Fat Phobia

By Brienne Daugherty

A young woman's warped relationship with her own body, coupled with intense isolation, leads her to uncover dark memories of her past that threaten to destroy her future. Hundreds of years in the past, a young mother struggles to protect her daughter from an evil town with devious plans for her flesh.

It's just a little water weight caused by weekend junk food. At least, that's what Alex tells herself when she begins to feel...heavy. As her body begins mutating right before her very eyes she is forced to discover who can truly be counted on.

Lily was always on the heftier side, even as a baby. Sarah just assumed that one day her daughter would have a growth spurt and put her fears to rest. Now it's too late. Lily is in grave danger and Sarah must find a way to protect her from an entire town hellbent on her destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brienne Daugherty
• Release date: Jan 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224818747

Brienne Daugherty

Brienne is an emerging writer dedicated to capturing the essence of challenging narratives. Her passion lies in crafting stories that delve into the depths of human experiences, unearthing layers often left unexplored. She fuels her creativity with copious cups of coffee. Brienne is a proud member of the Ohio Writer's Association where she actively engages with Ohio's vibrant literary community. She lives in rural Ohio with her husband, kiddos, and three grumpy cats.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I stare, alarmed, at the number on the scale.

145.

Why does it seem like the number is staring back up at me? When I woke up this morning my petite frame just felt...heavy. Nothing serious; maybe I just went a little crazy on the snacks this weekend. I wouldn't say my weight has been a big worry for me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who can eat whatever they want with reckless abandon. I've just always been naturally small, and for that, I'm grateful. Life is stressful enough without having to worry about being fat on top of everything else.

Normally, I fluctuate between 130 and 132.2, so the angry 145 glaring at me from the tiny screen sends me into a panic. Scales can be liars so I step off and on again once I can see it's reset. I have a habit of weighing three times which is optimal for accuracy. I've never noticed the numbers being red before. Have they always been red? People use red pens to correct mistakes, so maybe this little digital platform is helping to edit my poor life choices. If I just listen to its advice maybe someday I'll be the glossy, finished version I'm meant to be.

145. I tell myself it's not a big deal; it's just not a number I'm used to seeing. That's all. I head back into my bedroom and stand in front of my full-length mirror, examining. I'm 5'6" with long legs, but I've always been self-conscious about my short mid-section. My copper-colored curls hit just below my jawline in a style that Erica talked me into. It's still growing on me. My favorite part of myself has always been my pale blue eyes. They're the part of me that receives the most compliments. I tousle my hair and make a mental note that I will show more self-control over my diet.

That idea doesn't intimidate me. For as long as I can remember I've been on my own; responsible only for myself. I learned early in life that you can't rely on anyone. Look, I know it's sad, but it's a lesson that most kids who grow up in foster homes learn quickly. No one helped me make straight A's while living in the group home. No one helped me earn my academic scholarship. Certainly, no one helped me earn the internship that resulted in my current position as a junior marketing assistant for a children's nonprofit organization. One thing I've learned for sure is that I can count on me.

Let's see, the weekend started with some scrambled eggs and one of my post-workout smoothies with protein powder. Erica and I grabbed the birria tacos we saw on TikTok from that food truck over by Target. Those were delicious; I couldn't believe she just picked at hers. There was also a pumpkin-spiced latte in there somewhere. I think for dinner I heated some of that chicken and rice meal I batched in the instant pot. Sunday was a pretty normal day, except, oh there was that larger-than-usual helping of Oreos; they're my favorite. Yeah, that certainly didn't help.

Okay, so I just have to do better this week. I'll tack on 15-20 minutes during my workouts and that should solve the problem. No harm done. Time to get it in gear. I pad over to my closet and select a pair of black yoga pants and my favorite nude-colored workout tank. I love the way it hugs me and always ends up turning a few heads in the gym. But on second thought, hugging may not be the look I want to go for today. I swap it for an old Nightmare on Elm Street tee that's always been a little frumpy on me. Better safe than sorry.

My phone chirps from my nightstand – Erica wanting to know where I am. Fuck, am I running that late? Quickly, I slip on my workout clothes, fill up my water bottle, and head out the door to the workout room inside my apartment complex. As I walk I pull up MyFitnessPal on my phone, prepared to log this morning's breakfast when I realize I didn't eat anything. Okay, well that's one way to do it.

