.

“The golden rule is that you can’t” was my response. She took it as an insult.

“Just fucking eat something, you insolent shitbag”

This weird tete-a-tete thing may have felt like a deleted scene from The Wicker Man – the good one, without Nic Cage or bees – but the jousting of it had become routine. Like two dogs meeting for the first time, we were working out whether we should bark or wag our tales. It was like that.

Only sexier.

I couldn’t put it into words if I tried. Which, I realise, is problematic since I am literally trying to put this into words. That’s how stories work. But I prefer not to think about it and then, and only then, it makes sense. It’s just the beats between the moments. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s in the places between places. I was hypnotised. And she was too. By each other. Against each other.

It was partly for show. I guess. For the camera that Maria had put up. Stacked on a tripod and looking down at us like the eye of Sauron. We weren’t making porn. Or pawn for that matter. Well, maybe, but only for private usage. For usage when engaging with our privates. It was a sex tape only, as the golden rule would have it, lacking in the sex. Mainly she liked to record me gorging myself so she could watch it later and masturbate.

As you do.

“Do I have to eat?” I told her, with pouting lips.

“I’m sorry Nay-Nay, but you do”

“I don’t want to eat”

God, I sounded childish. Is this what White Russians do to me?

The drink that is. It was mainly a white Spaniard doing this to me.

“You don’t have a choice I’m afraid”

“Why do you want me to eat?”

“I don’t want you to eat. But you’ll do it anyway”

Of course, I didn’t have a choice. I mean, I did have a choice. But I didn’t. It was a mess of contradictions, this little uncertainty principle of ours. See, I told you not to think about it. And if you find that difficult, as I do, then drinking helps. Inhibitions are like haemorrhoids; they’re a pain in the arse.

Which means drinking is like Canesten Duo? No, that doesn’t work.

Let’s get back to the sexy stuff.

I was back now, bearing goods. Oven chips. Thick-skinned. Salted and vinegared. And in a bowl. Piled high. Steaming hot. And so was the food.

I sat down and felt myself sink into the cushions a little more than I ever used to. Or maybe it was just my mind playing tricks. I made sure my sitting position was level with Maria, my eyes at the same height as her own. Locked on one another. Her eyes drew silhouettes on the wall behind me. Tracing my outline with sexual curiosity. She was drinking me in. But always, the eyes would come back to mine, and I’d see the flashes of fireworks going off in their background. And with our eyes fixed on each others, I picked up the first chip and bit into it.

And then I spat it back out again because it was too fucking hot.

“Did you think the fries that had just come out of the oven were going to be anything other than hot?” she asked, sounded frustrated where I was just amused.

“Yeah, but these are really hot”

“I don’t understand how you got through college”

“I give great blow jobs?” I smiled. She was still stern-faced.

It took about another ten minutes before the chips were cool enough to eat. A really awkward ten minutes. Ten minutes of her sitting there in just her lingerie staring at me, feeling my nightied self before I added chips to this bonfire of bloating that was punishing me. I genuinely didn’t know what I was doing.

The weight gain was terrifying. I whimpered every time I stood on the scales. I was no longer the 121lb girl doing mountain poses in front of the yoga instructor I was allowing to do me up the bum if he was good. I was a 148lbs girl searching for dignity in the bottom of a plate of chips. I was a girl with a stomach that bunched up with a soft valley of flab running across landscape as I sat down. A girl who could feel resistance in her chin as she looked down at the toes that her stomach would one day obscure. A girl who had seen better days.

“These chips are good” I told her, through mouthfuls. “Very potatoey”.

“Just eat”

“Like, sometimes, when I’m eating McDonald’s chips, those skinny chips, I like them even though they’re not potatoey. Like, there’s hardly any potato, but they’re still so good. But these chips… these are good because you can really taste the potato. Like, how weird’s that? Like, is potatoey a good thing then, or is it...”

“Will you just stop talking for a second and eat”

I looked down at my plate sheepishly. I was frustrating her. It was kinda hot. But then I would acquiesce to her, and that would be hot too. I blame Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle again and the probabilistic nature of existence. That, and her good looks.

But I had to eat the chips. So that I could eat dessert. And I always enjoyed eating dessert with Maria. It was with dessert that Maria would start getting handsy. Start getting involved. Pad her paws towards me, lean into me and play. She even eats a bit as I layer it on. We eat off each other. It never goes any further, and she somehow never gains a pound from our playing, but everything else is on the table.

Sounds good, right? Sounds like the sort of thing you’d want to hear about, right? Maybe read about? With detailed descriptions of body parts? Well tough titties, cos this is the part where the story jumps back in time to tell you how we got here.

Record scratch, freeze frame and all that jazz.

It’s time to tell you the story that I promised you. The one about what happened when we got back from Nando’s 7 weeks ago. And I was formally introduced to The Abyss for the first time. And I fear I’ve been tumbling towards it ever since.

It went a little like this:

 

“Ahhh see, you’re doing it all wrong”

“Is this wrong?”

“Yeah, you need to do it with two fingers”

“Two fingers?”

“Trust me, you need to use two fingers”

“But I’ve only been using one finger all this time. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I am. Trust me. This is why you’ve been struggling”

“I’ve been struggling?”

“It’s just inefficient. Use two fingers, and then slip it in the gap and push it through”

“Okay, that’s actually working a lot better thanks”

“I can’t believe you’ve been tying off balloons using just one finger all this time” Maria laughed, as I did my best not to look embarrassed.

Because we were talking about how to tie off a balloon. Obviously.

To be fair, I was buzzed. And Maria was too. Or should have been. But this woman could hold her liquor. Her liver must be made out of rhinoceros or something. Or maybe she was buzzed, and her buzzed self and her sober self were just exactly the same as one another. I mean, you wouldn’t put it past her. But we were buzzed and giggling, And blowing up balloons. 

“Why are we blowing up balloons again?”

Good question, me 7 weeks ago. Gooood question.

“It’ll look fun on the camera”

“What camera?”

“How buzzed are you, Nay-Nay? We’ve been through this already”

To be fair, I was very buzzed. I’ve always been a bit of a lightweight. So to speak. But I was also buzzed on drama, buzzed on tears, buzzed on heartbreak. buzzed on attention. And buzzed on too much French wine. Put all that together and I was utterly shit-faced.

“On a scale of 1 to 10… I am very buzzed”

As if to prove that very point.

“Good”

What she had previously told me, only for my wandering goldfish attention span to have dismissed, was that we were gonna make a home movie.

Yeah.

We were going to record me eating myself into further stomach agony as a fuck you to Jerome the mulleted yoga instructor whose diet consisted solely of lentils and my dreams. The fucking shitbag. Maria had a cake on her person – weirdly – and she had fluffy pink handcuffs – also a little weirdly, but, let’s be real, kinda expected in her case – and she wanted me to eat the cake hands free. She was going to put it on the floor, surrounded by balloons, and have me eat it like I was a troughing pig. How quaint. 

It sounded weird and fucked up, even to my inebriated self, but it also sounded very silly and very much fun. And plus I just wanted to spend more time with Maria, even if I had no intentions of shagging her. She could have suggested we go puppy-drowning and I’d have gone along with it just to watch her eyes. As it was, it was kinda fun and kinda kinky and kinda rebellious too. I was keen to enjoy myself. And I was keen to not let Maria down.

It wasn’t porn. Regardless of spelling, it wasn’t porn. But, on the other hand, and let’s all be reasonable about this, it was totally porn. I didn’t/don’t understand Maria and the spider web of crossed wires that make up her brain. But she wanted to record me eating all this stuff and just watch. And record it so she can watch me again later. We all have our kinks I guess.

“How was your cake, Naomee?”

“Naomee? Why are you calling me that? What are you, my mother?”

“Maybe. After all, you have been a bad girl. And bad girls need to be disciplined by their mothers...”

“No sex, Maria. It’s the golden rule”

“It’s a golden rule now?”

“Yeah”

“Is that more than a regular rule then? Is there a rule hierarchy and this the top rule?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. But it is, okay? No shagging Naomee. She’s too full”

And I was way too full for anything other than passing out. It was something called chiffon cake. It tasted home-made and, frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if Maria just so happened to be a remarkable baker too. Why not? She’s fucking flawless in every other way. It tasted so bad. Which is why it tasted so good. It tasted like looking back on this evening and thinking WTF. And there is no greater taste than regret.

