“Eat, Sleep, Repeat” Horror by Sarah Muldowney

"East, Sleep, Repeat" Horror by Sarah Muldowney


I was going to start off by saying I haven’t always been big, but that would be a lie. And not one of those little white lies either, but a huge, big, fat one – just like me. I’ve been fat, seriously fat, verging on the morbidly obese from the mere tender age of six. But, in my defence, I couldn’t have turned out any different, all things considered, because I just didn’t know any different.

Both my parents, my mom AND pop, were ‘big’ (that’s how they always liked to refer to themselves – big) living off TV dinners, greasy take outs, bagfuls of candy and gallons of sugary soda. I really didn’t stand a chance.

My aunties and uncles were fat. My cousins were fat. My gran and grandpa died young because they were so fat; I never even got a chance to meet them. Even the damn dog was fat, the poor thing. Snuffled around the floor like a vacuum cleaner hoovering up all the scraps, never taken for a walk and pooped wherever it fancied all over the goddam trailer. Luckily for her my pop wasn’t fast enough to catch the slow waddling mutt to whoop its fat butt as he wasn’t even capable of a slow waddle himself, but boy he wanted to so bad and no mistake.

Sometimes the poops were picked up but more often than not they sat there dried and forgotten about just like the unceremoniously dumped pizza boxes and take out cartons along with the dropped food that all eventually became a part of our home furnishings. Turns out the less you moved the less you noticed and the less you wanted to notice the less you moved. A kind of lazy ass win/win in our home. But there was a time when I did used to notice and it got me real down. I even tried to clear up after everyone on occasion but I couldn’t keep on top of it as well as going to school and running errands for them as they both made a silent pact to never step foot outside the place.

And so the cycle began.

I got more depressed about it and so ate more to feel better and also to stuff down the hate that had started to rise from the pit of my ever growing stomach – that pit was fat, like me, and so the hate was too. I couldn’t let that devil out in fear of what it might make me do, weren’t ready for that. So I kept pushing it down with more and more food, just like I saw my momma and pop do every day of all the days I can remember remembering. And boy, did it work too. We had managed to create our own version of ‘Happy Ever After’ despite how sick the actual truth of our lives were. Of course  even more eating helped with that uncomfortable truth if ever it decided to try and rear it’s ugly, fat head.

We weren’t in denial, nothing like that, we obviously knew we were fat – real fat – we just didn’t need the constant reminding of it. But hey, we got it anyway. We got it on the street, we got it in the parking lots, we got it in the mall, we got it at the stoplights from other rides pulled up alongside. Some nasty ass guys felt it was their God given right to shout through their open windows about how fat we were before speeding off ahead when the stoplights turned to green leaving us stranded as our own exhausted vehicle struggled to set off with us all crammed in, leaving us tight lipped, never to speak about, but wide mouthed on our return home, ready to stuff our faces once again.

That’s why we stopped going out.

It became easier and easier to keep it all down, all in, as we swallowed down food we never even tasted to keep our anger and shame suppressed deep down under the weight of all we stuffed ourselves with. Eventually we were all just too darn heavy to leave even if we wanted to, which we never did. The effort and energy it would have taken to propel us from where we chose to slump ended up being as stagnant as our voice. So, deliveries and take outs it was. Day and night. Even the dog stayed in with us as it began not to care whether it ever went outside again either, not that she was ever really given much choice.

I know that to be cruel now, especially as I am someone who has always loved animals way more than people, still do, but I go without since she died right where she ate her last pizza straight out of the box it came in, her own little pizza box coffin, she probably would have liked that except only half of her fit, and it was a super size.