Erica is waiting at the entrance, keys in hand as if she's ready to head off. She's never been the most patient person; you wouldn't be wrong if you called her a bitch. We've known each other since we were kids and in all that time I guess I've just grown used to her personality. Hell, she's my best friend so maybe I'm a bitch too. For years our lives have lined up perfectly. In high school, we took all the same AP courses together, went to the same college and now we both work in marketing for the same company. She even lives across the apartment complex nearby so we meet up most mornings to work out.

Say what you will about her, but being friends with a bitch just naturally makes you better. Not a better person, surely, but...better. She'll be the first to tell you that you're having a good hair day, but she's also not shy when she thinks you look like shit. You'll never walk around with spinach in your teeth or toilet paper on your shoe around Erica. I've been around her long enough to not take her too seriously, and honestly, I think her sense of fashion has rubbed off on me and that can only be a good thing.

Erica is about 5'7'' with shiny, dark brown locks that fall past her shoulders. She has bright, icy blue eyes, pouty lips, and severe cheekbones. She's even more petite than I am and yet somehow very intimidating despite her slight shoulders and thin arms. Erica is the type of person that waiters don't fuck with.

Sorry, I'm late I got sidetracked this morning, I offer.

It's fine, she mutters, let's just do this thing.

We enter, placing our bags in the gray plastic cubbies next to the hallway leading back to the restrooms. There are already a couple of people in here which is fine by me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not overly competitive or anything, but watching someone struggle on an incline always inspires me to increase my own.

I start with a brisk walk on the treadmill, which shifts to a slow jog after a few minutes of warming up. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Erica increases her pace every time I do; always working on going a little bit faster. That's pretty typical for her.

Getting after it this morning, huh? I quip.

If you aren't struggling to breathe are you even working out? she asks, grinning.

Yeah, you're right. Hey, by the way, do I look puffy to you?

Puffy?

Yeah, my scale was off more than normal or whatever this morning. I'm just feeling bloated, I try casually.

No more than usual, she shrugs. Bitch.

I shrug too, bopping the little button to slow down twice. She notices and keeps her current pace with a satisfied smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the girl from the apartment down the hall from mine. She's wearing nikes, black yoga pants similar to mine, and a cute sports bra instead of a top. I clock her between 180 and 200 pounds. Her lower stomach, partially pulled in by her tight yoga pants, has flattened out a bit and pushed her upper belly into a single roll folding just over the band and poufing out. She approaches iced coffee in one hand and smiles when we make eye contact. Her underarm swings gently back and forth as she waves hello. I return her smile and reduce my pace back to a walk as she climbs up on the treadmill beside mine.

I quickly glance around the small gym, gauging other people's reactions. A woman who looks to be in her mid to late forties is lifting free weights in the area opposite us. She stares intently into the mirror in front of her, but I notice her eyes continue to flit over to the other girl's treadmill. She shakes her head as if disappointed and continues lifting weights.

A man sitting on the bench press seat sneaks his phone out of his shorts pocket. I can't tell from this angle, but it looks as if he's secretly recording her. The girl seems oblivious to all of this as she puts her earbuds in and begins walking at a steady pace. She bobs her head to the music and continues to sip her iced coffee. Hey, if she's comfortable dressing like that then who are they to judge right? Let the girl do her thing. You do you girl.

I glance at Erica who rolls her eyes noticeably. Despite only getting in about fifteen minutes of cardio we both slow to a stop, heading for the free weights.

After our workout I make the quick jog home prepared to grab a shower before heading into the office. The heavy feeling I woke up with though, it won't go away. Maybe I'm coming down with something? It's when I strip down that I notice it. My belly. It looks – large. Larger than usual. What the hell? It doesn't hurt, but it's unsightly.

I yank the scale away from the wall and step on it angrily. The seconds thump by in my veins as I wait for the result.

151.

Does that say 151?! I step off, wait for what feels like years, and then frantically step back up. How could it be possible that I gained another six pounds? I've eaten nothing and worked out! The shitty red numbers flash out again: 1-5-1. This time I hop off like the platform's on fire. I make a beeline for the drawer of my desk and fish out the extra batteries I keep in there.