I woke up, still dressed up in my going out clothes, the following morning. My face was planted into a pillow. Slobber dripping down my face. Any pretence of sexual allure was as gone as my dignity.

“You’re awake, at last”

“No I’m not. My head hurts. I think I’m still buzzed. Did we fuck? What time is it? I might go back to sleep”

“We have work in 20 minutes”

“I’m gonna call in sick. And then I might actually be sick. Maria, what happened last night? And why is there cake on my dress? And what the fuck are these handcuffs doing?”

I suddenly squirmed, like a seal on land, to find hands bound behind my back.

“We had fun last night”

She smirked when she said it.

“Did we… have sex?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t you remember?”

“You’re lying, you arsehole. I wouldn’t. Didn’t. You’re lying”

“Fine. No sex. Apparently it was your ‘golden rule’. But we had fun. I can show you the footage if you like. But I have to go to work soon”

“Foot… footage?”

“We recorded it. I’m gonna leave for work, but if you wanna watch it, you can. Stay here, make yourself less uncomfortable, and watch yourself eating cake like a dog from a dog bowl”

“That sounds like a lot of wine that I must have gotten through. Which explains the banging headache”

“Bad banging or good banging?”

“Bad banging. Very bad banging. Can you untie me then or...”

She untied me and she put her laptop on my knee. She sat there by my side, too curious to leave for work, as I dragged the cursor over a folder called der Abgrund.

“Which folder now?”

“Oh, you're the… eighth one down. See, it has your initials”

“So… all these other folders...”

“Oh, I have done a lot of stuff with a lot of people”

“Any that I’d know?”

She paused as she leaned over my shoulder. I swear I could hear her think what answer to give. It was deeply unnerving.

“Maybe”

“It was a yes or no question. A binary choice”

“I don’t believe in binary”

“You do coding, of course you believe in binary”

“Yeah, but in quantum computing, there’s always a third choice. There’s 0, there’s 1 and there’s 0 or 1. It all ties to quantum mechanics”

“The what… how do you know all this random science-y shit? I thought you were hot and good with languages. Pick a fucking lane Maria!”

“That’s my point. I don’t believe in picking a lane. It’s like all that quantum stuff. It all hinges on things being probabilistic until they are observed. So there’s not a binary. There’s a third, unobserved choice of either 0 or 1. It’s the same with human behaviour. Human behaviour ossifies when you decide to analyse it. But, the joy of being is behaving without analysing it. Just being. Don’t look at yourself and ask why, because the magic will go when you try to explain it. The best things in life are unknown and don’t make sense. Like Heisenberg with his uncertainty principle”

I could have been impressed I guess. But I was mainly just tired of her bullshit. Maybe it was the scorching headache, maybe it was the guilt about whatever we did the night before. Maybe I’ve just known Maria too long and her waffling about philosophy and quantum physics feels run of the mill. But I was tired of the bullshit.

“Do I know any of the other fucking people on this laptop? Yes or no? You’ve clearly made recordings of other people doing who knows what crazy, depraved shit. And I’m not stupid just because your hoity-fucking-toity lecture about reality or whatever doesn’t fascinate me in the same way that you having recordings of what we got up to, and what others got up to with you”

She didn’t say anything. I don’t think she enjoyed being called out. Maybe she thought my behaviour was ‘beneath her’ but fuck that. I was annoyed to wake up in handcuffs, covered in cake and discovered I was making sex-free sex tapes with my best friend from work. And I was annoyed that I was just one of many, by the looks of it.

Instead of speaking, she just drew her long index finger across the laptop touchpad, to guide the cursor over one of the folders. She double-clicked. And then she clicked on one of the files.

The footage was clear and HD, but the lighting made it difficult to make out. Maria’s tall, striking silhouette was clear, but the other girl was harder to make out. They were at a betting terminal. The other girl was there, and Maria was leaning over her shoulder. Whispering poison.

“Hang on...”

I began to recognise the girl. I looked at the filename. It showed the date of the recording, and the initials.

“...Is that Rhiannon?”

“Yes”

“Rhiannon from work?”

“Yes”

“The girl who now sleeps outside Big Asda? Who lost her home, her family, her job, everything?”

“Yes”

“Due to gambling?”

Maria paused.

“Yes”

She clicked ‘back’ and then opened up another file from another folder. This one was a sex tape. And I guessed the long legs wrapping around from underneath were Maria. But the powerful physique of the man on top was instantly recognisable. The angle meant I could see his face in profile.

“And that’s Riyadh”

“Yes it is”

“But he’s dead now?”

“Yes”

“He committed suicide”

“Y… yes”

“After being found out about having an affair”

She didn’t actually say anything this time.

“Maria, were you the person that Riyadh was shagging when he was cheating on his wife?”

“Yes”

“He committed suicide because of you!”

“I know”

“What the actual fuck Maria?”

She stood up behind me, and I felt lost in her shadow. She was always tall, but she felt taller as she looked down on me, sitting down at her laptop and watching an old colleague who has since died balls-deep in her very self.

“You know how we always said it was The Abyss that got them? It was”

“I know. I know it’s not your fault and everything. But don’t you feel shit about this?”

“No, it was my fault. The Abyss wasn’t the gambling or the affair. Just as it isn’t the drinking with some of the others on there, or the pyromania of another on there. That was never what The Abyss was”

“What are you saying, Maria?”

“I am The Abyss. I am The Abyss. And, after last night, I think it’s time I turned my gaze to you”
 

[swahilimonkfish]

11 hours ago, dania201 said:

I love the intensity and the plausible darkness that pervades this story. 💯

Plausible darkness is a great way of putting it, that's what I was hoping for so thank you! 

[swahilimonkfish]

10 hours ago, berserker1 said:

I don't remember the last time I was so hooked to a wg story.

Here it is one last *free interpretation* illustration of this story!

 

This one is my favourite picture yet.

And getting hooked on the abyss? Naomee can relate

[swahilimonkfish]

9 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Damn she's really leaning into the self destruction huh?

Awww yeah

[swahilimonkfish]

3 hours ago, skinnytochubby said:

This is spectacularly well-written, even by your own high standards.  

What a genuinely nice thing to say - thank you! 

[swahilimonkfish]

Chapter 4 – The Abyss

After you spend too long in the dark, your eyes acclimatise to it.

And I’d spent way to long in this Abyss.

She’d stopped coming over, mind. Was she giving me space? Was that the idea? It sure didn’t feel like it. She was seeping into more thoughts. More and more often. Like a tightening vice. Like the constricting grip of a python around the neck. She was. She. The Abyss.

And I was slipping. Slipping, slipping, slipping. Slipping a little faster every day. I was giving in to her even when she wasn’t there. In the quiet of those mornings, when the only sound was my own breathing. I was still giving in. Still getting sucked a little further under.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, nothing Rab. Just thinking out loud. What were you saying?”

Ah yes, the conference call. The real world didn’t stop existing just because of all the other things I had been getting up to. Work still existed. And Big Rab in all his Napoleon complex glory was a deeply unwelcome reminder of that fact.

“The McLean contract? Why has it not been sorted yet?”

“I mean, I passed it over to Bazza. Or was it Chazza? Someone whose name ends in -Azza anyway. They said they’d do it for me”

This was true. I’d actually offloaded a fair few of the ongoing work elsewhere. Middle-aged, balding men were only too keen to help a cute little thing like I used to be out. What wasn’t true was that I’d given it to Bazza. Or Chazza. It was Wayne. Or Wazza, as he was known. It was an easy mistake. Men and their stupid nicknames, faces and genitals. Men. Just… men.

They were no Maria. That was for sure.

“Hmmm… fine. But don’t think that, just because you’re working from home now that you don’t have to do any work, Naomee. And fix the bloody camera on your bloody laptop. It feels unprofessional to talk to see your name on a black screen instead of a face” he harrumphed. Trying to assert some dignity into his puny, petty life. And failing. You see, Big Rab was so the kind of bloke who referred to his wife as the ‘old ball and chain’ but was secretly the dutiful house-husband. He was definitely the kind of guy who enjoyed wearing his marigolds when washing the pots a little too much. And he was probably the kind of guy who jacks off to badger porn or something. But that last one is pretty much just conjecture at my part. But, what I’m trying to say is, we’ve met a Big Rab at some point or other in our lives.

