Undertaker33
patreon
Seconds, Please *Revamped*
🕑 Added 2021-02-12 00:45:21 +0000 UTCAuthor's Note: I didn't really plan on doing this revamp, but in rereading a few of my favorite stories, I couldn't help but notice a the original contained quite a few errors. This was the first story I'd ever used photoshop to create insert images for, which is probably what I'm best known for today. Since it's been such a long time, I figured I'd give this old story a fresh coat of paint! I managed to clean up the story here, and I hope you're able to enjoy this penultimate version of one of my favorite one-shots :)
Also, let me know if you folks would be interested in more second-person perspective stories such as this! Thanks for reading!
***************************************************************************************************
The note crinkles before falling onto the concrete slab that is the floor of your new apartment. Your wife raises her foot and stomps down upon it. She twists a fat leg, smothering the note into the stone.
You reflexively wince at the ill-treating of a document.
“Kurwa dupek,” she hisses before spitting at the note. Her spit misses and lands on the floor. You can see crystals forming instantly as the saliva begins to freeze. “They cannot do this to you,” she says before turning to you. “You are Arstotzkan hero. You are the one who has opened the wall.”
“The wall has been resealed. I am lucky to not be there now,” you reply.
She ignores this and curses again at the note. “11A, that is a weapons facility,” she stares out the window. “That is neighbor of the prison. You will not last there. Why can you not stay at 1A, with the food?”
Again, she speaks about the stockpile. Your sight flicks towards the windows. They have been sealed shut with nails against the bitter summer chill of your glorious country. Snow is falling in heavy globs, already filthy as it passes through the smog of your city’s factories. You’d have put furs over the window to keep out the chill if the state hadn’t made the act illegal.
Glory, to this shithole of a country.
Things were beginning to change, but the change was too slow, and already the order was facing pushback. You had personally allowed for the breach of the border, and for EZIC’s mass infiltration of the country. They had promised to take care of you and your family.
And yet, you are still here. In an apartment, in Grestin. No longer struggling, but…
You feel yourself scanning the exterior for watching eyes, then look to the threshold of your bedroom to scan for listening ears.
Finally, you speak to your wife, letting the irritation you feel color your tone. “Hush, woman. Do you now speak of nothing other than food?”
You’re not looking at her, but you can feel the scowl. She moves between you and the door, her midriff straining her night-shirt from the tight movement. “Watch what you say,” she warns, raising a plump finger.
“Why, when you do not watch what you eat?” you retort. “Your identity card is more than twenty kilograms off due to your indulgences, maybe even thirty! If I were to allow such a discrepancy slip, I would be taken by the night.”
Her cheeks color red with anger. Then, slowly, it pales. Her fierce eyes turn sad, and you can see the crystals of tears forming in her eyes. “I cannot… I cannot help myself,” she whimpers.
Her shoulders shake, and it’s then that you are able to fully examine her. Her thick wavy hair falls now to her waist, when only a year ago it had been falling out by the handful. Her pale skin is full, her figure is fattened, and the clothing she wears does not now fit.
It is the ghost that bothers you, though. The imprint who stands next to this fat woman, the specter that resembled a skeleton more than a woman. She who had been diverting food from her plate to your son’s and to your own, the one who had sacrificed even more when you took in your niece.
That final month before the breach had been hard on you. Working desperately to afford food and heat to melt water. But those days had been much harder on your wife. The woman who cared for your home, your family, yourself. The woman who cooked for you every night, even when there was no food because, as she’d say, ‘The county’s men needed to be strong.’ It was too easy to forget that.
Plus… the weight simply looked right on her. A farm-fed woman, how she might be if you could have stayed in your village. You prefer her this way. The curve of her stomach pressing against her tight blouse, how she had to stop wearing her government issued pants because her ass had grown fat and plush. The warmth of her body underneath your bedsheets was by far the greatest addition of your new living quarters. Your mother-in-law, your uncle, everyone had noticed her gain. Yet you seemed to be the only one concerned.
You consider then that you likely feel that way because it is your fault, after all.
How many times had she been one of your first entrants to pick up their daily rations? How many times had she come twice, or three times in one day?
