Turn 77 of 228

Send a video of you shitting to Diane. She responds with one back. Start gaming

Lena picks up the phone and the thread with Diane is open and the video Diane sent is still there — the fifteen seconds of piss on the carpet, the toes curling, the belly shifting — and Lena sets the phone on the coffee table and stands. The couch groans as her weight shifts. She walks to the bathroom and the carpet is sticky and the toenails click on the tile and she doesn't sit on the toilet. She hasn't used the toilet in weeks. She squats over the shower drain — the same drain that has held everything since the transformation began — and the phone is in her hand and the camera is open and she presses record.

The video is twenty-three seconds. The angle is low, the phone held between her thighs, and the belly is visible at the top of the frame — the heavy round curve of it, the stretch marks, the shadow underneath — and the sound is clear. The shit is soft and long and it falls onto the tile beside the drain and the smell rises immediately, warm and thick, mixing with the apartment smell, and Lena's breathing is audible — slow, steady, the breathing of someone who isn't performing. She doesn't wipe. She hasn't wiped in weeks. She stands and the camera catches the result on the tile and the drain and she stops the recording and the video saves and she walks back to the couch and the body settles and the cushions sink and she opens the thread.

She sends it. The video uploads and the blue checkmark appears and the message sits there — delivered — and Lena opens a bag of gummy worms and eats three and the vodka is warm and the apartment is dark and the phone is on her belly. The reply comes at 10:14. Not text. A video. Same length — eighteen seconds. Diane's office, the desk lamp, the carpet. Diane is squatting in the corner — the same corner, the one that's been dark and stained all week — and the angle is from the desk, the phone propped against the monitor, and the belly is visible and the breasts hang and the beard frames her face in profile and the shit falls onto the carpet. The sound is clear. The carpet is dark where it lands and the smell is implied — Lena can see it in the way Diane's body relaxes, the way the shoulders drop, the way the toes curl against the carpet. The video ends. Below it: now we're even. Lena types: now we're even. She sets the phone on the coffee table and reaches for the controller and the console is on and the screen fills.

The match loads and the team is randoms and the rank is diamond and Lena's fingers move on the controller and the yellow nails tap the buttons and the belly rests on her thighs and the breasts rest on the belly and the couch is warm and the apartment smells like food and piss and shit and vodka and weed and unwashed skin and the screen flickers. She plays. The first match is a loss — a bad team, a feeder, a surrender at fifteen — and the second is a win and she carries and the third is a win and she carries harder and the vodka is warm and the gummy worms are gone and the donuts are gone and the chips are half gone and the controller is warm and the yellow nails click on the buttons and the body spreads across the couch and the night is long and the phone is quiet and the wish hums and the screen flashes victory and defeat and victory and the apartment holds her and the hours pass.

The phone buzzes at midnight and she doesn't check it. The match is live and the team needs her and the controller is warm and the belly is warm and the couch is warm and the screen fills with the game and the yellow nails move and the body grows and the night goes where it goes.