Chapter 07: Fifty KilosAll of fifty kilos and I couldn’t fug do it.

  First in my triceps then quickly up through both shoulders, the burled in my chest, behind the jiggli of both tits. Fttened against the cheap bedroom carpeting, they offered a few free timetres of cushioning. The ache quickly intensified. My arm began to tremble. The pain in my wrist became acute. Pushing and straining, I slowly lifted off the ground; my strength evaporated and I colpsed to the floor.

  Not even one goddamn push-up; not one! I couldn’t even lift high enough to clear these fug tits from the floor. I used to pump off an easy hundred every m before work and now. . . .

  But what could I expebsp; I massaged the soreness a how slender and frail my arm was, delicate and without muscle.

  A moment ter debilitating paihrough my skull and the room briefly tilted and wobbled. I blinked against what I hoped was sweat but robably tears. Dammit! Up close I could see every detail of the carpeting, the dirt and dust lost within the winded fabrid the yellow-green stain still by the mirror. I saw the polished perfe of my long nails and how they trasted with the floor. I curled those dainty fingers into a fist and pouhe floor in frustration and winced in pain. Rolling onto my back, I squeezed my eyes shut and shook with mute rage. The room spun once or twice more before slowing to a halt.

  Scooter was right. Damn the bastard, but he was right. What was the point? What was the fug point of w out when the very body I was w to make stronger actively worked against my efforts?

  I pressed my fists to my eyes. In the wake of my ahere remained a sense of utter defeat. I’d worked out nearly every fug m for most of the past twenty years and those assholes had stolen that from me. It felt like something precious had been ripped out of my life, as if I’d suddenly lost the ability to see the creen or something. I khen with awful certainty that even if I escaped this trap that I could never return to a life eveely simir to the one I had known. So much of who David was had been ed up in his physicality, in his strength--and that was now gone.

  “Fuck!” I yelled to the ceiling, and even my anger sounded shrill and weak.

  The killer headache wasn’t making life any easier. In the list of lifelong worst hahis baby artying iop five. Those gsses of wine had smmed into a stomach presumably empty for the past two months. dy clearly wasn’t the drinker I’d been. I’d really had a go at it st night, though. After the wihere was a vague memory of staggering into the kit and finding a six-pack of beer in there. So no surprise I’d gotten hammered, what with the girl looking to weigh maybe half of what I’d been. Yeah, I hadn’t been all that tall or bulky, but I’d carried a lot of muscle weight. Well, bless their bck hearts but the ic carved all that away a behind nothing but these useless curves.

  “Just--live this life,” he said. “Give up on the man you used to be. Be dy.” Yeah, that’s what Scooter told me. The bastard. Fug easy for him to say; he wasn’t the one suddenly carrying a fresh set of tits.

  I’d woken this m to a blistering headache. Brilliant sunlight sshed through the blinds and pierced my drunken haze. Lying face down on the sofa, my crusted eyes blinked relutly. The heat felt sweltering. My chest hurt. Without thinking I’d sat up and violently stripped off the sweatshirt, tossing it across the room. My boobs bobbled free, and you damn well bet they quickly reminded me of the where, what and who of my new life. And feeling as I did, all hungover and shit? Yeah, it was all too much to deal with, too much too quickly: I promptly leaned over the edge of the sofa and puked my guts out.

  Falling bato the couch I g desperately to the armrest until the room settled and the urge to heave subsided. As bad as being dragged kig and screaming into this new life was, believe me, at that moment the hangover felt worse. God. I was desperate for water but the thought of crawling to the kit--finding a gss--twisting the taps--filling the gss--raising it to my lips--drinking; the whole process seemed a task of Herculean proportions. No goddamn way I was leaving that sofa. No matter how angry my bdder got. Another hour--screw that, two months--of sleep, yeah, that’s what I needed. C my head with my arms I tried to burry deeper into the cushions, in search of soothing darkness.

  Author's Notes:

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