Once I'm satisfied the scale is not dying or broken that familiar panic begins to course its way back through my body. It's the kind of icy shiver that feels so bone-deep it would take one of those half-hour, scalding showers to feel normal again. So that's what I do.

I let the water envelop me, my skin stinging painfully, but my insides slowly warming. Then it hits me: water. I've been drinking water all morning. I'm probably retaining water due to the increased salt over the weekend. A wave of relief washes over me too. Okay, no harm there. I vow to swear off of salt for a few days. Problem solved.

When the hot water has melted the chill out of my extremeties I begin to mentally select my outfit for the day. I'll go with the brick red A-line skirt from H&M and one of my white button-ups. I can't afford high fashion, by any means, but I've always loved putting looks together.

My barbie collection is one of the few things I can still remember about my childhood. I don't remember acting out marriages and breakups. In fact, my clothing and accessory collection far outweighed the three barbies I owned; all of whom were named Alex. It could take half an hour for me to select Alex #3 the perfect ensemble for a chic walk in the park with her dog: clad in a short, shiny dress, acid wash denim jacket, high-heeled boots, and the perfect clutch. I'm really more of a cat person, but there's no perfect ensemble for cat cuddling.

Something inside me still doesn't right with this though. I've always been a horror movie fan and I know that when you have to work this hard to convince yourself that something isn't happening, you're already fucked.

Deep down I think I'm already fucked.

CHAPTER TWO

Reverend William Wickersham saddled up his horse with all the necessary provisions, donned his hat, and hoisted himself up into his worn leather saddle. His small pot belly grazed the pommel as he situated himself, which made him chuckle. He patted his stomach, grinning.

I'm going to have to be more mindful of myself, aren't I, Lord?

Looking up toward the night sky, he gave another chuckle and gently tapped his horse's reins. Already, he'd spread his good news to three different villages in two years. The last one he'd settled in the longest. He'd thought he might settle there for good, tend to his flock, and make a real home. But the Lord had other plans for him. He had asked God for guidance on whether he should make that village his true home, and as the Lord often did, he provided a sign to the reverend. It had presented itself to him as he prepared for evening service one night. As the parishioners filed in, he had overheard talk of a neighboring colony that it was thought might collapse.

I made my usual stop-in on my way back through. Wasn't anyone had anything to barter with. I had to drive my pelts further up north than ever just to trade 'em, said a young man taking a seat in the second pew.

The village had been ravaged nearly since its inception by some plague or another. The first few winters were difficult with crop shortages and hunting remained a challenge due to attacks from the surrounding native population. Not to mention that camp fever had run wild through this village's inhabitants nearly nonstop. Between the attacks, disease, and lack of food it was estimated there were only about a third of its original souls left.

But none of that intimidated Reverand Wickersham. Every village he had been a part of had similar troubles, some worse. He'd never been one to shy away from a challenge. The fact was that most people didn't want to know the gospel the way that he knew the gospel of the Lord. To be truly worthy of God's love and mercy Reverand Wickersham knew that sacrifices were required. Most parishioners thought it was enough to simply make an appearance in the pews every Sunday. The reverend shook his head at the thought.

Back in England, his true home, it was his parents who had taught him about the meaning of sacrifice. They were the two hardest-working people he had ever known. His mother worked as a chambermaid for wealthy aristocrats and every night returned home late and bone-weary with little to show for it. He can still remember times, as a small child, when she would take him to work with her. She would have to tuck him away in a kitchen pantry, or out-of-the-way closet so as not to be seen. Yet even as he peeked out from within his hiding places he was privy to the goings on in the house. He would watch the swollen patricians amble about having their every whim catered to by his mother and other poor wretches like her. Seemingly endless trays of food would pass by him: breakfasts, luncheons, tea times, and supper parties.

Tea times had been a favorite of his. He had loved to watch the silver platters of bread, cheese and glazed cakes pass by with their intoxicating scents wafting in his direction. Sometimes, when he grew bold enough, he would attempt to sneak past his mother and the rest of the household staff to steal a sweet bun. Often he was cuffed round the ear, but on a few occasions he was able to achieve this and those were his favorite days. Little William usually watched as the leftover sweet buns, pickled meats, and other delectables were tossed into buckets to be taken to the