Interview: The Making of Matilda - Part 3

“Where… were… we?” Matilda gasped as she recovered wearily from another lengthy feeding, “Oh yes… the feeding… machine…”

“I do miss solid foods. I still get them as a treat, as a reward, if I gain enough, but I wish I could have them more often. Most of my intake comes from the machines - thick, creamy, delicious milkshakes…” 

Matilda swallowed hard. 

“I know that they're ridiculously fattening, and filled with additives and supplements that, well, have enabled me to get this huge in the first place. It's a vicious circle. They're so delicious, so satisfying that I actually start to crave them if I go long enough without - I actually start getting withdrawal symptoms. I'm hooked, helplessly addicted. I still miss real food, though.”

At that moment I remembered that, tucked in my battered reporter's satchel, I still had half of a flapjack bar from my second visit to the canteen. Cautiously checking my peripheral vision, I slowly reached for it, pulling it out and holding it in Matilda's line of sight. I smiled, “Treat? It's not much but…”

“Please… yes, please…”

I was surprised at Matilda's urgency. She looked uncomfortably full from her very recent feeding, glutted even. Yet despite her predicament, she showed little hesitancy.

I broke off a piece of flapjack, and as subtly as I could, offered it toward Matilda's plump, expectant lips. There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then she pecked her head forward and bit hungrily, as though she hadn't eaten for a week. She chewed for only moments, before swallowing hard with a satisfied, airless sigh.

“More?” I ventured.

“... More…”

As she eagerly devoured the penultimate piece of flapjack, I couldn't help but agree with Matilda's sentiment; she was hooked, and helplessly so. She knew what was happening to her, she knew that she was too big, but she just couldn't stop. She'd just been stuffed, and the remainder of this flapjack wasn't even part of her mandatory intake, and yet, she could no longer help herself.

Matilda briefly heaved for breath, then tentatively whispered. “... More…”

As I offered the final piece towards her crumb-lined mouth, I could hear Matilda's belly give a deep, guttural rumble. About to bite, she paused momentarily and swallowed hard. Her large, beautiful, cow-like eyes looked up at me, before she gently bit into the remaining piece. This time, she took a while to chew, before swallowing with what seemed like caution.

Other than her heavy, laboured breathing, we both paused in silence, seemingly waiting for something, but I wasn't sure what. There were a few further deep grumbles emanating from within Matilda's over-fattened figure, and then things seemed to settle down. 

“Sorry… yes… the feeding… machine…” Matilda finally continued, “I can't… say… I was… a fan… to begin… with…

In fact, if I'm being totally honest, I found it a bit horrifying. I was already struggling with mobility to some degree, and my goal, at least, wasn't to actively speed that issue up. However, the cards on the table were pretty limited. I could go home, but the shame of letting myself get like this, and the reality that my own parents would probably have to help look after me like a big, fat baby until I managed to lose a significant amount of the weight. I just couldn't swallow my pride on that one, I was still super self-conscious about how big I'd become. 

So, I guess, the only other option was to enrol for further research, but the feeding pump would be necessary, so I was told. Talk about a rock and a hard place - either go home and be ridiculed as the fattest girl in town, or stay and concede to potentially being fattened further, by a machine! 

Well, you know the choice I made. I did try though; I refused the machine at first, I begged for a more steady, traditional method. To my surprise, they actually agreed.

I'd tried the milkshakes here before. They were usually a treat, or an accompanying drink with another meal. They were nowhere near as thick as the ones I get fed now, however they were still irresistibly delicious. Soon, they went from a treat, to a staple of my diet, served with every meal, and in-between. I wasn’t going to complain, they were one of my favourite things to guzzle down. The serving sizes grew from a modest glass full, to a half-gallon cup with a nice long straw, so I could place it to one side whilst gaming or reading, and just sip away. Needless to say, I swelled beyond 800 pounds in no time at all. Machine or no machine, I began to get really heavy. 

That extra sixty to seventy pounds was a lot for my modest frame, and hit my mobility hard. I was by no means stuck, not yet, though it took me from barely independent, to dependent. My hope of walking out of here, free and easy at some point, began to wane with my manoeuvrability. Some time shortly after, perhaps within another fifty pounds or so, I began to give up and face what was happening to me. Jade, a nurse I was, and still am great friends with, put it to me this way, ‘You can either get fat and be upset about it, or you can get fat and enjoy the ride.’ That stuck with me. If I had to keep gaining weight, I might as well enjoy it, right? 

I don't resent Jade's advice, no. She was right. With that, I began to enjoy the process much, much more. I relaxed, I gave in, I let my walls come down. Whatever I was being fattened for, was for science after all. That gave me purpose, and the thought of sitting at home, alone, waiting for callbacks made me begin appreciating that here I was the very centre of attention, and surrounded by friendly faces. So, then I tried the feeding machine.

It wasn't as big or intimidating as the pump I use now, but I was still wary of a machine that was designed to effectively keep me very full. I love food, and I adore eating, but I was also very fond of those milkshakes. The pump I was first presented with was quite modest, by comparison; it had a gallon hopper on top, and sat on a small trolley that could be parked alongside me, usually by my bed.

