Crunch…Mmm, mmph…crunch. The lips of an obese man shifted up and down like an automated machine, never satisfied no matter how much fuel it took. Crunch...his lips and hands were stained orange with cheese dust and saliva, while his lap was a mess of food particles. The room was illuminated with only the blue glow of the TV screen, completed with the sound of sports announcers in the background. The man stopped his mindless munching. “God darn it, I’m out of Cheetos again. Sigh. Guess I gotta go back to that store again.” The leather armchair made a squeaking sound as he struggled to lift himself up, showing a deep impression. Soda cans rattled as he walked through a pool of them.

Soon he was at the convenience store, grabbing loads of Cheetos and soft drinks. The cashier looked at him bemused with perplexed eyes at his immense figure. “Uh sir, are you okay? This is the fifth time you’ve come back to buy snacks.  And it’s really late right now. Heck, it’s two in the morning, sir. Don’t you have a job?” The man didn’t respond and just dropped the ten dollars on the counter.

“Keep the change,” the man mumbled, running or trying to run out of the store, clutching bags of chips and soda cans. As he walked to his car, he felt pairs of eyes following him with faces of disgust and demoralization.

A man muttered to himself, “Heh, well will you look at that. Another fatso,” but he heard it clearly. He finally made it to his car, which would take him back to his safe haven. It screeched as he stepped hard on the gas pedal.

When the man arrived home he was breathing heavily as he was getting tunnel vision and nausea.

“Keep it cool, keep it cool. You will not have another panic attack. Remember what John said. Keep a steady mind and just rest. Yeah just, uh, just sit down on this here cozy chair. Remember your best friends? Yeah it was this room, because everyone hated how you looked and how you talked. We’re your friends, remember? Your childhood. Your life. Mum said you could take a break from life as long as you want. It’s just a slow process.” The man was now apparently having a mental breakdown as he conversed with himself. He stared at the mirror on the wall. His face had grease all over it, with his fat, chunky sections of meat drooping down. He looked down at his entire body and frowned. His face contoured from mad to sad, then to choking sobs.

“Oh man, what are you doing to yourself? I know I’m wasting my life and my mum’s money. I know basement dwellers don’t survive. But what am I going to do with my life? I’ve got no working skills, no social skills, and I’m fat.” The man stared at the Cheetos bags lying on the floor.

“You’re the one who’s killing me.” He then proceeded to crush all the bags and throw all the snacks he just bought out the window. It landed on the lawn outside, a sticky mess of soda pooling onto the grass.

He ran up to his bathroom and locked the door. Sobbing, he slumped down onto the toilet seat. He sat there for hours, not sleeping, not moving a muscle. Staring at a small jar containing Advil, he took the jar and swallowed all thirty of the pills. Thirty minutes passed. Waiting for his destined end, a familiar but abhorred sound penetrated his ears.

“Daryl? Daryl? Hon, what are you doing in there? Open the door, sonny boy, I ain’t going to wait all day.  Daryl?! Daryl. You listen to me sir, you better open this door or I’m going to get the sheriff to bust it. I’m sick and tired of you feeling sorry for yourself. DARYL!” Dun, dun, dun, dun. Dun, dun, dun, dun, dun. “COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!”

On the other side there was only a figure lying on the floor with a foaming mouth and closed eyes.  Then the siren alarms and screams of shock and horror came…

With a last breath he whispered, “Sorry...ma”