On the first night of your treachery, you had been so afraid that they would show up and shoot you in your bed that you could not sleep. Instead, you stared at your wife, who finally slept soundly. You watched her sleeping hand slowly descend to her belly, before reaching your own hand onto it and rhythmically massaging her. Your wife’s smile was wide, and when she opened her eyes and looked at you, you could see the stars inside of her sparkle.
Now, you watched as the tears silently streamed down her plump checks before falling down onto her full chest. You felt your body take over. It knew what to do far better than your stupid mouth.
Your feet strode forwards, your arms reaching out and wrapping around her widened body. She outweighed you now, but still you reached around the small of her back and hugged her tight, lifting her against your chest. You feel her plump body pushing over your arms, the tightness of weight on your back, but you lift her up until she locks her legs around you and she meets you with her wanting, hungry lips.
Your kiss is solid and filled with desire. You can feel the heat from her exuberate over you, penetrating your clothing. You press your chest into her stomach, and can feel the slight tension that shows she has already eaten today, before anyone else has even awakened. And she will likely dine again with your family when they all rise.
The thought of her indulging excites you, and the kiss become harsher, more developed. You’re both beginning to make noise, and the thought of stabbing yourself in the leg so you may spend the whole day in bed with your fat wife leaps into your head when you’re interrupted by a knock on the only door your home has.
The front door of the apartment is metal, and the knock pierces your stone home like a rock clattering inside of a dark tomb.
You drop her suddenly, the warmth of her porcine body driven out by a cold stabbing sensation near the bottom of your spine. Her feet make little plodding sounds as she pushes you forwards towards the door, already wiping the desire and the worry from her face. You move to your bedroom doorway, pulling back the fur covering that serves to cover your privacy, and look back to her.
Three sharp knocks resound off of the metal. Each one sends an ice pick of apprehension through a new organ. Both of your lungs and your heart feel heavy, slow to react. You lock eyes with your wife.
She points a finger to herself before crossing her hands over her heart, as if hugging someone dearly, and finally points a finger to you. She smiles, her mouth pulling upwards into matching dimples in her plump cheeks, and you can see the stars in her eyes once more.
Your heart beating quickly, you make your way across the common room and to the front door. You can hear your niece and your son rising from the makeshift bed you had built them from the sofa, the creaking of the wood crawling through your ear and making you clench your teeth. They must have been roused by the visitor.
You prayed, to the God that you were not allowed to believe in, that the two stayed put.
You reach to the cold iron knob of the door and twist it, feeling the gripping cold trying to take the skin of your hand as you pull it open.
In the hallway before you stands a man in the black uniform of the Arstotzkan Ministry of Information. The uniform would send a shiver through your spine if it weren’t already frost, but your chest contracts slightly at the mere memory of M. Vonel, the special investigator that had nearly been the death of you. Vonel had been days away from locking your family away in the Grestin prison, before EZIC had detonated the border wall.
But the man at the door is not Vonel.
Instead of a dead pale, this man’s skin is light pink. His cheeks are red from the harshness of the freezing July winds. On his chin he wears a full brown beard, and behind it there’s a wide, warm, smile.
It is an infinitely more chilling expression than anything Vonel had ever worn.
“Inspector,” the man removes his hat before inclining his head towards you. “Good morning to you.”
“Good morning, Mister…”
The man straightens up before glancing behind you, into your home, still smiling. “I am C. Lynch.”
Instantly, your mind spins, trying to place this information. His accent is as foreign as his name, while his phrasing is unnervingly educated. Obristan, Antegria, Republia… no, no, no, none of the people you have dealt with spoke like him. Most spoke like they could hardly read their own name.
Lynch has noticed your silence and clears his throat. “I am here to escort you to your new position. As you may know, there are many dissidents in the area as of late.”
The anarchists, he means. The robbers, the thieves, the ones who turn alcohol into burning fire. Enemies of EZIC as well as those of the State. The suicide bombers that attacked the military. People that would never bother you at the food center.
But who would easily kill you to get to the weapon stockpile.
You incline your head. “Thank you. I am ready. Let us go.”
