Goldfish

ONE

You are what you eat. The phrase echoes in my mind as I lie here in this room, now deathly silent, save for my laboured breathing and the faint, rhythmic thud of my heartbeat. Blood courses through my veins, pulsing with the remnants of adrenaline. I stare at what might be my last meal and ponder that phrase. If it holds any truth, then I have become a monster.

My bedroom has become my prison, but my cell has no bars across the window, nor a lock to secure the door. As if to taunt me, the window gapes wide, offering a postcard view of the countryside swaying lazily in the gentle breeze. The door is ajar; I could get up and walk out anytime I want, at least thats the theory. I'm not cuffed or tied up, instead, my chains have been forged by my own flesh, and it's my own body that keeps me shackled to this bed.

They used to refer to my condition as "morbidly obese." The term is mostly obsolete now, but I've heard some doctors still throw it around when discussing my case. Whether it's said because they're set in their ways or done it out of spite, I don't know. But I often wonder if they secretly despise my condition, assuming I'm too far gone to be offended. To them, they probably see me as a moral obligation, a box to check off, rather than a person to care for. I don't blame them, really. I know there are people out there with far more serious illnesses than my chronic weight problem, so it's no wonder I don't register too high on their empathy radar.

Nowadays, they classify my condition as "class 3 obesity," which doesn't feel as grim, though it does make me sound like some newly discovered celestial object, floating aimlessly in space. I suppose that suits me, really: this unknown mass, adrift and isolated from humanity.

You might find it hard to believe if you were to see me now, but up until my mid-twenties, I was just this skinny girl from Bower Fields. There was nothing striking or remarkable about the way I looked back then, people mostly ignored my presence. It's funny how things changed once I put on weight. That's when people really began to notice me. Strangers would stop and stare, like I was some grotesque carnival attraction. Their wicked whispers of disgust would slip out beneath their breaths, like sudden gusts of bitter air.

Before the weight gain I had a fairly normal life. A mundane one, yes, but it was mine nonetheless. I was free to make my own path, to live on my terms, by my schedule. But that was before everything changed, before my condition conspired to trap me in this room.

I never dreamed big or longed for things beyond my reach. I simply yearned for companionship, but being shy and awkward, I always found it hard to forge new friendships, so my social circle remained small, mostly made up of fellow introverts, loners, and my mum, of course. It wasn't until my mid-twenties that things started to change, and I dared to step outside my comfort zone.

After leaving school, I bounced between dead-end jobs. I wasn't picky about what I did, as long as it required minimal human interaction and allowed me to help support Mum. She was a single parent, and times were tough, but she always did the best she could, often working two jobs so as to make sure we got by.

I admired her deeply and to me she wasn't just my mother, but my role model and closest friend. I wanted to make her proud, to lift some of the weight off her shoulders. But working minimum-wage roles, I could only do so much to help with the burden. I knew I had to aim higher, and I understood that doing so would mean facing my anxieties head-on.

Then, an opportunity opened up at a large insurance firm in town. I managed to secure the role. It wasn't glamorous by any stretch, but the pay was better, and it felt like a step forward. My first day was a nightmare. I was convinced everyone was watching my every move, waiting for me to mess up. For weeks, I lived with a knot of fear in my stomach, expecting disaster at every turn. But gradually, I settled in. Most of my colleagues were friendly enough, and those who weren't were too busy to notice me, which suited me just fine.

As my nerves eased, the fear began to fade, and to my surprise, I even started making friends. The work itself was dull, but it was good for me, both professionally and socially. I'd spent so much of my life shrinking into the background and now, for the first time, I felt like I was finding my place. Slowly but surely, I was becoming less afraid to step out of the shadows.

That's when I met John. He worked in the same department as I did, and our roles often overlapped, giving us plenty of chances to interact. We naturally got to know each other, sharing interests and talking about our lives outside of work. Though It was mostly John who did the talking, as I didn't really have any sort of life outside of work, but I was jusy happy to listen. Over time, our friendship deepened and eventually became something more.

John was handsome and charming. He'd had a privileged upbringing and liked his designer brands; he was the kind of man who spent more on sunglasses than I did on my entire outfit. We came from very different worlds, and there were times when I felt out of my league, like I could never measure up. But our love transcended our social differences and personal philosophies, and so long as he had eyes only for me, that was all that mattered.

For a while, our relationship flourished, and I felt like a new chapter of my life had begun. I was ecstatic; I'd finally found someone to share my life with, someone I trusted, someone with whom I could truly be myself. John encouraged me to step outside my comfort zone, to be more outgoing and daring. He ignited something within me, and for the first time, I felt confident. I began dressing more boldly, walking with a self-assurance I'd never known before.

And it didn't go unnoticed. My male colleagues would smile or throw a cheeky wink my way, harmless gestures, or so I thought. But John had noticed my newfound confidence, and he hated it.

I didn't realise it at the time, but John was incredibly jealous. Those arguments still stick in my mind, mostly one-sided, with him accusing me of dressing provocatively to get attention or flirting with another male colleague. Despite the accusations, I still loved him. Thinking back, I was painfully naive. My only other experience of romance had been as a teenager, dating Callum Couldridge when I was fourteen. But that was just adolescent fumbling, and it fizzled out as easily as it began. John was my first proper relationship as an adult, and I didn't realise it at the time, but he had played this game before with other women in the office. His jealousy, it turned out, stemmed from his own insecurities.

Then there was the day I caught him sneaking off to the ladies' toilets. Leading some new young female colleague by the hand. She'd only been with the company a few weeks. Even from outside the door, I could hear the muffled giggles, the soft, wet smack of their kisses, one after another.

Word spread quickly around the office, and before long, I realised I was just another pawn in John's game, sacrificed for his fleeting desires. The atmosphere at work shifted overnight. Paranoia set in, and I started seeing my colleagues in a different light, as if they were complicit in some way, silent witnesses to my humiliation. Maybe some of them were, especially those who knew of his reputation as a player. The embarrassment and hurt gnawed at me, making it impossible to face them. Every glance from my co-workers felt like a fresh reminder of John's betrayal, each smile or nod a silent judgement I couldn't bear. Unable to cope with the weight of it all, I quit my job and withdrew into isolation.