I remember when she had been cute and pretty and full of life before turning ugly and fat like the rest of us. She was one of those little yappy lap dogs, easy to carry under your arm, until she wasn’t no more. I didn’t mind cos I was ugly too so of course I was always gonna love her just the same. I got a kind of peace with my obesity and ugliness; I reckoned it must have been God’s will for me to have turned out the way I did. Mom and pop always said the same about themselves and I guess that’s what made it all kind of okay in the end. I’ve had time to think about it while I lie here; time to think about a lot of stuff I hadn’t allowed myself to think about before and I reckon that probably weren’t true at all, that maybe they just made it all up to make me feel better about myself and no doubt to make them feel better about themselves too. My whole life I’d been convinced of it, that it had been ordained by the Almighty himself to be just so. It’s hard to accept now that it had all been a load of old bull. It’s no wonder then that I loved to eat so much; a pizza and a couple twinkies became my medicine, even my best friend.

I promised I wouldn’t lie, so I won’t.

I never just had the one pizza, it always came with all the extras – the wedges, the chicken wings, the cheesy garlic bread. And as for the twinkies it was more like a couple packs. It feels better to be honest. Might as well get it all out there as I’m feeling real shit anyway. And that is exactly why cake was invented.


I must try and move a bit more; staying in the one place is making me feel uncomfortable. Easier said than done if you’re me. But I’m going to give it a go, all by myself. There’s no-one here to help me so I don’t really got a choice.

I pull down hard on the rope that hangs from the ceiling right above me, it was put there just for me. It took a while to set it up right as it turned out it needed more than just the ceiling itself to hold it as well as me when I pulled on it. When it was fitted it was practically the only time I got to see anyone else apart from him. Him – the one who fed me and tended to my every need.

The guy He chose to do it came recommended, He assured me of that as I was embarrassed at the thought of someone from the outside coming in and settling their eyes on me while I laid there, here, immobile and useless. It was okay, turned out he was used to seeing others like me and so was neither fascinated or appalled by my appearance. It seemed he knew exactly what he was doing as he got to work quickly and efficiently, obviously experienced in fixing my tug rope securely and safely so I need never worry about pulling the house down around me when my weight was on it, no fear of the ceiling collapsing all about me followed by the walls that held it. He proved to be polite and courteous as he worked around me under the ever present watchful eye of He who loved me the most in the world.

I manage to hoist myself up a bit so as I am in more of an upright position rather than my usual reclining one. I cannot ever be flat in fear of my weight crushing down hard on my compromised heart and lungs which would absolutely guarantee a death I’m not quite ready for despite being acutely aware that I’m not truly living either.

I’ve always felt like I’m in some kind of limbo, some sort of holding place where I just sit and wait, have waited for so long to either take control and actually exist in a place with others who share this world beyond these walls or choose to lose any will I might barely have left and give up my body and hope that the soul that resides within it moves on to another host in which it can be free. I fester between the two possibilities.

It feels like I’ve been alone here for days now but I know it can’t be, boredom does that. Boredom is an enemy that corrupts time and confuses me. The lack of windows mean I can’t tell if it’s night or day so it’s easy to lose track. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’ll keep myself busy with memories.

I never had any friends, ever, apart from my dog, the once cute, joyous dog that we turned into one of us. She used to always sit with me and share my bed at night. She never left my side (she could probably feel my loneliness) except to poop on the floor, snuffle for dropped food after which I’d help her back into the couch beside me using my fat hand on her fat behind to give her a helpful push.

I can almost remember the moment she stopped wagging her tail and it wasn’t because she was unhappy, more probably because it was too much like hard work, but I knew she was happy as she always had a stupid droopy grin on her face while she panted heavily next to me as I petted her. She was such a good girl. I still miss her to this day.

After the dog died I felt more alone than ever. My mom rarely left the bedroom and my pop watched games on the television from his worn sunken chair with the flip out foot rest that gave up working some time back. I could either sit and watch him watch TV as he ate and drank and scattered what was left around about him or I could go lie on my bed that groaned like an old galleon ship as it tried so hard to hold me aloft. I worried that if it were to collapse beneath me I might never rise again but just die where I laid.