He tilts his head, smiling wider. “Dear inspector, shouldn’t you ask for my identification first? I could have killed Mister Lynch and stolen his uniform.”
You blink at the man, trying to give him nothing. “If you’ve killed an agent of the Ministry of Information, then there would be no use to check your documentation,” you reply.
“And why is that?” he asks, showing his teeth behind his beard.
“I would be dead before I could read your name.”
He laughs, a heavy bark that pierces the snow of the early morning before raising a hand and clapping you on the shoulder. “This is true, though not many would readily believe they’ve so little a chance.”
You say nothing. The ice remains.
“I see why you have become such an important agent of the order of EZIC’s star,” he extends a hand to his side, beckoning you out. “Come. We must arrive before the line accrues.”
You follow Lynch’s lead, grabbing your hat and stepping into the hall. The ice then seizes you at the small noise of wrinkling paper approaching from behind.
“Husband,” you hear her.
You turn and look upon your wife in her ill-fitting night clothing, suddenly aware of just how immense she looks. She seems almost twice the woman you had married, her waist so full around you could hardly fit her in your arms, her hips even larger. Pale legs quivered with fat, completely exposed to the cold air.
How could you manage to lift a woman so large just moments ago? Surely your spine should have broken from the effort before you collapsed on the hard stone, with a soft but crushing weight smothering you from above.
“Husband,” she repeats herself, “you have forgotten your lunch.”
“Ah!” Lynch says, nodding to your wife. “Good morning, fellow patriot. I had been unaware that anyone else would be awake at this hour.”
Your wife’s chest swells as she musters herself, causing her clothing to look even worse. You can see the skin of her belly now, smooth and round as she had been when with child, as if she’d never lost any of the weight. The skin on her chest is far too abundant, the lack of fabric far too apparent. “I always am the first to awaken,” your wife proclaims. “It is the duty of every wife in Arstotzkan to ensure her husband is healthy and strong to serve our nation.”
You feel a small breath of relief exit your nose, but try to show nothing. Her wording is perfect, her phrasing, practiced. She had insisted on learning to read when you had been selected, and had redoubled her efforts when you tried to explain how to use the cypher you’d gotten from the mysterious agent of the EZIC star.
Back in your village of Nirsk, never did you think you’d be here. Never did you imagine you two would end up like this. What happened? Did fate pick your name out of the lottery? Did God above twist your hand into rebellion? The future would change, that was the promise. The future would be different and bright.
It feels now that the future has a gun to your head as you stare into the sparkling eyes of your fat wife. You look at her, so different now and so full. You wonder what she sees in you.
“Well said, my lady,” Lynch inclines his head. He is grinning.
She again holds out the paper bag. Her shirt doesn’t fall to cover the soft curve of her belly, instead clinging tightly to the top. She reminds you of a sausage wrapped in its foil, and you can’t help thinking of how delicious that meat may taste.
You reach forwards and look back to her eyes, and she looks into your own. Again, you wonder what sort of man she sees in them.
Taking the paper bag in your hand, you feel the weight of the thing. It’s heavier than usual, far heavier than even the new rations had allowed. You feel your eyebrows raise, but only a fraction before your stoic demeanor smothers the movement.
Your wife steps into the hall kisses you on the cheek. “I love you,” she whispers. You nod back to her, feeling steel in your spine and a fractional smile forcing its way to your lips, and she steps back inside before closing the door.
“I wouldn’t have figured you an emotional man, Inspector,” Lynch says. “Come, we have much to discuss.”
He turns from the door and begins walking down the hall. His steps are evenly measured, yet his gait is one that demands to be followed. You begin walking after him, closing your fist around the opening of your packed lunch.
The handle of your prohibited pistol is familiar, even when hidden beneath the paper of the bag. Silently, you say a prayer of thanks to your wife. It’s followed by another prayer that she has remembered to load it.
Lynch and you make your way down the stairs of your apartment block before soldering outside into the cold summer weather. The winds of Arstotzka are harsh today, and the snow whips along the side of your building. Piles reach up to the windows of the lowest level of houses, and you wonder how many poor bastards they’ll pull from their homes today, frozen to death.