“No problem” I lied through clenched teeth and switched off the zoom call, and then removed the plaster over the laptop camera. That I had deliberately placed there. For reasons pertaining to my appearance.

You see, time had been its usual bastard self. Speeding up and slowing down to exact maximum discomfort and minimum pleasure. And I had found myself many months into lockdown and many months of journeying towards the leering chasm of darkness that so had me hypnotised. And so, I guess I’ll have to update you on what’s been happening since you last heard from me in the previous chapter. And I shall communicate this via the medium of montage.

Cue the Rocky soundtrack:

Well, week 6 was when things started to get hairy. But less about my approach to self-grooming. No, week 6 was another stumble towards the bleakness. Haphazardly, like a ** in a snowstorm, towards the light. Only it wasn’t the light I was drawn too. Yes, week 6 was when I started experimenting with drinking weight gain powder drinks.

Weight gain shakes, they call them. For when you want to get ripped. And my clothing sure wanted to get ripped. See, I’m not actually sure what all that protein does when it isn’t used to build muscle, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t slim you down. I found this recipe that involved weight gain shakes and ice cream and double cream from a corner of the website so depraved it should be called 64Chan. It tasted like licking the arsehole of Beelzebub himself but, as a woman who used to give spectacular oral to a yoga instructor whose diet consists solely of flax seed, lentils and lemon juice smoothies, I’ve had less disgusting things go in my mouth. I think the theory behind them is that they replace meals. With me, they replaced the drinks I had with the meals.

That was week 6. I spent the whole of week 6 without her.

Week 8 was when I introduced these devilish binges into my daily routine even though she was not here. She. The Abyss. Those early mornings when Big Rab was yabbering on to me down a face-cam I’d concealed with scotch tape, I would be necking pints of thickjuice and eating pounds of flapjack. There was no free time. There was no me time. The only thing that existed was time to stumble into the sulphuric pit of shame. I was, even in her absence, irrepressibly possessed by her.

I don’t actually remember the marker penned line where I stopped only bingeing in the company of the dark-souled maven and started dabbling with it solo. There wasn’t a distinct Eureka! Moment when I thought that I could do this anytime. It was more that I would eat normally when she wasn’t here, but less and less normally. But week 8 was when I noticed it.

That was week 8. And still no Maria.

Week 10 was when I decided that there were four meals in a day. At the risk of sounding like that hobbit from the Lord of the Rings who was all like ‘But what about second breakfast?’ and then listing all the myriad meals a hairy-toed fuckwit would eat during the day, but that gap from midday to sleep is a long time to go with only one meal to bisect it.

So I became a two-dinners kinda girl. If there is such a kinda girl. I sorta hope there isn’t. For that hypothetical girl’s sake. I’d have one dinner at 4pm and one later in the evening. Just a gluttonous food orgy of ill-disciplined...

“Nay-nay!”

Sorry, what was I saying? Just a gluttonous food orgy of ill-disciplined…

“Nay-nay? Earth to Nay-nay?” Big Rab blurted into his laptop microphone.

I looked up, a little bewildered. A little bemused. Ah yes, another office Zoom call. I remember now.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that neither Chazza nor Bazza know anything about the McLean contract. And Jefferson’s are losing their bloody minds about the data access problems. You need to get on top of things Naomee. You’re not here just to pretty up the office, y’know. You need to stay on top of things”

I need to stay on top of Maria…

Wait, did I say that out loud?

“Wait, did you say something Nay-nay?” he asked, squinting his little wrinkly tortoise face towards the camera.

I’ll take that as a… maybe?

Rab again. Talking at me again. Toe-looking dirt-brain that he was. You know that boss is an acronym right? It stands for Bent Over Sheep Shagger. B.O.S.S. Or ‘boss with the dots’ as we say over in our neck of the woods. 

“I said that your comment about the pretty face is pretty inappropriate, Rab” I said, with a smirk across my face. That was not as pretty as it once was, to be fair. Not that they could see it. The scotch guard tape meant that they had no idea.

Honestly, I don’t know what came over me. Maybe Maria came over me. That sounds nice. But no, I just said it. I felt my spine straighten as I said it.

“Is… I mean, sorry. I was just… it was just joking. Humour. I was just… y’know, office bantz” he stammered, suddenly self-conscious. Presumably pining for his marigolds.

“Office bantz? Office Bantz! You know, that was exactly what Harvey Weinstein used to say when he did… you know what. ‘Office bantz’. Honestly, google it. It was like his catchphrase. I can’t believe you said that Rab. Honestly, and I thought you were an ally” I lied, trying hard not to laugh. I mean, was that inappropriate to bring up Harvey Weinstein? Yes. Was it true about him saying ‘office bantz’ while he ruined countless women’s lives? Probably not. Am I deeply unfeminist for weaponising the suffering of so many women just to skive off work to focus on self-flagellation by cake? Undoubtedly. But it’s not like he’s gonna sue me for defaming his character. He doesn’t have any character left to defame. He’s just another man with a face like a fucking tortoise.

“I’m so sorry Nay-nay. I didn’t mean...” his eyes welled up with tears as he pleaded at the camera pathetically. But I wasn’t looking at that sad sack of short-arsed shit. I was looking at the blank Zoom profile in the top-right corner of the call. It had Maria’s name on it. Black screen but her name. Watching silently. Invisibly. Judging. I wonder what she was thinking, as she watched this. She would have loved it. To see him writhe and squirm, like a fish on land. Flip-flap-flipping. 

And she didn’t look like a tortoise.

So, where were we?

Oh yeah, I’m on meal four and that was week 10. And still no Maria. Still no fucking Maria. Where the fuck is Maria?

Week 12… or was it 13? I honestly gave up keeping track at this point. Anywho… week 12 added another new frisson to events. Enter dark, twisted thoughts: stage left.

I decided I was going to start measuring myself.

Yeah, I wasn’t sure what that meant either. Shoe size? Height? Why? These were just three of the many questions that flashed epileptically in front of my eyes when the thought crossed my mind. It was just an idle girl’s idle curiosity and I ran with it. But not literally ran with it, because I’m an idle girl. Look, the important thing was that I was up for anything at this point, and just went along for the ride with my own depraved whims. Just living my truth. Following impulses down any darkened cul-de-sac they chose to steer me.

I elected to measure me as if for a clothes fitting. Or more like a clothes-not-fitting, am I right? Come on guys, don’t leave me hanging. Anyway, I would get out my little grey journal and jot things down like I was the ref taking down Boring James Milner’s name for being excessively rambunctious with his tackling. And, here’s the thing. she’d never know what I was writing down. She. Her. You-know-who. The Abyss. Maria. And then I’d measure me some more. Charting my terrain like I was a cartographer and my body was undiscovered lands. Here be saddlebags, and all that. And in it would go, in that fucking grey journal of mine. Numbers, figures, data. All unknown to her. I hoped she’d want to read it.

Because I wouldn’t share it. She never shared anything with anyone ever, so why would I? She wouldn’t even share her presence. She was leaving me alone. But I would wrap me in tape, around all the growing bits and I would take dutiful note. That was week 12. And that was another week without Maria.

“What was week 12?”

Oh fuck, I’ve done it again.

“Nothing Rab. Nothing”

“Have you… is the camera on your new laptop also not working?” he sounded sheepish. He looked tortoisish, pushing his bald head towards the camera once more.

“Yeah, what are the odds?”

I mean, highly unlikely. The camera on this new laptop, bought and paid for out of the company’s willowed out funds, worked just as well as the last one, when blue-tac wasn’t smudged to obscure.

“That’s a shame. But… for no real reason. Not saying it… y’know, just… it’s a shame that the bloody laptop is faulty is what I’m tryna say, I guess. I got you a real expensive one. Lots of RAM too” he stammered like his words were stepping on Lego.

“Yeah, sure”

“Wait, are you eating?”

“No”

I was.

“Sorry, maybe it’s the muffling from your microphone”

It’s not.

“Must be”

It wasn’t.

“If you like, I’ll get another one for you. Another laptop. Hopefully one that works this time” 

Sucker.

“Thanks. I sure hope so” I say, between mouthfuls of anything in my proximity.

The company was on its last legs. Contracts were being broken. Jobs not getting done. Customers leaving. Sure, we blamed it on Covid. It was Covid’s fault. But, when lying in my bed, alone, without Maria, I smile a little smile to myself and pretend that it’s my fault. That I’m to blame. And then I lean by my bed and eat one of the chocolate muffins that I leave there. Y’know, for snacksies.