The irony of that concern is not wasted on me. I must have seen into the future or something. If it wasn’t so hideously true I might have laughed, who knows, maybe I still might. It’s not over till the fat lady sings. What does that even mean? Maybe I should get to practising.


I did used to go to school, when I was little, before the kids the same age as me noticed I was at least twice their size. When they were little they didn’t care or didn’t notice and even though I’m pretty sure their parents did (judging by the way they gave me the side eye) it hadn’t yet rubbed off on their own. I reckon it was probably because they didn’t want to have to be explaining nothing to them just yet, there was plenty of time for that and that time came round a darn sight quicker, looking back, than I remember it seeming back then.

I didn’t feel excluded as I was always getting invited to the birthday celebrations of my class mates. It wasn’t till I was older I learned that I was the only one never to be invited for a play date or a sleepover on my own. That would have been ‘distasteful’ so I heard later on. ‘Distasteful’. I hope you’ll agree that their behaviour was the only distasteful thing going on. I honestly don’t know how I would have felt knowing all that at the time. Maybe it would have triggered me to eat even more or just maybe I might have been more capable of change than I ever have been since.

If I were to say I’d tried healthy eating, dieting, some form of exercise (even low impact in a chair) I’d be blatantly lying, which as you know I’m not going to. I will say that by middle school people in authority started to get real interested in my size, advising me to do all the things I just mentioned but never did. It seemed like way too much hard work and my mom and pop threw all the letters and leaflets they’d been sent for me straight into the trash, making sure they were covered real good with ketchup and mustard so I’d never retrieve them. Funny how they moved their butts then. They always said they were doing me good by doing that while they opened a fresh pack of twinkies and handed me a few as a reward for having done the right thing by ignoring it all. Turns out they were the ones who were ignoring it.

It’s amazing what you can see, clear as day, when you have time to think about things. Thinking is also a strategy I am using to fill up my time, my head and hopefully my belly as the gnawing hunger is getting more difficult to dismiss. It will do me good to go without. I know it will. This is how it starts, right? The journey to a lighter body, a body that just might be able to function unaided. It’s been so long since I last did anything for myself. I’m not sure I’ll remember how to do it right. It’s gonna be like being a kid all over again. This time, though, I’m gonna grow up how I want to, choose the life I want, not the one handed to me in take out boxes by my parents. I know I am not them, I am me.

I’ve got to try and move myself again, don’t want to be getting bed sores in places I can’t reach and treat. Those things can kill you. I’ll try and move onto one side a little, it don’t feel nice, reminds me of what’s underneath, it ain’t pretty and I don’t wanna look. It’s too soon for that. Not sure if I’ll ever manage to.

Middle school could have been an opportunity for me but it was taken and in its place came more of my favourite food. Me, my mom, my pop and dog were all part of the one same. Like a giant organism in four parts that all relied on each of us to keep us going in the way we were accustomed to. If any part of this family were to break off all the other parts might well have died so we kept feeding us and we all grew more and more reliant on each other to keep up this way of life. Turns out if you ignore people for long enough they don’t bother you no more. The term “You’ve made your bed, you can lie in it,” couldn’t have been any more appropriate. The only thing I would say contrary to that is the beds we lay in were never made, that required far too much effort on our part. We had all managed to drop out of society which back then felt like a kind of victory; at least people stopped looking and commenting. There was nothing victorious about it – I know that now.


Old Mrs Dooley from a couple trailers down always checked in on us. Her husband had left her years before and her only son had died while serving in the military. She’d kinda decided she needed to fill her time caring for us instead. She never judged, she’d just come round take our dirty clothes off our backs and launder them while quietly throwing things into garbage bags which she then took out for us. We became so reliant on her twice weekly visits that one time, when she was ill, my dad cursed the fact she ‘hadn’t bothered turning up’. Turns out she was pretty sick. She didn’t actually return home from the hospital at all. After everything she had done for us we couldn’t even get off our fat behinds to go show our respect. We never spoke about it but I could tell that my mom was most ashamed about that. I was too young back then to have gone alone and let’s face it, who was gonna take me anyways? My pop used this as even more reason to feel sorry for himself and eat more. After Mrs Dooley died there were no more visitors and that made me real sad but I knew candy always helped with that. And soda – lots of sugar sweet fizzy pop soda.