“In Arstotzka, heat is a luxury,” Lynch comments on the cold wind.
In Arstotzka, everything is a luxury. Food is a luxury… That thought makes you feel very rich indeed.
The two of you make it to the sidewalk, turning west towards the wall.
“You will be doing access control today,” Lynch says over the wind. “It is the same as your job at the Food Distribution facility. People will come for weekly rations. You will verify their documents and will allow those who are correctly there to enter.”
“What documents will they have?” you ask.
Lynch looks to you, his wide smile as unnerving as the wind. “It is the same as your job at the Food Distribution facility.”
You cross the road, entering the government building district. Uniform facilities that almost all look the same, one after the other, with the only difference being a small number on the front.
That is, until you reach the prison. A nightmarish hellscape of barbed wire fences and sharp gray stone. A massive wrought iron door is set into the outer wall, the main entrance for vehicle traffic. Even in this weather, even though there is no truck arriving, they still have the dog patrols posted outside the gates. The dogs lie on either side of the gargantuan iron doors in a small wooden home, insulated against the cold, while the youngblood guards stand outside with the leash and rifle in gloved hands. The government’s reasoning famously being ‘It is more expensive to import dogs from foreign countries rather than boys from Arstotzkan villages.’
Change was coming, but it was coming too slow.
You make to pass the two young men when you notice Lynch has stopped. One of the boys looks up from his position and begins walking down the short drive, the dog following him neatly into the cold. He approaches before saluting Lynch.
“Colonel Krystan,” the young man says, “all is prepared as you instruct.”
“Good,” Lynch responds. “This is our Inspector,” he gestures with a wave. “A hero of the Arstotzkan people.”
The boy turns his eyes to you. He does not salute.
“He will be in charge of the rations distribution,” Lynch continues “Whenever you hear the intercom click twice, that is your signal.”
The boy turns back to Lynch, saluting again. The dog pulls on its owner’s leash, asserting its want to return to the shelter, and together they return to the prison gate.
Lynch faces you now, lifting a bushy brown eyebrow. He’s obviously waiting for you to ask him a question.
You refuse to give him the satisfaction.
A moment passes before he relents, and he returns to walking down the snow-blown pathway. You follow, resigned to what may come.
The two of you finally arrive at distribution building 11A. During your time at the food distribution center, you would see citizens beginning to line up at this time. There was often a low buzz of conversation, a couple jovial laughs, and a few flasks being passed around to fight off the cold. A few times, someone would seem to pull a barrel out of thin air, and people would warm themselves on the burning wood.
Perhaps due to the wind, perhaps due to the nature of this building, nobody is lining up here.
Lynch opens a dark steel door. You follow him inside.
The wind dies as the door firmly shuts behind you. The entrance to the building is a small room lit by a single bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling, just above a compressed glass window. At the other end of the room, there is another dark steel door with a glowing red light above it. It reminds you of the check-in station of your building. The entrant would approach the window, speak with the Inspector on the other side of it, and be cleared for entry. The light would then shine green, and the door would unlock. If rejected, the applicant was to leave the building, or they would be removed and brought to the prison, if refused until the military arrived.
But then you start seeing the other things that the facility has. Things that are familiar, but in a dreadful way.
You notice the carpet in front of the glass window that surely hides a scale beneath. A chair has bolted to the far wall, next to markings that would indicate the relative height of someone standing at the window to the Inspector that was sitting on the other side. Above the bulb, there’s a pair of matching cameras that likely burn with radiation to grab images of individuals beneath their clothing. You also see that there’s an inkwell near the window, presumably for fingerprinting. Finally, looking around the room, you notice the most chilling difference.
There is a steadily glowing red light above the door that you entered through.
This room was a death trap. There was one way in, and you would only leave with the inspector’s blessing. With the conversation Lynch had had with the guard earlier, you’re left to assume the only way any refusals could leave was in the arms of an escort.
“Papers, please.”
You turn to see Lynch approaching the window. His eyes narrow at the glass. You move forwards and see a man not too much older than yourself, later twenties perhaps early thirties, sitting at the desk. “I am Colonel Krystan with the Arstotzkan military,” Lynch says to the Inspector. “I am the head of today’s operation.”
