Where the Fat Woman Lies

My dreams are often dark, she thought lying in a state of half-consciousness images streaming behind her eyelids in vivid colours as she struggles to purse them open. She was often in this state, half awake. She sees herself armed with steak knife and a fork slicing through her own thighs, blood dripping.

She had been obsessing about losing weight and her subconscious had very happily played upon her obsession. She was beginning to feel vomit rise up in disgust, and yet something weighed her down. She could not move. Her thighs were being sliced to the bone, by her own hand.

She shivers, cold and then hot, and then cold again. Sweat dripping down her forehead as she struggles to wake. The fat lady sat upon her tight, laughing. Her palm was on her face. The weight caused her chest t tighten and she gasped for air.

Hello there.

She could only hear a voice. Her mind conjured up what she thought the fat lady would look like. Plump, round-faced, big-hair and thick lips that were coated with layers and layers of dark red lipstick. She shivered.

It is women like you.

A woman like her? A virgin at 50 was her claim to fame. And yet she could not speak, she could not ask what was meant. The woman was relentless. And she stopped struggling, allowing herself to fall back into that fitful sleep with the woman on her.

The woman began to dig her fingers into her and she felt herself bruising. Her fingers dug into her thighs, and then into her. She gripped her with fingers as thick as fat sausages. Her fingers filled all gaps like a plug. She took a deep breath, and then exhaled, bit by bit and when there was no air left in her. She could take no air in. So she stopped herself from breathing in.

The fat woman laughed.

She had heard once of a ghost who lived in this house. A female who was left to die in the attic while her husband did obscene things to the maids about the place. She should have believed those stories. She regretted staying the night. She began wriggling her toes, tenses her muscles and began making small movements. She was fitful. That woman needed to get off her.

She felt the woman stand, and then the weight came down heavy again, on her face.

And this time, the smell of old urine stuffed itself within her nostrils and she unlearned, very quickly how to breathe. She then allowed her body to go limp. She felt a sharp pain in her arms and it spread. Nausea overcame her and she vomited, into her own mouth. Vivid images poured in, bright coloured. And then she lay still. Very still.

The fat woman sat upon her face and beamed. Her red lips stretched across the bottom of her face. She looked at her red nails, and when she felt the body below her grow cold she was satisfied. She got up. And then she sliced the body to the bone, and ate the cold meat of the wrinkled body, raw.

Blood dripping.

Outside people whispered stories about ghosts in the now deserted hotel and told stories of the beautiful mistress of the home who was left to die in the attic.

Yes there were ghosts. Of a man, and his maids. But she was flesh and blood.

Like us, she was human.


Inspired by Inspiration Monday prompt: Things We Can’t Hide/Monster Saved Me (not).