Then came week 16. This was promptly followed by week 22. Week 27 came after this. I’m pretty sure that’s how time worked. Work 14 followed, but that was a temporary aberration that was soon rectified by week 29. Yes, week 29.

25 weeks without Maria. Nearly half a year without Maria. Without those eyes, with twisted maelstroms of darkness raging in them. Without those lips, as rubious as Diana’s. Without her touch, soft like silk linen, designed to be draped over me. Without me words. Worst of all, without her words. Where was Maria? Where the fuck was Maria?

Please, just tell me.

You see, there is a weird hypnosis when you’re all alone behind closed doors. Alone. It feels like you get to set the parameters of your own universe. Alone. You decide your own definition of normal and know that there is nobody else around to object. All alone and with nobody to steer you. And, I don’t know about you fuckers, but when I’m all alone and with nobody to steer me, I just travel in the same direction I was already pointed in. Where she pointed me in. Her. The Abyss. Maria. That direction.

“Sorry? What was that about a direction?”

Rab queried with a scrunched up face. The kind of scrunched up face you get when you see cousins make out. It was just his normal, day-to-day expression, but still. Resting-tortoise-face.

“Nothing Rab...”

And then I paused. I’m not going through this again. This same tired rigmarole. This palaver, this tired old dance. And then I reached a conclusion that is usually the preserve of being pickled, and decided…

Fuck it.

Chuck it in the ‘fuck it’ bucket.

I put the laptop screen down and shoved my laptop back under the sofa. I didn’t want to talk to Big Rab. I didn’t want to see his Blastoise looking face, as he trod on the eggshells of my feigned feelings. So I didn’t. There. Done.

Instead, I pulled myself up and walked to the kitchen to make myself breakfast. I mean, I’d already had breakfast, but Merry or Pippin or whichever squat-arsed weasel it was had a point about having a second one.

Week 29 and it was all taking its toll, I guess. Everything. It was all taking its toll on me. I mean, how could it not? I had been running in the same direction relentlessly now for half a year. How could I expect to not be somewhere different? But I was different, no two ways about it.

I reached up for a bowl out of the top cupboard and, right on cue, the facts presented themselves. Look at me. Just look at me. I mean, I know you guys can’t, this is a literary medium. But imagine me then, I guess. Imagine my once-flowing nightie riding up as I set myself up on tip-toes to grab the bowl. Imagine my stomach swelling outwards like a bin-liner filled with yoghurt. Imagine a formerly yoga-obsessed girl now opening the fridge to pull out a 4 pint of the blue milk. Full fat milk that I previously hadn’t ** since I was a toddler. Imagine a sofa creaking as I plant myself down on it, with fluffy arms resting on fluffy hips as I do. And then pouring the last of the milk down my neck.

And imagine looking up from the empty bowl of cereal and staring directly into the ghostly eyes of Maria.

Wait, what?

Maria? Here? How?

And here I was, guys. Finding The Abyss at the bottom of a bowl of cereal. It was not the first place you expect to find it, in all honesty, but times had been tough and the pandemic had really buggered up my feng shui. I was having a right old gander at the bottom of my cereal and I realised something. I realised I was staring into The Abyss. I really should have noticed it sooner.

So welcome to somewhere in the middle of the story. Not sure where in the middle of the story. I don’t know how this story ends yet, after all. But it doesn’t look like the beginning and it doesn’t feel like the end, so I think it’s safe to all this the middle. Staring at The Abyss at the bottom of a bowl of cereal.

Crunchy Nut Cornflakes to be precise.

And then imagine asking the only question you can ask yourself at a time like this. To a person like that.  What would you ask? Would you ask:

“When did you get a key to my place Maria?”

or

“Why are you smiling like that?”

or

“Where the absolute fuckity-fuck have you been? It’s been 25 weeks Maria! Why did you leave, Maria? Why? Why did you go? And why are you back? Why are you back now? Why? Why?”

Well, those would have all been valid questions, to be fair. Especially that last one. But that wasn’t the question that I asked. Oh no. No, the question I asked was:

“What the fuck am I doing to myself?”

And I had a point. What the fuck was I doing to myself? Besides staring at The Abyss at the bottom of a bowl of cereal in the middle of a story.

[swahilimonkfish]

On 9/11/2020 at 8:35 PM, Batman76 said:

As I said on da, I absolutely love this chapter, I'm on pins and needles for the next one. How big is Naomi? Did maria gain? Is the no sex rule off now? What if lockdown ends and she's gotta go back to work too big for her chair?

As ever, you're too kind mate! I can confirm that some of those questions will be answered in the next instalment of The Abyss

[swahilimonkfish]

3 hours ago, xandercroft said:

Stay tuned Bat fan!  Same bat time, same bat channel...on the Abyss!  

Literally the vibe I was going for lol

[swahilimonkfish]

Chapter 5 – The Lahar

 

Eyes.

Black, so black. Black like a little slice of Hell. Eyes staring back at me.

“What the fuck am I doing?”

She didn’t flinch at the words. She just looked at me. Those eyes, those black eyes, just looking at me and concluding things that I couldn’t see.

“You’ve said that already, Nay-nay”

“I have?”

Did I? I’ve already said ‘what the fuck am I doing’? I mean, I thought the time I said it at the end of the last chapter, and the time I said it at the beginning of this one, were the same thing. The same time. Is time collapsing around me. I sometimes feel like I’m not the narrator to my own story.

You live and you learn, I guess.

“Oh”

We just stayed there. Looking at each other. Her black eyes dancing over my body, light-footedly. Her judgement was silent but it cut through my skin piercingly. And we let the air breathe through the house like lungs.

There was a draught. Was the door open? What if the cat escaped? I didn’t have a cat, of course. But I wished that I had, so I had an excuse to worry about the door being open. Maybe a cat might get in. I should take a look, to check that there are no cats trying to get into my house.

What the fuck am I talking about? What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to say something?” I said, frustrated.

“Maybe. Haven’t decided yet”

Which unnerved me.

“I’ve maybe put on a bit of weight” I said, underplaying it deliberately to lighten the mood.

I hadn’t put on a bit of weight. Last Christmas, I put on a bit of weight. The festive season and having a sweet tooth are a dangerous combination. But I had not put on a bit of weight the past 20 weeks or so since she last lay those black, cold eyes on me. I’d ballooned.

But she didn’t say anything. She just kept looking. Like I was some artefact for her perusal.

“I’m too fat, aren’t I? I’m so sorry Maria. I don’t know what’s gotten into me” I began to cry. Thick, heavy sobs slobbering down my chins. Where were the tears coming from? I hadn’t expected tears. And yet, in many ways, they’d been building there for months. Out of sight. Behind a Hoover dam. The dam began to creak.

She volleyed back silence though. Again.

“I’m too fat for you, aren’t I?” I continued to blubber. No, blubber as in cry, you dolts. Those tears. Deluvian tears. Wiping away everything. A flood of tears wiping away everything but us, two-by-two. My heart was rupturing. And not in a good way.

And finally she opened her lips and told me.

“Yes”

My eyes widened.

“Sorry?”

“Yes, you’re too fat for me”

She said it without a flinch of her facial expression. Not a twitch in the eyes. Just a casual dismissal of me and my existence. Flicking me away like the stub of a cigarette.

She began walking away. All legs as ever. One foot in front of the other like the world was her catwalk. She hadn’t changed. Sleek and slinking as ever. A lynx. A jaguar. Making a feline beeline to my door. A door that might be opened or closed and I couldn’t be bothered to get up and find out.

She was going. Everything, all of it, collapsing around me. A lahar racing down the mountain.

You know what a lahar is? I’ll have to tell you one day.

“Please don’t go” I bleat. I sounded pathetic.

I must have sounded like Riyadh as his life collapsed in on him. Both his wife and girlfriend leaving him on the same day. The day he took a knife to his radial vein. I must have sounded like Rhiannon. Drowning in debts she knew she could never repay. The day her house got repossessed. Here I was. Victim #3. And she was walking out the door.

“Maria, don’t go!”

Did she get off on it? Is this her high? Her fix? Her fetish? Is she taping all this in her head, to replay later? Hand slipping down to her clit, and the overhead projector in her mind playing that time I cried pathetically about being called fat? The thought of me being destroyed by this wrecking ball of a woman? My demise?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, fuck that.

