Turn 22 of 28
eat more and hold her burps, farts, piss and shit before the video to push the number higher. After the video, release everything onto the floor.
Lena reaches for the remaining pizza and eats methodically, slice after slice, chewing slowly and swallowing without pausing. The stuffed shells follow, then the brownie platter, then the garlic bread torn in chunks and dipped in the remaining whiskey. She eats past the point of fullness and into the territory beyond it, where her belly aches dully and the warmth spreads through her like a slow tide. She keeps eating. The ribs, the macaroni, the second cake she ordered yesterday and never finished — all of it goes in. Her belly rises higher with each course, pressing outward, the skin taut and warm.
She feels the first belch building in her chest and holds it. The pressure rises into her throat and she swallows it back down, a thick, uncomfortable sensation that makes her eyes water. A fart presses against her lower body and she clenches against it, shifting her weight on the couch. Her bladder sends its first signal and she ignores it, crossing her legs beneath the weight of her belly. She reaches for the wine and drinks the bottle in long, steady pulls, feeling the liquid add to the pressure building inside her. The warmth pulses through her, and the discomfort begins to transform into something else — a fullness that borders on satisfaction, the sense of her body being packed tighter and heavier with every minute she holds.
An hour passes. Then two. Lena eats another pizza she ordered on impulse, washing it down with a second bottle of wine, and her body sends urgent signals from every direction. Her bladder is full and aching. Her bowels press heavily against her. Belches rise in her chest every few minutes and she swallows each one, her throat working. Farts build and she holds them, her face flushed, sweat beading on her forehead. The weight of everything she has held presses down through her body, adding to the number that waits for her on the bathroom scale. She can feel it — the accumulated mass of food and liquid and everything her body has produced and not released — settling into her like ballast.
She stands. The effort is immense. Her belly hangs to her thighs and sways as she rises, heavy and round, and she steadies herself against the armrest. The pressure inside her is enormous. Every step toward the bathroom is slow and deliberate, her thighs brushing together, her body groaning with what it holds. She reaches the bathroom and the scale sits where she left it weeks ago, dusty, the digital display dark. She steps onto it and the display flashes, climbs, keeps climbing, and settles on a number she stares at for a long, breathless moment. It is the highest she has ever seen. The warmth pulses through her, fierce and approving, and she feels a tremor move through her body.
She records the video with one hand, the laptop propped on the sink counter, the scale's green glow painting her bare feet. She speaks — her voice thick and strained: "This is where I am. This is what the wish did. And I'm not done." She steps off the scale and the pressure inside her is unbearable. She walks back to the living room, lowers herself onto the floor in front of the couch, and lets go. Everything releases at once — a flood of urine spreading across the floor, a long and heavy release that fills the apartment with its smell, belches rolling out of her in waves, farts following deep and resonant. She lies on her side in it, her body emptying completely, and the relief is so total it moves through her like something holy. The floor is soaked beneath her. She laughs — a low, breathless sound — and reaches for the laptop to upload the video.