* Author :
A. D. Ellicott
* Narrator :
Emma Osborne
* Host :
Wilson Fowlie
* Audio Producer :
Eric Valdes
*
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Previously Published by Body of Work, ed. C.Z. Tacks, Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild (2023)
Content warnings for fatphobia and eating disorders
Rated PG
Maintenance Phase
by A.D. Ellicott
Mary woke in an unfamiliar bed, gasping for breath.
She recalled the shots, the dancing, the giggling stumble into a stranger’s apartment while they pulled off each other’s dresses. Her internal organs felt cramped up together, as though they were rats fighting for scarce space in the sewers. Her plan was to sneak home later in the night and return to her own form, but instead she’d slept shifted. She groaned and smacked her hand over her eyes.
“She wakes!” someone yelled from outside the open bedroom door. Her bedmate from last night walked in, red hair in a messy bun and spatula held aloft. “Want pancakes?”
How long had it been since she had pancakes? Real pancakes, not the almond meal monstrosities her mother made.
“Yeah, I’d love some,” she croaked. “Just let me, umm, freshen up.”
“Sure thing, buttercup,” said the other woman, and left humming in the direction of the kitchen.
Mary grabbed her discarded dress off the floor, slipped into the bathroom, and made sure to lock it behind her. Then she let go of the self-image she’d been clinging to all night.
She felt a surge of relief as she relinquished the crushing grip her mind held over her body. She looked in the mirror. Gone were the smooth curves of last night, the defined chin, and the dip of shadow at her collar bones. Instead of flowing, her curves rolled, overcame her. She felt skin press against skin where her neck met her chin, and felt the urge to pull her hair forward to cover newly-rounded cheeks.
The form in the mirror wouldn’t fit into her little red dress. It didn’t fit into any of the clothes she owned.
She took her first deep breath of the morning — her only deep breath until she made it home — and then set about chiselling her facade back in place.
Out in the kitchen, sunlight streamed onto a bench covered in flour while the woman mixed something in a large bowl. What was her name again? Kate? She looked up at Mary’s entrance and smiled.
“Pancakes are warming in the oven. Help yourself. Toppings on the table.”
Mary grabbed a fork and plate from the table, then pulled open the oven. Inside was a stack at least six high. She pulled two onto her plate. At the table, she drizzled maple syrup sparingly, added a spoonful of strawberries and bananas, and ignored the chocolate spread and cream.
Kate washed the flour off her hands and came to sit with her at the table, hands curled around a coffee mug. “They were all for you, don’t worry. I already had mine.”
“It’s okay, I’m not that hungry,” she lied. She was starving, but trying to cram down anything else right now would make her sick.
Her doctor was worried about vitamin deficiencies and kept telling her to add things to her diet: more greens, red meat, fruit. But she couldn’t figure out how to fit it all in without making herself vomit or making herself bigger.
She made it through half the serve she dished out for herself before setting her knife and fork down lengthways on the plate — the way she’d been taught to politely indicate that she was done, even though food remained.