We lived off disability even though we weren’t really disabled, we were incredibly obese, and that was our fault. I find it hard to believe that we could ever come under ‘disability’ – it’s an outright insult to those who are born handicapped or those maimed in wars. I still find it embarrassing to think of it. We were gluttonous pigs who chose to eat till we couldn’t move. It disgusted me and it disgusts me still as I lie here incapacitated, unable to carry out the most basic of tasks and all because I was taught to choose food over anything else. Oh, I know I’m sick alright, that’s a no brainier, but disabled? Absolutely not. Even though I was never the one that ordered the take outs, all that fast food and sugary candy and pop that strips the enamel from your teeth, I was the one who picked it all up and shoved it into my waste pipe of a gullet. Barely even catching a taste of it on my tongue as I shovelled in mouthful after mouthful of total garbage.

I look down at my body and I don’t recognise it as human. My entire form is a huge blur of grey and red crusty hills that are arid and spotted and monstrous. My hands and feet look ridiculous in comparison to the rest of me. Tiny yet bloated, misshapen, as the ingested fat has burrowed its way into every nook and cranny in which to settle causing toes and fingers to flare out in different directions. I laugh at how they had been made to look pretty by the nails being painted rosy pink. That wasn’t me, I wouldn’t have been able to. It was Him, of course. Strange how the one thing He always wanted to look real pretty were my nails; He’d go to all that trouble, painstakingly choosing the right colour and then applying it perfectly, making sure not to get any of the varnish on the distended skin that held my nails firmly in place – if it ever did He’d use a q-tip and varnish remover. It amazed me that a man would even know how to do that, it was as if He must have practised or done it before. Oh God, He must have.

I feel sick.

He’d done it before hadn’t He?

Im not special, like He said.

He lied.

I want to puke. I mustn’t, I won’t, I can’t. Who’s going to clear it up?

I can’t.

It was our Friday night thing – ‘date night’ He liked to call it. Not that we ever went anywhere, ever. He would do me up real nice, spend time brushing my hair and putting it up to make me look more sexy and also so He could admire the fat building around my neck that had long stopped looking like a neck, a neck should be narrower than the head it holds, not twice the size. He’d bought make up especially for these occasions and apply it how He wished, sometimes real slutty and at others all girly and fresh. I don’t think He preferred one look over the other, more like whatever suited His mood that particular evening. When He finished He would triumphantly hold a hand mirror to my face so I could admire my reflection which I don’t remember ever admiring. It made Him happy, He called me beautiful over and over as He started taking the photographs. He would get real excited when He started taking the photographs.


I should probably tell you how we met because you really must be thinking, ‘Hang on there a sweet second, how the hell she gonna be getting hooked up with a guy when she never went out?’ and you’d be right to wonder. I’d want to know if I were you.

Some do-gooders a few years back decided they wanted to do their bit, you know, charitable types that wanted to be of help to those that are beyond helping themselves. Somehow they found out about us, the long forgotten obese trailer park family. They no doubt knew it was too late to save my mom and pop but they should at least try and do something for their poor blameless daughter – me. A second hand computer was donated to us, to me, in the hope I might find something of interest, something I might want to consider studying, learn about, which might move me on to who knows what. Maybe if I furthered my cut short failed education I could get a job perhaps. I get what they were trying to do but where the hell was I supposed to start?