Getting used to it took a little while, but once you get the hang of it, it's all about rhythm. It ‘pulses’ mixture into your mouth, giving a brief pause for you to swallow, and of course breath! It was similar enough to my recent intake of milkshakes, except instead of sucking it through a straw manually, this machine would do it for me, constantly, and like clockwork. There's a sensor on the feeding tube that picks up on a chemical signal in the saliva that changes when I'm full, or something, and shuts the machine off for a little while until I'm… well, my stomach is ready for more.

There were a few initial milkshake-through-the-nose moments, but after a fair bit of use, I began to get the hang of it. At first it was used alongside my main meals, as a way to keep me full in-between, but as time passed, it has gradually become the only way I’m fed, save for the occasional treat. I had two-dozen amazing, cream-filled doughnuts yesterday and, oh golly, they were divine! I'm not sure what the treat was for, but anyway…

As my use of the pump, and my intake increased, predictably so too did my weight. Within six weeks or so, I had smashed 1,000 pounds! I was putting on pounds per day. Leaving bed became a brief and exhausting procedure, and whilst I tried to take stock of the situation, it was all just moving too fast. I lay there, keeping myself busied with television or books, as the very last traces of my once plump but shapely body were lost to billowing swells of soft, squishy fat.

My last stand was at about 1,100 pounds, I think. Held up by a nurse on each side, I even made an attempt to walk, but my legs were spread so far apart, not to mention also being so heavy, that I almost passed out. Part of the reason for that upheaval, as far as I remember, was to relocate me. I was to be moved from my generous suite that I had grown quite fond of, to a larger, more spacious solution, that would make life for both myself, but mainly the nurses, easier. With life now almost entirely in bed, there would be no need for a couch, or a table, or kitchenette to get in the way I guess.

The move to a larger ‘suite’ also made way for other changes. With bathroom visits near impossible, and bed based attempts getting trickier by the day, I was hooked up to a ‘discreet pump’ - designed to take my waste away without the need for a dedicated break. The feeding machine also received an upgrade, or rather, was replaced with a more substantial model. I don't know the specs, but its capacity alone was significantly greater!

The irony of having both a machine to fill me, and a machine to help empty me didn't go unnoticed. In fact, it seemed so ridiculous that I would often expect to wake up, as if I were stuck in a bizarre dream. 

With what I later learned was a move to the ‘main’ facility, the real process of fattening my poor body began. My feeding schedule intensified to such a degree that I learned how to take cat-naps whilst the feeding machine kept on feeding. With only a few hours a night dedicated to actual sleep, I needed all the rest I could get as I fatigued from almost constant digestion. It was exhausting, yet by the time I woke up, I was practically begging for more as my appetite grew increasingly insatiable.

I don't recall if I ever stood up on my own feet again after the move, but it seems unlikely. Either way, as I grew accustomed to a life on my back, my mood swung rapidly between remorse and feigned ignorance. There was little use wishing I could turn back the clock, and I didn't dare think too deeply about my future. For the most part, I just tried to live day-by-day, focusing my thoughts on enjoying the chance to self-indulge - Nurse Jade’s comment still very much keeping my attitude largely positive. 

Despite this, my heart would still race with panic whenever I overheard a nurse talking about how much I weighed or recently gained. Even though I was struggling with my growing size, my brain just couldn't comprehend what it heard. I don't really think the human body is designed to understand that it weighs, say, 1,500 pounds - it's just too far out of its design scope. I can tell you now that it is a lot for one girl to weigh, and yet, it wasn't enough for the department.

That was it. From then on, the department found ways to feed me more, feed me faster, improve the formula, the efficiency, the timings, you name it, they tweaked it, and there was little I could do except lay back and guzzle. Occasionally the pace would ease off as the team tried to overcome some scientific hurdle or another, but it usually didn't take long before I was being pumped and stuffed around the clock once more, gaining more than ever. 

Do I think that this trial will come to an end? Well, like I said earlier, I've given up on them giving up, if you get what I mean? In my heart of hearts, I hope that they do though, and soon! I really don't know how much more I can cope with, my body feels fit to bust. I'm being swallowed, pulled and crushed all at once, but my protests go ignored. They only care about one thing, and that is that I keep gaining, growing fatter, and fatter. I have to keep trusting that I'm in good hands, I guess!”

With that, I could sense the steady swell of activity in the room once again, and, sure enough as I bid my polite and grateful farewell to Matilda, the access platform slowly began its descent to ground level for the final time. 

I looked over my notes, and whilst I still had plenty of questions for the gigantic gainer, many of them didn't seem that relevant, really. Asking about plans for her future - or at least her plans for her future - seemed almost an insult. Even asking about the trial ever ending seemed to provoke a slightly sharp, frosty response from the seemingly laid back girl.

Standing back and observing for a moment, I watched as the freshly cleaned hopper of the feeding pump was brimmed with yet more thick, fattening mixture. A team of nurses with cleaning equipment, and others with tablets and clipboards scurried about. Meanwhile, a plump, blonde nurse ascended on the platform, once again with the familiar feeding hose in hand.

For several minutes I stood and watched, in my mind wondering how much longer this incredulous charade would continue for; days? Weeks? Months? Just how much bigger could poor Matilda get? Maybe one day, I would be able to find out…

Continued in Part 4 (Alternate / Extended Ending)...