The man in the booth shakes his head, “I need to see your papers for entry to be granted.”
Lynch reaches down to his jacket. Your grip on your lunch bag tightens as his hand enters a pocket before he pulls out his radio. He toggles the respond button three times, three high pitches singing out and piercing the silent room.
You can hear a door opening through the glass, and suddenly the seated man seems to disappear. A soldier, bundled up and his face unseen, reaches under the desk and presses a button.
The interior light glows green. Lynch walks over and opens it before his eyes turn to you. He smiles, waving his hand with a friendly, “Inspector.”
You enter the facility beyond and are immediately put off. You had expected the smell of grease and metal and the sight of ammunition boxes and rifles. Instead, you’re met with the smell of fresh baking bread, and the sight of boxes upon boxes of food. Long rows of ovens are cooking bread and preparing meats to be salted. A few dozen women are all busily unloading several covered trucks, loading up wooden crates and cooking fresh goods. You recognize several of them as workers from the food distribution center.
“As I said, Inspector. The papers you will require will be exactly the same.” He places a hand on your shoulder as you make sure your eyes are not being tricked.
“Where are the weapons?” you ask.
Lynch let’s out a low grunt of a laugh, “Where the food used to be, is that not obvious?”
You look to him and ask, “Why?”
He nods his head, understanding. “Today, Inspector, you shall be visited by traitors. Arstotzka has been infiltrated by outsiders, thieves, and anarchists. You will assist us by illuminating our citizens, and the dissenters will quickly be taken to the prison next door. If a person tries to enter with illegitimate documents, you will toggle the receiver button twice, and the guards will come to escort the traitor to their new living quarters. Understand?”
“No,” you say honestly. “Why move the food center? Why not protect the weapons like this?”
Lynch raises a finger, “Ah, inspector. Even a traitor needs to eat. Your wife could certainly show them that.”
An ice pick returns, an unsettling thrust into your stomach. You do not respond. He could have meant that in two ways. Either that your wife knows how to eat or…
“Come, now.” He waves you along. “They will begin arriving any minute.”
He leads you through a metal door into a dimly lit area. You recognize the familiar positioning, the wooden furnishing of the desk, the rule book and documents alongside it. It’s your desk from the food center, seemingly taken directly from there and brought to this building.
A uselessness action, wasteful and disturbing. It is an action that the EZIC star would find beneath them. But it is not something that is beneath your countrymen.
Your hand tightens on your sack lunch. You are no longer concerned about the anarchists. You’ve begun to suspect something far worse.
The soldier from earlier, the man who had let you in, is nowhere to be seen. No doubt, he is escorting your predecessor to wherever this ‘Lynch’ has sent him. What had he called himself? Colonel Krystan?
Regardless, EZIC has been compromised. And, it would appear, so have you.
“Take a seat,” Lynch instructs. You follow the order. “I will be sitting right there,” he says pointing at the chair in the entryway, “ready to step in if need be.” He puts a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to look in his dark eye. “Nobody is allowed in to the facility without proper papers, or out without being in the custody of the prison guards. Understood?”
You nod once.
He pats your arm and walks to the door. He opens it before turning to you. “Oh,” he says, as if only an afterthought, “and keep an eye out for anyone sporting a red arm band on their right arm. If they are wearing one of those, immediately summon the guards. Those are marked criminals.”
Without another word, he closes the door. You sit down at your desk, placing the paper bag with your lunch on top of it and taking your rule book out. You reread the top of the notes, trying to force the coldness of that last instruction out from your stomach. Why would a criminal knowingly allow themselves to wear a red band on their arm? Nobody that commits crimes against the state would mark themselves unless forced to, and then, why wouldn’t they have already been taken?
It’s far too simple.
The interior door opens, and you see Lynch enter into the room. He walks to the chair before taking a seat, crossing his leg so his foot rests on his knee. You turn your head to look at the clock.
It’s time. You thumb the intercom button atop of your desk.
“Next.”
