Fat Girl
by Mark Donahue
Prologue
The room was quiet except for the sound of mechanical breathing. On a reinforced double king size bed an object was seen in the semi-darkness. It was obscured by gossamer curtains that fanned out 360 degrees and hung from the ceiling.
It could have been a leg. But gigantic, with skin that had the appearance of cottage cheese. Something was attached to it. A foot? But where was the ankle?
The stupendous leg was attached proportionately to a much larger torso that was pasty white and covered with blue spider veins that traversed the body like roads on MapQuest. The utter size of the body was magnificent. Awe-inspiring. Unthinkably huge.
The body on the bed appeared to be a woman. She was spread eagle and wore a diaper of sorts made from sheets. Her face was encased in an impossibly large head, her mouth obscured by an oxygen mask, her brown hair was thin and pulled back. Her eyes were slits.
A door opened, and the sound echoed within the large room. Elaine Collins, age fifty-five and impeccably dressed, led thirty-six-year-old attorney Brandon Parrish to the side of the bed. She sipped bourbon and looked like a film-noir refugee; he looked like a model from GQ.
Elaine turned on a light switch on the wall and pulled back the curtain.
“Mr. Parrish, say hello to my daughter Sara, all eight hundred four pounds of her. What do you think, Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig?”
It could have been a leg. But gigantic, with skin that had the appearance of cottage cheese. Something was attached to it. A foot? But where was the ankle?
The stupendous leg was attached proportionately to a much larger torso that was pasty white and covered with blue spider veins that traversed the body like roads on MapQuest. The utter size of the body was magnificent. Awe-inspiring. Unthinkably huge.
The body on the bed appeared to be a woman. She was spread eagle and wore a diaper of sorts made from sheets. Her face was encased in an impossibly large head, her mouth obscured by an oxygen mask, her brown hair was thin and pulled back. Her eyes were slits.
A door opened, and the sound echoed within the large room. Elaine Collins, age fifty-five and impeccably dressed, led thirty-six-year-old attorney Brandon Parrish to the side of the bed. She sipped bourbon and looked like a film-noir refugee; he looked like a model from GQ.
Elaine turned on a light switch on the wall and pulled back the curtain.
“Mr. Parrish, say hello to my daughter Sara, all eight hundred four pounds of her. What do you think, Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig?”
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