John Stephanie James was a man used to losing things or letting them loose. His monstrous girth had forced him to avoid any sort of pants since his early 20s. Even stretch band elastic was soon worn into frayed, useless string. All of this plainly bespoke of his largely immobile existence. He was an accountant who had never taken a day off work, whose weight had forbidden intimate relationships or even playful ones, and who was rapidly losing hope. What hope can one man have who spends all waking moments finding ways of avoiding the out-of-doors?
It is one image, burned into his consciousness by a steady and crushing sense of guilt, that keeps him away from all others, and even himself. His most beloved friend, Amy Jackson was the person who knew more about John James than anyone else. Even more than his family, since she stood by him even when his weight mounted, with no hint of cessation, and fought hardest with him to find some relief from such a wounding condition.
It was after a day of staring into each others' eyes, searching their depths. Many things passed silently between them, and many slips of breath spilled out with revelation or pleasant discovery. Joy had taken them over. It was now well past a happy day spent between them. Heads filled with thought of the other were tired, and bones were seeking rest. Amy was not used to spending the nights with anyone but her own bed, blankets and pillows, and so she was not eager to tread that territory until she could sense a little more of its outlay, its slips and trenches and deep, steep abysses. So she, with playful, warm and silky hands held his face, which still betrayed the sure existence of a skeletal structure under pouches of heaviness. She shook his head. Tapped it with her fingertips, and then broke eye contact and walked from the couch toward her shoes. He hid the exertion of standing up, breathed it down, and followed her. Something inside his stomach rumbled, growled, poked and prodded from within. He held a hand there, denying its existence. He hadn't remembered feeling this hungry all of a sudden before. In fact, he had just eaten a rather large, satisfying meal, and hadn't calculated having an interest in food until much later, after he had journeyed several sleep cycles.
But there she was. Amy, so beautiful. Blonde. Flowing, sometimes curling hair, with arms outstretched for the deep, enveloping hug. He smiled within and without at this. His face and cheeks glowing, clearly indicating he would like to dance some outrageous dance with her, or simply dance for her. There was an easiness, and quickness to the way he wrapped his arms around her petite frame and brought her into his massive, soft chest. She let out a sigh that caught her quite off guard, and had heretofore never been released in front of anyone. She was truly comfortable with John. His sigh echoed the sentiment. And he began to sway. A slow, gentle sway. And she relaxed more deeply.
Silence. For minutes. Is she asleep, John wondered? Her eyes were closed, a smile curled her lips so gracefully, so cleanly, so happily. John was feeling all the joy in the world, filtered through one moment and without aim to trap it, for its bounty is endless, if allowed to be.
Suddenly, violently and terribly, a growl ripped through his stomach and entire body. Amy's eyes broke open. John experienced the pain of his stomach tearing through fat, seeking the outside world more directly than receiving sustenance from some garbage shoot of an esophagus. It found what it wanted in Amy, and clenched her in its teeth, without mercy; only white hot desire to consume. And inward she fell, was dragged and devoured, John grasping at an arm most tightly, and only recovering a hand with its fingers and heirloom rings. John collapsed. Writhed on the floor. Spat and sputtered and sought Amy's release, but his hungry stomach continued to masticate, delighted with his catch, and savoring digestion.
John could feel her die. He was not a person to kill or have killed. He was kind and gentle and at a disadvantage socially. Which is what made Amy care for him. He felt and heard her last breath escape, and it was not with ease or comfort. It was with hurt and sorrow. He could barely stand it.