“I’ll fuck you”

I have cards still to play.

“I’ll fuck you Maria”

I tensed as she stopped, her back to me. I couldn’t see her face. She was so tall, so effortlessly shapely. Lithe, panther like. Her hips would shimmy to the side as she stood. All I could see, all I could look at, was the lauburu tattoo on the back of her neck.

“I’ll have sex with you, Maria”

She turned around sharply, her jaw tensed as she strode towards me. She walked up so close, only stopping when I could feel her breath on me.

“And why the fuck, Nay-nay, would I want to fuck you?”

Oh.

That didn’t go as planned.

Fuck.

“What? But you kept wanting to...”

“You don’t understand, do you? What you’ve done to yourself? Just… look at yourself” she said venomously, grabbing my shoulders and turning me towards a mirror. Her hands on my shoulders pinching. God, I wanted them to stay there.

The reflection wasn’t flattering. I guess. If I’m being honest. Time – which I think we’ve established is a wanker – had not been kind to me.

“I mean, I guess I’ve put on a few...”

I felt her talons cutting into my shoulder as I said it.

Fiiiine. I guess I better describe the girl in the mirror then. Get the tissues out lads, or whatever it is you use. My yoga ex? He told me he used socks. Like, what the fuck was wrong with him? I mean, putting your dick in a sock? How much must your parents not love you to leave you that screwed up? And how did me breaking up with such a fucking, sock-shagging, poor man’s Harry Styles neanderthal end up breaking my heart so badly. I’d much rather have my heart broken by Maria.

I think we all want our heart broken by Maria.

I looked tired. That was my first take away as I stared at a reflection that I had been refusing to acknowledge for half a year. That was what the weight did to me. It made me look tired. Lumbered me with ennui. My face looked puffy with the weight. It was weird to think that, after reaching a certain point, your body decides ‘I guess we better store some of the fat in the overflow carpark that is your face’. But my cheeks bulged, my neck padded to blur the point my chin began and ended. I guess I’m not one of those girls whose face remains impervious to weight gain. Probably because, unlike most of your fictional girls, I’m a real human being, so fuck you.

So yeah, that’s all I’m going to tell you about my appearance for now. It’s a little thing I like to call suspense, deal with it.

“You used to be pretty. That’s why I liked you. But look at you, Nay-Nay. You’ve capitulated. You’ve hit rock bottom” she said, and turned away from me again.

No. Fuck you Maria. I’m not letting you do that.

“No I haven’t” I said, obstinately. I dug my chubby heels in.

“Stop it, you’re embarrassing yourself” she said, back still turned to me.

“No, this is nothing. Barely any weight” I countered.

Okay guys, trust me, I know what it sounds like. Denial. Insanity. Delusion. And it undoubtedly is. But I know what I’m doing here. Just… trust me.

“Isn’t it?” she turned again, a smirk on her face. “Look at you Nay-Nay! Just… look at you”

And fiiine, I’ll look at me in the mirror again. That suspense didn’t last for very long, did it?

It was the width that felt most jarring in my reflection. Like, I knew that my midriff was now a maxriff. It stuck out over the waistband of my pj shorts like a pint whose head spilt over the side of a glass. Or the top of a muffin over its case. Oh my god, I’ve just realised why it’s called a muffintop. That’s quite clever actually! By the way, did you know that the Flemish for muffintop is ‘fuck reins’? Now, I understand the etymology of that. It’s like hard core love handles and, honestly, I’m here for it. I want Maria’s hands all over my fuck reins.

But the width was new to self-perception. Fat grew sideways? Who knew? I looked broader shouldered than before. Thicker armed. My chest was wider, my hips more generous and pronounced. There was so much to my reflection that was alien to me. Was my posture different? Were my legs further apart? I didn’t look like me any more; something had changed.

Width. I’m telling you. It’s the width that fucks up the way you see yourself.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s a couple of pounds maybe. But it’s easy to lose. The keto diet is super effective, I hear. Chazza from work dropped loads by following it, didn’t he? Besides, gyms are open now”

I sensed her tense with frustration.

“And wear what, Nay-Nay? You have gym clothing that fits?”

“Oh Maria… you can buy clothes online now, don’t you know? It’s not the end of the world”

I smiled as I said it. Her cheeks reddened. Her black eyes narrowed. It was glorious. Using her own words against her.

“Fuck you”

She took it well.

“I’ll be thin in no time”

“Fuck you Nay-nay”

Stiiiill taking it well.

“But I might try and keep the arse. Men like a proper arse don’t they?”

“Fuck you”

And still.

“I’m just so far from rock bottom, you wouldn’t believe”

And Maria paused. And released a grimaced smile.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing”

Cue: me pulling that cutesy expression that Puss in Boats does that became a meme a while back.

“Doing what, Maria?”

“This… is a game? Isn’t it?”

I smile.

“I can’t wait to pull myself out of The Abyss and just back to my normal, healthy, well-adjusted lifestyle” I tell her.

She smiles.

“You want The Abyss? You want rock bottom? You want me to drag you there, don’t you?”

I stood up and looked right into her eyes.

“Do your best and ruin me, Maria”

Look, hold up is what you’re thinking. Hold the fuck up and explain to me what’s going on. What game, is what you’re thinking. What on earth are you on about?

The last question you’re thinking is… do you actually want to get fat?

And… I don’t know the answer to that question. Or, I do know the answer to that question, but the answer is both yes and no. Remember that little Heisenberg principle we spoke about some while back? I want to be a straight-laced girl making the best of my education, in a man’s world. Breaking glass ceilings and earning top dollar. And maybe I wanted kids. It’s that question that gets thrust on us women far more than men, especially ones that hit thirty. And I never wanted kids until I held my sister’s in my hands. And then my heart melted and I just wanted to have kids with my smoothie-drinking, hummus-eating, downward-dogging yoga instructor of a boyfriend. Fucking Jerome.

And he just wanted for us to be kids forever. No responsibility.

I think that was the real beginning of the end for us, looking back.

And here I am, also wanting no responsibility. To set fire to responsibility. The opposite of what I want. And yet I crave it. Maybe Maria’s the reason I crave it. Maybe it’s the reason I crave Maria. But, as much as I want to pull myself together, I really want to tear myself apart. One calorie at a time. With idle curiosity.

“Oh, I will devastate you like a Category 5” she said. And she said it with a smile. An actual smile. Not just a contortion of the lips but a human smile that started with the eyes, ran down the creases in her cheek and into the upward crescent of her red, red lips.

I’d never seen her genuinely smile before.

“Have you ever used a funnel?” I asked her.

“For sex? Where does it get shoved?”

“For feeding”

“I thought we were doing sex?”

“I thought you were ruining me?”

“Uhhh… yeah”

I pulled back and smiled.

“Food first, then sex?” I suggested.

“Sex first, then food” she countered. “In case you fall into a food coma”.

“What if I fall into a sex coma?”

My limber ex would often do this, post-coitus. For all his stamina in holding lotus-like poses, he really was a short-term fix in the sack.

“You look too hungry to sleep without food”

Fair.

She put her hands on my love handles and guided me towards the bedroom.

“I’ve never been with a fat girl before” she said with palpable curiosity. I’d never been a fat girl before, so at least we had that.

“I’ve never been with any girl”

“Oh, I know” she pouted patronisingly as I pulled my pj top over my head gracelessly, yanking my head through the headhole. Which sounds like a euphemism.

“We’re… actually gonna have sex?”

I sounded desperate. But, in my defence, I was desperate. It had been half a year since I last had someone do the dirty with me, and even then, it was with a man who thought it was socially acceptable to wear a headband. To wear my headband. Fucking Jerome.

“Did you know what they call these in Flemish… these love handles? ‘Fuck reins’. They call them ‘fuck reins’” she said, with her hands on them and her lips close to mine. She smelt like arsenic.

And yeah, so that was how I found out my cool fact about love handles. Feel free to use the term with the loved one in your life.

“I… didn’t?” I say. Her hands were cold. Like she wasn’t warm-blooded.

I try to pull my pj shorts off, but they’re so fucking tight and I look like Bambi on ice and after one too many as I try to step out of them without falling over. I must have looked so sexy.

And she reached into her handbag and pulled out a dildo.

From her handbag.

I… have questions.

“Do you want another fact?”

