Goldfish

TWO

Food became my escape, a fleeting comfort from the void John had left in my life. I ate without restraint, seeking solace in every bite. No words of comfort from my mother could reach me; the dark emotional tumour at the core of my heart remained untouched. Slowly, obesity crept in, suffocating me in its grip, blinding me to the transformation happening within my own body.

It wasn't until one night, when I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror at the top of the stairs, that I was forced to confront the truth. The slim, demure woman I once knew had vanished, replaced by a stranger hidden beneath layers of excess flesh and self-loathing.
The more I grew, the more society recoiled, until I became a ghost haunting the fringes of civilization. Alienated and invisible, I slipped into an abyss of my own making, swallowed whole by the darkness of my exile. It's ironic now, sitting here alone, how I miss human contact when my failed attempts at it led me into this self imposed isolation in the first place.

For a long time, the internet was my only connection to the outside world. I wandered through digital realms, searching for some kind of salvation, hoping to find inspiration to lose weight and turn my life around. By chance, I stumbled upon an online community that offered something unexpected: a sense of acceptance. This wasn't a place focused on weight loss; it was a sanctuary where people like me found encouragement, a space where size was celebrated rather than condemned. Here, I discovered a new kind of validation, where others urged me to embrace my body rather than struggle against it.

As time went on, I began to feel a sense of belonging. I even updated my profile, replacing my anonymous avatar with a real photo, which quickly drew admiration and attention from other members. My inbox soon filled with messages. Being an online platform, it probably goes without saying that I received my fair share of depraved messages. But there were also plenty of heartfelt people who reached out and simply wanted to connect, either offering support or hoping to kindle new friendships. Among these messages, one stood out the most. It was from a fellow member named Reuben.

There were plenty of men in the community who weren't overweight themselves but were drawn to the site because of a fascination with bigger women. Most came for their own fetishes or fantasies. Reuben freely admitted he found bigger women attractive, yet there was something different about him. He was kind, warm, genuinely supportive, and seemed to understand me in a way I hadn't experienced before.

We hit it off and got to know each other over several months. Eventually, Reuben and I arranged to meet in person. Naturally, I was nervous.It had been years since I'd let anyone into my life, and deep down, I was afraid of being hurt again. Part of me wondered if this was too good to be true. What if Reuben was nothing like the man behind his messages. Some deviant preying on my vulnerability. Or what if he did live up to my expectations and beyond, but it turned out that I was the one who underwhelmed, that he didn't like me, or thought I was hideous in person?

Thankfully Reuben's warmth and gentle smile quickly put me at ease when we met for the first time, and our connection deepened. Before long, we became more than friends, and soon he asked me to move in with him. I said yes, despite my mother's reservations. She thought we were rushing into things and was sceptical of his intentions. She was worried about my condition, wanted me to get help, and believed Reuben was a bad influence for encouraging me to embrace my larger form. At the time, her doubts made me angry. I had finally found happiness and acceptance, both with Reuben and within myself, and it felt like she was trying to take that from me.

Moving in with Reuben created tension in my relationship with my mother. She was stubborn and I wasn't good at confrontations, so it was a recipe that inevitably caused us to drift apart. Over time the rift only grew, until eventually, we stopped speaking altogether. It saddens me now to think of how we parted. My mum had been like my best friend, my rock, but back then, Reuben made me feel loved and gave me hope when no one else did.

At first, living with Reuben felt like bliss. He lived in a small but charming home in the countryside. Though modest inside, the house offered breathtaking views of the surrounding landscape. Our nearest neighbour was quite a distance down the road, giving us complete privacy and peace. I was a hundred miles from the place I used to call home, but I settled in easily. It felt like starting anew. Reuben doted on me, always making sure I never wanted for anything. In those early days, it felt like true love, a bond between two people who accepted each other completely.

As time passed, I found myself growing larger and more dependent on Reuben for everything. It happened so gradually that I hardly noticed until, one day, I realised I could no longer leave the bed. It's funny, but even after I became immobile, I felt content with my life. With Reuben by my side, nothing else mattered. He took care of everything I needed, kept me company, and handled the more difficult tasks, like helping with my toiletry and bathing needs. I was treated like royalty. Though we couldn't venture beyond my bedroom, Reuben somehow brought the world to us. My bed became a gondola, carrying us wherever our imaginations wandered, and my TV was a magic window to endless destinations.

But eventually, even this stopped being enough. My idle mind began to mourn the loss of control over things I had once taken for granted: the sights I'd denied myself, the people and places I could no longer see with my own eyes, a simple stroll through the park on a summer's day, the smells from market stalls in the town square on weekends. My mother's smile as we shared a cuppa, dipping custard cream biscuits together. All these things, and more, began to gnaw at the back of my mind.

I should have seen the signs. The first hints were subtle: a second helping here, a late-night snack there, each one offered with that disarming smile. I remember, back before I became immobile, when I could still just about get myself out of bed. Reuben would come bounding into the room carrying the scales, setting them down in front of me. "Let's see how far you've come," he'd say, his voice filled with a cheerfulness that felt strangely out of place. I stared at the scale, feeling the weight of every calorie he'd encouraged me to consume. My body had grown in ways I never imagined, my flesh almost spilling over the sides of the bed as I struggled to set myself back down. Every pound, every inch, seemed like a victory for him.

Over time, a strange unease began to creep in, a feeling I couldn't quite place. Reuben was attentive, his smiles always warm, his presence constant. But there was something different in the way he looked at me now, a glimmer in his eyes I didn't understand. I brushed it off as love, maybe devotion, convincing myself that this was what it meant to be cherished, even as my world shrank to the four walls of that single room.

As my weight continued to spiral out of control, I shared my concerns with Reuben, who seemed sympathetic to my worries. He kindly arranged for a doctor to visit, who spoke to me about making lifestyle changes, offered guidance on improving my diet, and recommended a website with some simple exercises I could do from bed. Surgery came up as a possibility, but the doctor wanted me to show willing and take positive steps on my own first, before we went down that route.

Reuben was as supportive as ever, or so I thought. He had already made adjustments to my diet long ago, introducing slimming shakes, his "cocktail of goodness," into my daily routine. He promised to make these even healthier, reassuring me that we would soon see results. But nothing changed; in fact, my weight continued to climb, almost as if by some hidden design.

Whenever the doctor asked about my diet, Reuben would reassure them I was on a carefully controlled plan. But somehow, despite all that supposed care, I only grew larger. Every day, he prepared those shakes for me, his "concoction of protein," as he called it, meant to help, he insisted. I believed him then. I wanted to believe him. Now, looking back, I know better. Those drinks were never about my health. Perhaps, deep down, I always knew. But by then, I had already given too much of myself to stop him.