The screen and keyboard became a portal to the outside world. I spent the first few months watching YouTube and catching up on things other young adults my age were interested in. I could game online with others who only ever knew my avatar, not the real me. I finally had friendships. This new exciting distraction didn’t stop me eating but it did stop me thinking about food every minute so it was definitely a good thing. It got to a point where I didn’t bother talking to my parents anymore – I didn’t have to. They didn’t try either so we co-existed in the same shared space without taking any notice of one another. I reckon if my mom or pop had died back then I wouldn’t have known till they started to smell. It’s bad, I know, but it’s how it was and I didn’t know any different. They’re still not dead.

I wonder how long it would have taken them to notice if I’d stopped breathing.


After a while I started to get real chatty with a fellow gamer BigLove30. Whenever we finished a gaming session we would private message and that’s how we got to truly know about each other. As we got more and more comfortable we slowly began revealing things we hadn’t shared with anyone else. He told me He chose the username BigLove30 because He just loved big women, the bigger the better, He claimed. This was a revelation, a turning point, the turning point. Until that moment I had no idea there were men out there who loved big women, and when I say big I mean REAL BIG! I had never allowed myself to entertain the thought of having any kind of relationship, let alone with a man. It went against everything I knew to be true.

The words He wrote to me made me feel safer and safer until I knew I could show myself for who I really was, which of course was nothing like the sexy, hourglass avatar I had hidden behind. He asked me how big I was and obviously I lied, not wanting to scare Him off, I made myself smaller,

took off a good few pounds. To my surprise He seemed disappointed, said that I was small compared to the women He was usually attracted to. I told Him I was more than capable of putting on a few more pounds if He would like. He said that would make me just about perfect. He let me know what His desired weight for me would be and I made sure to fulfil His fantasy, I didn’t want Him to lose interest in me. When I reached the goal He had set for me thats when He told me He loved me and right then I knew I loved Him too.

I was delirious with happiness.

We stopped gaming that night, instead I would message Him with a list of all the things I had eaten throughout the day and give Him a weekly note of my latest weigh in, like He asked. He said He felt like He’d died and gone to heaven and I told Him I did too.


I’m starting to itch terribly, it crawls underneath me where it knows I cant reach to scratch it. It’s an all consuming sensation despite my skin being more like hide. Even as I hold on to the rope above me to try and jiggle my gross mass from side to side in the hope that whatever lies beneath me might help chase the itch away I know the effort is probably a futile one. I haven’t had the usual creams massaged into my cracked, elephantine skin for some time and it’s starting to show. The cream isn’t even on the bedside table where it always stood so I can’t even have a go at applying it all on my own. I’m telling myself its pointless to worry about it seeing as there’s nothing I can do, but it doesn’t help. I must use all my willpower to try and ignore it but we all know how poor that particular trait is in me. If it doesn’t go away soon it might well drive me mad.

I’m probably mad already.


I must have slept. For a second there I forgot where I was, it’s disorientating. The hunger growling in the pit of me helps to remind me. That’s probably what woke me. I can just about reach the water bottle that still has a mouthful or two left, I’ve been consciously rationing, it’s nowhere near enough to quench my thirst or stave off the desperate pangs in my belly, but it will have to do.

It’s His fault, all of this, His fault. If I’d never been given that stupid computer in the first place I wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t be like this. Nothing like this. BigLove30 was sent by the devil himself. Sent to tempt me, lure me away from everything I had ever known. Trouble is what I had known was bad, toxic and by the time He entered my life I was more than ready to get away. More than anything I wanted to feel loved, cherished, desired and most of all looked after, I wanted someone to actually look after me. He offered me everything my mom and pop had long forgotten about giving me. That’s why I did it.

It’s so easy, in retrospect, to see how many alarm bells I switched off before they were allowed to ring loudly and bring me back to my senses. I heard them eventually, loud and clear and way too late. I knew it and, worst than that, He did too. That’s the moment He turned, the moment when He knew I was absolutely beholden to Him, at His complete and utter mercy. He had made sure to become my everything while He fed me more to make me completely useless and under His total control. He grew horns and a forked tail that only I could see. It was just for me.