Instead, what I got was another fact from Maria. I nodded, with sweaty gulps as she began to climb towards me. Hands going towards my fuck reins. I could feel my breath quicken.

“Did you know that Mt St Helens wasn’t really a volcanic explosion?”

I shook my head as I felt her on me.

“See, it wasn’t the lava that made it so dangerous”

Her skin was so smooth. So unblemished. I wanted to feel her touch forever.

“It was the lahars” she continued.

Yeah, so I said earlier I owed you the definition of a lahar. Well… here’s your definition of a lahar.

“So when a volcano heats up, and gets so hot”

And now we discover the world’s weirdest sex talk.

“Soooo hot”

It was working for me, what can I say?

“All the mud and snow on the side of the mountain turned to hot sludge”

Why was this working for me?

“The pyroclastic flow, that’s the smoke from a volcano, is all just hot, sulphuric debris...”

But by god, when coinciding with her touch, her movements, her knowledge of my body, better than I knew it myself…

“It all mixes on the mountain to form a deadly, poisonous, molten hot, dirty, sludgy avalanche...”

...it was everything I ever wanted. Every moment I ever wanted. Just this moment, again and again, for the rest of my days.

“And then it falls...”

Oh god.

“Unstoppably...”

Yes.

“Devastatingly...”

Dear god.

“Down...”

Oh.

“and down...”

Yes.

“and down...”

Oh, that motion again, please. That touch again, please.

“...and down it falls”

Please.

“Until there’s nothing left to save”

God.

“And that is what a lahar is”

And that, dear reader, was when I experienced a lahar of my own.

[swahilimonkfish]

4 hours ago, xandercroft said:

Your writing is pyroclastic flow.  (As Joker from the movie Jack Nicholson was in, staring up at the sky...) 

“Where does he get these wonderful...words”.  

Jack Nicholson's joker was the best joker imo. Plus, Naomee is definitely 'dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight' 

[swahilimonkfish]

2 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Really just love the self destructive impulse on this. even knowing it she only goes deeper and deeper.

Yeah, she's like a moth to the flame. She knows it's bad but is drawn to it anyway

[swahilimonkfish]

10 hours ago, dania201 said:

It’s called “The Abyss” after all. I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised the character is heading into freefall. 
 

Thanks for another great chapter, @swahilimonkfish!

You really are the kindest soul around, thank you

[swahilimonkfish]

Chapter 6 - 1000 Hours/I'm in Charge Now

Before we go any further, I have something I need to get off my chest:

Maria knows what she’s doing in the bedroom department.

So there’s this guy. Malcolm Gladwell. Weird looking fella, like the kinda guy who steals your panties to sniff them later. Anyway, he came up with this batshit theory that it takes 1000 hours of practicing anything to become the master of said anything. No innate talent required, no genetic predisposition, no Rainman-type proficiency. Everything about mastery of any skill can be reduced to one simple maxim. You practice something for 1000 hours and then you will be its master.

Now, this theory, preposterous though it may sound, is actually… yeah, it’s crap. Utter bollocks. Just another reason why the world should stop trusting white men when they profess expertise in something. It’s been debunked so many times that the person debunking it has probably mastered debunking it; or he would have had the 1000 hour rule held up. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that Malcolm Gladwell should probably stick to smelling undies and there is no evidence that 1000 hours of practicing anything means you master it.

Until Maria came along.

That woman is amazing in the bedroom. And I am in no doubt that she’s reached the 1000 hour threshold. Maybe pervy Gladwell had a point.

Honest to god, she can do more with the breath on my skin than Jerome could do with a spare 45 minutes after working up a sexual appetite. She plays you like an instrument. I was her harp. She was at one with me, knowing every press and release. She’d dial it up, slow it down, like Beethoven riding the waves of his unwritten tenth symphony. With every touch, an angel weeped. I will never take breaths so nectar-infused as those again.

But I must stress, just because she was playing me like a harp, doesn’t mean she wasn’t savage. That she wasn’t also feral. Like Macavity. She was everything I wanted her to be. Even things I didn’t know that I wanted her to be until she was being it. 11/10 would definitely recommend. There’s just no-one like Macavity.

The aftercare, however, left a bit to be desired.

“You’re leaving?”

I strained my eyes through the late-night dark.

“Yes. Of course. You didn’t think that I would stay the night, did you?”

I mean, of course I did. I wasn’t some fucking booty call. If she thinks she can just walk out on me and I’ll take it lying down, she’s got another thing coming.

“No, of course not. You go ahead, Maria. I’ll see you tomorrow”

Okay, I chickened out. But, in my defence, my brain was still hazy from the outrageously good sex. Did I mention how good the sex was? I feel like I may have missed it. It was good. It was so fucking good.

“No you won’t”

“Why? You planning on using the blindfold again?” and, fucking hell, I could feel the outer edges of my lips curl up into a smile.

And yeah, we used a blindfold last night. Bet you… didn’t see that coming. Ba-dum tsshhh.

“No, because I am bored of you now. We’ve had sex, there’s nothing here for me now” she said with her sultry Spanish accent clearer than ever.

“Thanks?”

And then she walked out the door. I shit you not, she just walked out the bedroom door. Leaving me ever-so-slightly out of breath still and watching my obsession walk away from me forever.

So that was that. My time with Maria over. It was fun while it lasted, I guess, but that’s all it was. Just a bit of fun. Probably best for me to get back into the swing of healthier life choices now. I’d had my fill of her too, truthfully. I mean, she wasn’t even that good in bed and…

Oh, who am I fucking kidding?

“Wait!” I shouted, chasing after her while preserving my dignity with the duvet held up to my chest and trailing behind me like the train on a wedding dress.

“Why are you preserving your dignity? I have seen everything. You have no dignity left”

Harsh.

But fair.

“Dunno. I don’t like the cold on my tits. It feels… I dunno, vulnerable, I guess.”

“Whatever, I didn’t ask for your life story”

Hey, I’ll have you know that my life story is a little more complex than the fact that the cold getting on my tits gets on my tits. As you guys reading this know.

“Sorry”

I am such a coward.

“I’m going because my work here is done. You lied to me, earlier. I don’t like being lied to. You said you weren’t on a crash course with rock bottom. But I’ve seen you. I’ve seen how you are with me. You didn’t need my intervention. You are still on the downward spiral. You’re fixated with me”

“No I’m not”

Okay, that was a minor mistruth.

“It’s okay. It’s normal. I get it all the time. Usually from the men. They’re needier. Seedier. But girls sometimes get it too. I am irresistible”

“Yeah, if you had some self-confidence about you, you’d be unstoppable”

“But I thought there was a chance… just a flicker of a chance that you had more about you. A bit of something. You held out so long, not having sex with me. That was impressive. And this… whole weight gain thing” she gestured at me as she said it. “I’m not gonna lie, it’s new and it’s fun. I’ve never had someone do that before. Eating yourself to death. How very Se7en”.

“You’re gonna make me blush” I deadpanned. The deadpanning was undercut by the fact that I was probably blushing anyway. But it was so unfair! I mean she ate more than me, anyway. Probably. Well, she ate an inhuman amount. It just didn’t stick to her. Because she’s barely human. She should have been Bustopher Jones, and instead the feline minx looked as beautifully svelte as ever, with the cascading slopes of a model’s figure.

“But there’s nothing impressive about you. Just another fish on the line. No brakes on the car. And now I can go home and, each day, masturbate at the thought of you getting shamefully fatter, knowing that you’ll just keep driving until you hit cliff-edge. You’re a lost cause. You have no secrets to unlock. Just a boring straight line to rock bottom. Maybe I’ll check in after six months and see the state of you. But, otherwise, we’re done”

“Oh”

I watched the lauburu on the back of her neck as she walked away. And then, like Macavity, she was gone.

+-+-+-+-+-+-

It had been a short lived experience with her, after not seeing her for so long. But there was much to enjoy. Much to savour. Much to cling onto as the distance between us grew. But the simple fact of the matter was that I did not expect to ever see her again. Just a memory on loop in my mind as I moved on. Knowing that she was doomed to get fatter, even in my absence.

Oh, by the way, it’s me. Maria. I’m in charge now.

You look good by the way. Have you done something with your hair? I’m just messing with you, you look like shit.