You hear your voice carry over the electronic intercom through the outer door. You sound old, weary. Thankfully, you do not sound afraid. Your eyes glance at Lynch, who has placed both of his hands in his lap. After a moment, the iron door opens, and a figure slowly makes their way over to the front of your desk.
As he approaches, your eyes turn to the scale indicator while you speak, “Papers, please.” The scale settles on 79kg.
“Please,” comes the quivering response. You look back to the man.
He’s shaking.
Blood seems to have crusted around his left temple from a long cut, and his eyes are puffy and swollen from crying. Around his left eye there’s a series of markings that are uncomfortably familiar. The insignia of the EZIC group has been crudely drawn in black ink.
It takes a moment for you to recognize his uniform as that of an Arstotzkan official Inspector, nearly identical to your own. His black jacket is ruffled, his gray sweater is torn by the collar, and his red tie has been cut and tied around his upper arm.
You look upon the man who had been sitting in your chair not ten minutes ago as renewed tears begin falling from his eyes. “Please,” he says again, his voice cracking on the word.
You look from the man to Lynch, seated against the far wall. Lynch’s hands are resting in his lap, his leg still crossed, and he is smiling.
Your hand moves and you thumb the intercom button twice. “I am sorry,” you mutter, unable to look the former Inspector in the eye. The door opens and you can once more hear the howling wind enter into the chamber. This time, it floods through the window and beats on your chest as the man sobs, but it no longer chills you.
“Out!” is the shouted order of the guards, and you know they’ve their guns held at the ready. Detached, you wonder if they’ve brought the dogs.
The man walks out of his own volition and the door slams shut. You sit there for a moment, your eyes slowly returning to Lynch. He sits there in the quiet dim lighting, his broad grin filling his face.
This man does not work for EZIC. In all likelihood, his identity as the Colonel is truth. They have found you out, and will now force you to identify EZIC collaborators. And at the end of your shift, you will be killed. Only the corrupt Arstotzkan government would be as stupid and wasteful to move the entirety of two facilities overnight.
Once again, you begin a silent prayer, the same as on that day months ago. EZIC will take care of your family. They had promised. You wish your wife had kept the sidearm. Lynch’s guard would return once he’s had his fun with the former Inspector.
The small pistol would do you no good here.
“Inspector, there are people waiting out in the cold,” Lynch reminds. “Why don’t we bring them in?”
Your hand moves, and your thumb stabs down on the intercom button. “Next.”
The person that follows is a woman. Short, 53kg, her Identity Card matches her ration slip. You notice the card is issued from Altan.
“What brings you here to Grestin?” you ask.
“My sister is sick,” she responds.
You withdraw the green stamp, stamping approved on her ration ticket. You press the inner door release, and hear the loud mechanical beep. The light turns green, and the door is unlocked. She enters the center.
“Next.”
Another woman enters, stepping onto the scale. Your eyes again flick to the dial.
“Papers, please.”
A passport and a rations card are deposited through the hole onto your desk. You lift the red book of Obristan and flip it open. The name and picture are familiar, giving you pause.
“Hello friend,” says Jorji Costava, his voice heightened in pitch. You look at him and see the wig he wears is not even the right color, nor is it depicted on his passport. He has whiskers growing in from his poor shaving job. “It has been a while. Arstotzka still best country, yes?”
Your eyes fall back to the document. The issuing city is correct, it is not expired, he didn’t misspell Obristan again… his gender is listed as a female. His ration ticket also matches the passport.
“Everything is in order,” you say before stamping his ration ticket and returning his documents. You thumb the door release. “Enjoy your meal.”
Jorji bobs his head up and down, “Thank you, thank you. My wife, she no feed me. She eats all the food herself.”
You say nothing, though Jorji does not move. He looks a bit… uncomfortable, which is strange for the counterfeiter. “Yes?” you ask.
Jorji’s eyes move, as if trying to see Lynch through the back of his own head. “You will sign passport to?” he asks, pushing it back through the hole.
Your eyes narrow. “That is not necessary.”
“Obristan new rules. Rations paperwork must be signed, yes,” he nods, eyebrow waggling up and down.