I can tell you, there is no heaven and there is no hell, the devil walks the earth just like the rest of us, and He is way worse than any religious doctrine could have you believe. This is the only truth you need to know.

It’s too late for me.


After a few dates (Him visiting me at my house, my catatonic parents showing very little interest) He wanted me to move in with Him (my parents sure took notice then). I looked about me, at my life, at my mom and pop’s sorry life that I didn’t want and quickly made the decision. There was never going to be another opportunity like it and, well, I was in love.

The day of the move He helped me to His pick up truck – I was pleased it was a pick up truck as I knew it would be strong enough to take my weight. The bench front seat was big enough for both of us to sit comfortably side by side. He held my hand the whole drive, squeezing it every now and then to let me know everything was going to be just fine. I needed that so bad as the heavy fluttering of hundreds of butterflies waking in my belly weren’t from excitement and nerves alone, they were also from fear. Fear of the unknown. I swallowed down the rising nausea and reminded myself we were in love, I was safe. The way He looked at me on that drive helped. He looked at me the same way guys did in the movies. Turns out it wasn’t just the guys in the movies who were good actors. I should have listened to what my body was trying to tell me but those sensations were all new to me and so hard to read having had no previous experience of it. I hadn’t been prepared for anything in life. My parents failed me, the system failed me and, worst of all, I can only think how badly I had failed myself. That is the hardest thing of all.

After an hours drive or so we pulled up outside a detached bungalow that looked the same as all the others on the street. I hadn’t given a thought to what His home might be like so I was neither impressed or disappointed. I guess the only thought I did have was that at least it was a step up from the trailer, so that was definitely something. Inside it had everything you needed but lacked anything you might want for yourself to make it your own. At least the floors were clear, the sink was empty and the trash cans weren’t over flowing. It was weird not to smell anything on entering, I mean literally nothing. If I didn’t know for sure it was His home I would have thought it might be a rental He had just leased for us.

The rooms were large, square and spacious. The halls and doorways were wider than usual, even my mom and pop wouldn’t have to turn sideways to try and squeeze through. The bedroom was at the back, he led me straight there to proudly show off the huge bed he’d had specially made – solid, sturdy, purposely built to take someone like me. Until that moment I hadn’t given any real thought to the fact we’d be sharing a bed. I hadn’t thought about the fact we’d be having sex like everyone else who were in love and lived together. Neither of us had even mentioned it despite our intimate conversations covering food and my ever growing size. I should have wanted Him to want me in that way but I was terrified of exposing my body, losing my virginity, being with a man, even the man I loved. He must have sensed this as He was gentle, handling me with kid gloves at all times, in fact He never, in all our time together, ever made love to me, not properly. It was the folds of my body, my belly, my thighs that he would intimately rub himself against, between, in order to climax, and that suited me just fine. Seeing Him get so much pleasure relieving Himself in this manner made me happy too.

There were no windows in the bedroom.

How wrong it all was.

The only time He would touch me intimately was to wash me. As I grew larger and larger the more He fed me the more I had to rely on Him to maintain my personal hygiene. If you’re my size and you don’t look after yourself properly, clean every hidden inch of your landscape, you can get sick real quick and neither of us wanted that to happen.


I wish someone was here to help with my personal hygiene now; not Him, I don’t want Him anymore, He is responsible for the gross monster I have become. But the smell, it’s overwhelming and seems to be getting worse by the minute, bringing me out of my reverie, the reverie that I am so desperately relying on to forget who I am now.

The water bottle beside my bed is now bereft of its last dribbles so I can’t afford to feel nauseous despite its creeping presence. Nausea makes my mouth drier and then the retching will start. I cannot retch, I must keep what little is left inside me, I need to eke out it’s last remnants of nourishment in order to keep me alive. I am not prepared to give up – not now. Also the vomit itself will cover me and make the stink worse, the stink that I already cannot bear. There’s no one to clean it up, no one to clean me up so I absolutely cannot vomit no matter how much my body wants to eject all the fat and sugar and shit that sits rancid and rotten in every fibre of me. Any human trace I was born with has long been forgotten and replaced with all the bad stuff my parents gave me and that He continued to force into me.