Anyway, I left. Good riddance to her. Honestly, I swear these days they are getting needier. I’m not arsed, it’s true, they are. She’d blown up, I’d give her that much. Elephanted herself up. It was kinda fun, I guess. I was being honest about never having done the ‘getting fat’ thing before. I’ll add it to the list.

I first met Naomee (I fucking hate the nickname Nay-Nay, but I also hate most things, doesn’t mean I don’t use them) when I got the job. I didn’t have any IT experience, but I once babysat Rab’s only son. That was enough to get the gig. Men looking like he does rarely say no to women looking like I do.

I didn’t need the money or anything. But I did want the pool of targets. This Serengheti of old, useless men to cast my eye over. Someone to ruin, someone to destroy, someone to use, someone to leave blue. Pickings were like Naomee is now… not exactly slim.

Yes, Naomee. I didn’t like her. Still don’t. She liked me, as the only woman close to her age in an office cubicle. But, even then, I felt the way she actively tried to befriend me was suffocating. It was just so needy. I don’t want friends. I’m a lone wolf. I want prey. Sheep in the mouth. But she was good looking. Very good looking. Well put together. Petite and supple-looking. Everything in place. Head over heels in love with her yoga instructor. Head over heels literally. Because of the yoga.

She had everything. All the trimmings. She had a house of her own. A well-to-do family. She was broadly well-adjusted, by British standards. Everything so healthy. Everything in order. Such a deliciously high place from which to fall. I added her to the list, to return to her later, should circumstances arise.

In the meantime, there were other toys to play with. At the creche. Riyadh was a cheap thrill. She’s already told you about Riyadh hasn’t she? Well, he was so grateful to be on my radar that he proposed on the second date. Even though he was already married. I turned him down and made it hurt, but made sure he never gave up hope that we would get back together. Pathetic dog of a man. I got him to break up with his wife on the same day that she was going to tell him that she was pregnant. She told him first. He said he was going to leave her anyway, the stupid shit. I bet it was glorious. He, instead, raced over to me with marriage proposal number 2. I then told him I was breaking up with him too. And then, after that, she wouldn’t have him back and he’d never see his son again. It started a cheap thrill but it ended so juicy. He slashed his wrists that evening. I remember the orgasm I felt on the night I found out.

Then there was Rhiannon. What is there to say about Rhiannon. Her dad was a vicar. Until I gave him a blowjob… but that’s another story and I can’t be arsed to tell it right now. Her mum was a school councillor. She was just doing some office tidying to pay for nursing school. She was so pure, like uwu made flesh. I suggested a casino for our first date, and she loved it. Mainly because she loved me, but it was how I started the ball rolling. So to speak. She ended up so in debt that her parents lost their house. She sleeps outside Big Asda now and there’s no light behind her eyes any more. Yeah, Rhiannon was one of my favourites.

But you’re here for Naomee. I guess it’s nearly as much her story as mine, nearly, so I’ll tell you.

I was enjoying being thwarted by her. I loved the way she said no to me. First day I met her, I explained that, one day, I’d be in her bed eliciting moans usually found only on bad porn. You should hear the moans on Big Titty Car Mechanic Cum Explosion. They’re farcical. Those were the kind of moans that I was talking about. Anyway, I guess this was the evening I finally made good on that promise. And yet she rejected me back then.

When she broke up with her boyfriend, the vegan guy, I didn’t exactly drop everything. I wasn’t really dating the Liverpool football team or whatever lie I told. But sometimes, if you tell a lie often enough, it becomes part of your mythology. Remember that, that’s good advice. It’s a motto to live by. Instead, I was shagging this vegan lover of hers to get him to break up with her. As one does, doesn’t one?

Naomee, irritatingly, thought of me as a friend. I made a pass at her and she mentioned her ‘no shagging’ rule. It annoyed me. I liked it. I figured my way to wreck her would be through alcohol. I’d used alcohol a few times. Leaving Las Vegas was always my favourite Nic Cage performance. I would get them to soak their liver until it would take no more. Sometimes it’s just fun to watch things burn. But the food thing came as a shock to me. Over-eating was not something I’d even thought about as anything other than weakness. But maybe she had a latent inclination that I just set alight. So I improvised and next thing I know, I had her exactly where I wanted her.

Except, that’s half the problem. I hate having people exactly where I wanted them. I need the resistance. I mean, I also like the ruination aspect too, I guess. And she had that down. That was fun. I remember all those Zoom calls where her camera ‘didn’t work’. I saw right through it. Not literally. I’m not actually supernatural. Although, as I say, if you tell a lie often enough, it becomes part of your mythology, so maybe I am. But I knew I would be in for a treat tonight.

Let’s compare and contrast shall we. The ‘before’ picture is nearly as important as the ‘after’ picture, after all. She had layered it on. Just piled it on. Her nightwear didn’t even fit, and nightwear always fits. I presume. I don’t know for sure because I sleep as naked as the day I was born. She looked at the lower end of average. Not particularly inspiring. Not that chest-beating thrill I have had in the past. But if you held that ‘before’ picture in her head, and suddenly she was electric. Such a devastating trajectory. What would Rab say? What would Jerome say? What would her family say? Familial humiliation is the best. It’s mouth-watering just to think about it.

And when she keeps going, and she will keep going, she'll be glorious. Just a wasteland where a young ingenue once stood. I can't wait to push her head under the water of self-loathing, and watch her struggle for breath. I can't wait as it slows her down, scars her gait, drags her spirit, limits her movement, wheezes her breath. Yes, I need that. Fuck, I needed to get home. I had a climax to reach.

But, don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll talk again. I’ll get my claws in you eventually.
 

[swahilimonkfish]

10 hours ago, dania201 said:

The darkness circles. I love it. 😉

Thank you most kindly 😊

[swahilimonkfish]

Chapter 7 - Whoosh

Oh my god, I’m so sorry.

I’m just so sorry. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Being trapped with Maria is terrifying, isn’t it, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Even if I wish it on myself. I hope you’re okay and she didn’t get to you. It’s awful isn’t it, trapped in the hollow echo of her thoughts in that empty cavity where a soul should be. Here, have a sandwich. I find it helps. And then have a second one, I find it helps more than the first.

It was that kind of thinking that led me to eating sandwich number 6, while reeling from the aftermath of her leaving. The packaging of it - paying £2 for sandwiches is a schmuck’s game but, then again, I am a schmuck - said it was chicken and stuffing, and I remember thinking to myself ‘you call that stuffing? You should see what I’m doing to myself. Now that’s stuffing’. And there was no sociopath nearby to roll her eyes at the bad joke and then feed me. And it was that sinking realisation that led me to sandwich number 7.

I had promised Maria Echeverria, mother of dragons, that I would get back on the straight and narrow now. Fix myself up, drop the weight, find my joie de vivre. And I wanted to do it. To spite her. To prove her wrong. I hated her. To force her to come back to me. To break me all over again. I loved her. But I just can’t find my joie de vivre. And I can’t remember where I last had it. You guys seen it lately? I’ve checked everywhere. I checked down the back of the sofa and found nothing but crumbs and 2 for 1 vouchers on pizza delivery, and next thing I’m doing is choosing my topping for that second pizza while rummaging through my cupboards for something to eat in the meantime. Joie de vivre? Joue de mourir, more like.

And then I write the depressing facts down in that grey journal of mine. 201lbs. Gain of 78lbs. BMI of 30.8. Classification: officially obese. But, on the bright side, the pizzas have arrived.

I just couldn’t seem to shake her. She was everywhere I looked. In the fridge. In the food cupboard. In the other food cupboard. Yeah, it was mainly fridges and food cupboards wherein I would do the majority of my looking. But it’s hard to put into words how omnipresent she was in my thoughts. Like an itch that only itched more after you scratched it.

There would be periods of calm. Moments where I would just forget about her and go about my day from a few brief instances like I was Naomee again. Before Maria. I would be brushing my teeth and humming a tune and my mind would only be on those two things. The constant Maria static would die down. And then, as I bend over to spit the toothpaste out, my stomach would brush the sink and I would spot the way it bunched up, and it would all come flooding back again.

Next thing you know, it’s a week later and I was eating whipped cream with my Cheerios. It’s hard to argue that she didn’t have a point. What she said about looking into The Abyss and all that.  I’d never felt so tethered to gravity as I do now,hurtling downwards in a Hitchcockian spiral, as the four grains of the Cheerio work so wonderfully well with the sweet, light, frothy whipped cream. She was right to say that she didn’t need to push me down the well, that I was already falling, I admit to myself as I lick the spoon so nothing gets wasted. I can do bad all by myself, it seems, I confess as I heave myself back up again to go back for another serving.