You take the passport, opening it and looking closer. Not at the words themselves, but at the document. Jorji’s job was immaculate, the passport was a near perfect copy. Except for the rear of the booklet.
The insignia of the order of the EZIC star causes you to feel as if the warmth of the star was covering your skin. It is a holy light, one that was going to protect you.
“Two more,” Jorji whispers, so low you can barely hear it over the blood that rushing through your ears as you hand the document back to him, his old voice warm and comforting. “We here for you.” He then turns and walks into facility, through the greenlit door.
Lynch is staring at you now, his smile even bigger. It was impossible that he’d have heard Jorji’s whisper from so far away, but still he smiles. He must be thinking about what will come later. You would be shot, no doubt, but what of the previous inspector? Would Lynch throw you in a pit together? Would he wish to beat you? To maim you?
You try to keep your hand steady. EZIC has not forgotten you, nor left you for dead.
They will come.
“Next,” you voice calls. Your eyes are locked with Lynch’s now, the two of you unblinking even as the howling winds from outside reach a crescendo and the door flies open, clanging off of the inner wall. Outside, you can hear the prison dogs barking, but still you stare at Lynch.
The door closes, and the next person shuffles into frame. “Papers, please,” you say without breaking eye contact.
The documents are laid on the desk before you and you finally look away from Lynch. You examine the identity card of the woman. Immediately, a buzzer goes off in your mind. The card claims the woman weighs 46 kilograms, whilst you see the scale reading 98 kilograms. You look to the woman, preparing to comment on her more than doubled weight, and feel your stomach rise into your throat, filling you with silence.
“Hello, husband,” your overweight wife manages over her shaking breath. She is wearing her night shirt with an oversized black military jacket covering her short, stocky frame. Her plump legs are red and shivering, her fatness causing her whole body to jiggle. Her nose has small crystals forming over running mucus, and her fingers look to be a deep dark red, nearly violet with frostbite. Around her right arm is a scarlet bandana.
You swallow, feeling the tightness in your throat sink. It feels as if you are choking.
Her breath quavers, “I’m… I’m here to pick up my third breakfast.”
“Where are the children?” you ask.
“They are at home,” she manages. She closes her eyes tightly. “I am very hungry. I will eat the whole storeroom if you let me in…” her voice trails off. Lynch coughs, and she continues. You see a tear fall from her eye. “Please, for the good of… for the good of our glorious country… for our son… send me away.”
Time crawls as your sight leaves her crying face. You are looking at Lynch, watching his smile and his white teeth. His broad hands, his bushy beard. He is the picture of Arstotzkan strength. Just as corrupt, and just as inept.
His guard has not yet returned.
As the vindictive smile pulls up on your face, you can feel the troublesome frost inside of you melt. There is iron in your stomach, steel in your spine, and you can already feel the warmth of this woman inside of your arms. Your eyes shift back to your wife.
Her tears have stopped, and so has the shivering. She is looking at you, her eyes wide and trying to take in everything. She knows you far better than anyone ever could.
She knows when you are gloating.
“You are very fat, woman. So fat I think you won’t make it to the rations.” Your hand moves without looking. The paper bag crinkles loudly as you pass it through the window. “Why don’t you have some of my lunch?” you ask.
Lynch’s smile has faded, but Lynch no longer matters. In your mind, Lynch is already dead, even as your wife reaches into the bag and her hand wraps around the grip of the pistol.
The only thing that matters, the only thing that has ever mattered, is the sparkling stars you see in the eyes of your beautiful fat wife.
Comments
Undertaker
Remind me to print this out and frame it on my wall ☺️ thank you so much, honestly. That really does me a lot. This story was originally done for a writing contest I held on a friend’s discord. Not many people entered, but I remember reading and rereading this one and being just so extremely proud of how it had turned out. It’s definitely one of my favorites, and was a pleasure to revisit. Thank you for reading, and for your comment :)
God, this takes me back. I remember when I first read this on your devianart way back when. The bleak atmosphere makes it stand out so much. I mean, we've all seen weight gain stories portrayed seriously, but combining a game about soviet-esque repression with WG and making it seem so natural? Props, fam. You got range.