Of course it didn’t start like that with Him. The food He offered and gave to me was more than welcome at the beginning. A fat girl like me having a guy that relished the fat and having more joy adding to it, was like a gift.

Until it wasn’t.


How attractive and loving and generous He was. I was beautiful to Him, my rolls and mounds were art to Him. I was His artwork and He was the artist that created me.

The pride He showed when He measured me, the tops of the arms, tops of the thighs, calves, the width of my back and shoulders, my chest, waist, stomach, hips, even my neck. All of them kept growing, and the more they grew the more He wanted them to grow. There was one moment, a weird moment when it seemed I became totally lucid, and I looked down at me and I looked over at Him and for the first time I felt used, abused even, and in reaction to this thought I refused to eat what He sat before me and I refused to let Him measure me or photograph me, twisting my head this way and that as He tried to make me over for date night. I was having none of it.

He taught me a lesson after that, a big one, one I didn’t see coming. He acted all normal as He got ready to leave for work on the Friday morning. He didn’t return until the Monday. An entire weekend He left me with a solitary bottle of water, nothing else. I cried and cried like a baby as I sat in my piss and shit, like a baby. I had become a big, stupid, pathetic, useless baby and I knew how much I needed Him. And so did He.


Boy, did He punish me after that.

No longer was I spoon fed gallons of ice cream but funnel fed it. He made damn sure it was going to get straight into me and stay there and no mistake.

I’d given up the fight, I knew it was a pointless endeavour after His ‘lesson’ and honestly what else could I have done? I was trapped. Trapped by my body, trapped by Him, trapped in the house, trapped by the fact I had become invisible to all but Him and me. There was no escape, no secret key to be found that might release me from this hell.

The weekly phone calls to my parents that He had permitted and sat in on were no more.

The cartons of ice cream got bigger, as did I.

I had become my own horror movie.

I am my own horror movie.

My bed is a cess pit. Faeces, piss, other bodily fluids and rot are my bedfellows, all a reminder of what is there. I don’t want reminding. It was deserved, there’s no denying it, but as I lie here enduring the unendurable consequence of my action, in retrospect I know I should have played it differently. But something inside me snapped. An opportune moment had arisen which my mind had made a rash decision over. I didn’t even allow myself time to consider it. It had already been done, acted upon.

How stupid He was to have crawled onto the bed after rolling me onto my side so He could wash deep into the crack of my dirty and disgusting arse and how utterly degrading and humiliating for me. I’d had enough, I rolled myself back to stop Him. Surprisingly He didn’t make much noise and neither did his body as it crushed under me, my fat and blubber acting like a muffler over and around Him. I can’t remember Him struggling even, maybe he couldn’t. I don’t care anymore.

The lump beneath me has flattened greatly over time but now it oozes out from underneath me, as if I’d juiced it. And now that’s all there is for me, this juice, me and the brown red oozing juice. Just so happens juice is wet and I am thirsty, so thirsty. It’s supposed to be His job to keep me fed and watered and even in death it seems He shall continue to do so. I reach down a hand, dip in a finger to get myself a taste. My rancid finger makes it to my mouth and I suck on it like a baby and taste Him in the knowledge that I am truly insane. I giggle to myself as I replace the use of my index finger with both my hands as if readying myself to make a hand print painting, like a baby.

His big baby.

I can’t even smell how bad it is anymore which is just as well as there’s no one here to clean it up. My giggle turns to full on maniacal laughter. I really haven’t thought it through properly, have I?

Bio pending.

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If you like more mainstream fiction, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine.

3 thoughts on ““Eat, Sleep, Repeat” Horror by Sarah Muldowney

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