And sometimes I would hear her voice. Husky and smoky, with Iberian inflexions. But I mainly just heard the sound of regrets. I felt like the Bustopher Jones to her Macavity. And, look, I only watched the Cats movie once, but I don’t recall Idris Elba and James Corden falling in love and spending the rest of their days together. Though, to be fair, the movie would have benefited from that ending though. There’s probably a fanfic of it out there on the internet somewhere.

And then I write the depressing facts down in that grey journal of mine. 5 meals a day. 9000 calories a day. And I’ve run out of Cheerios to have with my whipped cream.

Another week, and I can hear all the clocks in my house ticking. It sounds like being abandoned. And I can hear the doorbell ringing to inform me that my takeout order is here. I wonder which one has arrived first. Which takeaway that is, for I arrived a goodly while ago. It’s not just my appetite that has been insatiable of late. No way, Jose.

Sorry, I was distracted. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, the doorbell rang. Okay, so do you guys want the good news or the bad news? Doesn’t really matter because this isn’t some multiple-choice story, bitches. You have as little agency as I do in all this. You want the bad news? Okay, I can do that. So, the bad news is I have to pull myself off the settee to answer the door. The good news is that, by doing this, at least I’m getting my steps in. My Fitbit’s gonna be so proud of me.

The pizzas arrived first. Some asshole on a bike dropped them off and didn’t even check me out as I answered the door. Probably because of Covid. Yeah, that’ll be it. Not the fact that I had taken to just wearing a bra and sarong to answer the door, meaning the top roll of my stomach, in all of its domelike glory, was answering the door half a second before I was. Yeah, I wear sarongs now bitches. The gyros that I ordered was delivered ten minutes later, and the scrawny teenager who, at that age, should really be lusting after anything with a pulse, in fact was as emotionally distant as they were socially distant. Must’ve been the sarong. Note to self, I don’t wear sarongs now any more.

Well, least that’s this evening sorted. I mean, it won’t be. That’s the real horror story of all this. Two pizzas and a healthy - well… unhealthy, if we’re being pedantic - serving of gyros should see me to my inevitable food coma. But then the voice, the husky, Spanish voice, reappears at the back of my mind and tells myself “well, since I’m already this far gone, might as well commit”. It asks me “just how much further are you willing to - no, not willing to, because willingness has never been a factor here - but how much further am I able to go?”. Which is why, ladies and gentlemen, it always pays to have ice cream in the fridge. You can have that nugget of wisdom from me to you for free.

But, before I get to do all that. I have to write down the deets in that grey journal of mine. My waist is now 42 inches. And I’ve done 238 steps today.

And so I ate sandwiches. But that didn’t fill me up. And so I ate ice cream. But that didn’t fill me up (did give me brain freeze though - don’t eat ice cream quickly when quarantine means that it’s been over 6 months since your last dental check-up). And so I ate pizza. But that didn’t fill me up. And my fucking lord, this must have been what it felt like to be the eponymous character in The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

My stomach hurt and I wasn’t full. It was the first time that this particular concoction of moods had struck me before. I thought fullness and stomach capacity were… I dunno… the same fucking thing! And yet, I couldn’t eat another morsel, not even if delivered by Matt Damon wearing nothing but fig leaves (don’t ask! (Okay do ask (Fine I’ll tell you anyway (look, we all have our fetishes, you’re fat woman one is pretty weird too remember. And Matt Damon is, when all said and done, an attractively put together man)))). The truth was, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it, was that…

I was bored.

I know, I know, being trapped in your own building with nobody to socialise with, share drinks with, gossip about your family with, takes it out of you. We’re all the same on that front. Everything feeling placeholder, everything on hold. Like running the wrong way on an escalator and finding yourself going nowhere. Every physically exerting step taking you to the exact same spot. Time passing but nothing changing. A year of your life written off like it’s bad debt. I know, I know. But what I was going through was something else.

I was bored of gaining weight. There, I said it. I was bored of gaining weight. Which was stupid, because I didn’t want to gain weight. I was doing it to spite myself and I was now spiting myself to spite myself. I don’t know how to explain it - and maybe it was something as simple as Maria not being there - but there was no thrill to it any more. No whoosh.

There was a whoosh at the beginning. That nebulous point at the start of our boldly-fattening proceedings when the waters feel unchartered and I get to boldly go where I’ve never gone before. Or, for the pedants out there, to go boldly where before I have never gone. But that novelty, that adventure had gone. It had almost normalised. I had never been fat before. But now I have. I’m fat every day. This is no longer pioneering, a freedom from a lifetime of being trapped in a rut. This is now just another rut.

When I started, the changes seemed foreign. I seemed foreign. I don’t any more. When I started, I transformed before our very eyes. But that doesn’t happen any more. Sometimes, I’ll spot something, a stretchmark I didn’t know that I had or a roll in my back that I didn’t know that fat people got. But, now, when I spot them, I just think ‘how long has that been there for?’. And it could have been days, weeks or even months. Who knows? Frankly, my dear, who gives a damn?

Maria. Maria gives a damn. And I write that in my little grey journal. Yeah, that was better. That’s what I needed to do. I needed to see Maria. She would fix this. She would help me find my whoosh.

And so, for the first time in months, I left my house.

And then I raced back again, because I was freezing and I was woefully under-dressed. I found the warmest clothing from my recent online purchase and hoped I didn’t look like a pudding on legs.

And then, for the second time in months, I left my house.

Nope, nope. It wasn’t working. But it wasn’t because I was cold that my hands were shaking. It was something else. I raced back inside and worked hard to get my breathing under control. But not because I was unfit. Well… not just because I was unfit. I was… suffering from genuine anxiety. I was… scared. But it didn’t matter. The status quo couldn’t hold. I needed to see Maria. The frayed nerves of a ‘fraid girl will have to wait. I need to see Maria. Need.

And then, for the third time in months, I left my house. And this time, I stayed out.

So, I’ll be the first to admit, I didn’t look great in my turtleneck jumper. Honestly, it looked great online but… okay, I probably looked great by your standards. By your weird perverted fapping-to-cartoons standards, I probably looked shagadelic, baby. But, by more regular and better-adjusted standards, I looked like a blancmange. The worst kind of blancmange. An inedible one.

And it didn’t help that I was getting a damp on. I’d maybe over-estimated how cool it was outside, or how warming it was to actually engage in concerted movement, but I was sweating like a pig getting caught red-handed in a sauna. My knees felt weak, my palms were sweaty, something, something, mom’s spaghetti. Actually, spaghetti would have helped with the nerves, come to think of it. But, standing in front of Maria’s door, all that anxiety that I was trying to repress - about my appearance, about leaving my house, about Maria rejecting me, about Maria not rejecting me - that I couldn’t go through with it. Nerves, sweat, anxiety, blancmange. It was all too much.

I turned around to go home, and decided to retreat back to the safety of the four walls of my own place that had kept me company as I had undergone my own personal expansion. It would be safe there. I could order in. Thai sounds good right about now. Or maybe that new Indonesian place. Ha! Who am I kidding by saying ‘or’? And maybe that new Indonesian place.

But it was through this process of turning around that I caught it. Out of the corner of my eye. Through the slats of her blinds, I saw her. Maria. Maria Echeverria. The Abyss. I gazed upon her, and I waited for her to gaze back. As Abysses are wont to do. But she was oblivious, just happily go about her regular day. Running on her treadmill. Running. On her treadmill.

Maria Echeverria was exercising.

Maria Echeverria never exercised. She ate all that she could, moved as little as she wanted, and always ended up looking like one of those mannequins you get at clothes stores. Only, y’know, with a face. Yet, here she was, Maria Echeverria, hitting the treadmill. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t leave just yet.
 

[swahilimonkfish]

5 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Ohhhh, this is tantalizing. I'm going we get a maria downfall....

Some of my favourite stories are where the feeder becomes the feedee. I rarely write them though. Maybe this will prove to be the exception... (suspense noises)

[swahilimonkfish]

2 hours ago, dania201 said:

Thai and Indonesian will have to wait. (Raises eyebrow)

Yeah, took the liberty of making my character like the same food that I do. Thai and Indonesian sound so so good.