Control

I wake up around 4:45 on Monday morning with a cramp in my leg. The numb tingling shooting up from my ankle indicates I’d slept awkwardly again—which is what I get for sleeping without a mattress. Even if I had twice the number of blankets and comforters under me, I’d still feel like crap. I daydream about a pillow, a full-sized mattress, a nightie, maybe even a teddy bear. I'm a little big for that I suppose.

I’m a little big for most things actually.

I kick my leg out to shake feeling back into it, and my toe strikes the edge of a bookshelf. My curses echo through the house, and I’m sure Mom and Dad hear me across the hall—I’m still not used how far my deep voice carries. I sit up slowly, giving myself a few minutes to get settled. It’s for the best, as I’m not sure how much more punishment this room can take.

Through the mangled blinds, light filters in from the streetlight on the corner. The room is mostly dark, save for the alarm clock. It takes less time for my eyes to adapt to the darkness than I’d expect—my eyesight improved dramatically over the last couple weeks. Finding larger glasses would have been a pain, and if I still had eyesight problems at my size, I’d have torn this place apart by now.

I shimmy towards the door, ignoring the distracting sensations of my breasts dragging on the carpet like beanbags, and flick the light switch in the corner. My body dwarfs everything in the room, making me feel absolutely immense. Straightening up, something feels oddly familiar—sitting on the ground, I’m nearly the exact height as I used to be. For a moment, I feel at ease, at least until I reach up and run my fingers across the ceiling. The floorboards creak alarmingly as I move around. Throughout this whole ordeal, I've refrained from weighing myself. While I’m a little curious, I’d really rather not know.

My stomach roars like a muffled garbage disposal. I haven’t had a decent meal in days, and I could eat a horse or a horse-sized chicken. I’ve eaten less and less proportionally as I’ve grown. Not because I’m any less hungry—I’m starving, actually. It's simply too expensive to buy as much food as I am capable of eating. At least that's what Dad told me.

Dad didn't say a word about the dining chair I smashed. He didn’t mention the doorframe, the toilet, or the banister, but I know it all bugs him. He hides his feelings well, but I’d grown used to decoding his emotions, even before this whole mess started. He’s a proud, old-fashioned, man’s man. He never asks for directions, but always gives them. He tries to fix things himself before calling a repairman (with mixed results). He’s the first to serve himself at dinner, the first to eat, and no one leaves the table until he’s done.

This extends to my life as well. I'm twenty-four, and Dad still manages my finances, my diet, my career, and most of my life. I probably could have broken the cycle if I’d decided to live on campus during college instead of staying at home. Dad said we’d save money, and I didn’t press the issue. He always had the last word, and questioning him does not even occur to me anymore. Like my mother, I deliver my paycheck to him in a sealed envelope every week, and he gives me an allowance to buy what I need. It’s a routine, worn in to the point where I figure nothing short of an act of God could derail it.

God certainly works in mysterious, though none too subtle, ways.


Exactly two weeks ago, I woke up feeling a little off. Getting dressed for work took more time than usual. I had to tug on the buttons of my slacks to fasten them. I eventually left them open, covering the unfastened button with a thick belt. The snaps on my blouse puckered around the bust, and the short sleeves bunched under my armpits. I still managed to wedge into my shoes, though it took an uncomfortable amount of effort. Unhappy with the look of my ensemble, I covered the blouse with a long-sleeve sweater, which also fit snugly, but not uncomfortably.

Assessing my appearance in the mirror, I noticed the issues with my shirt and pants, but I knew no one at work would. I was a mousy 5’1”, with a plain face, no curves, and thick glasses. Upon closer analysis, my face had changed slightly—my features a little softer, my hair a little longer. I’d have guessed I’d gained weight, if not for the fact I rarely consumed more than 800 calories a day. Something deep down told me I should be more concerned, but I pushed it aside and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Like every morning, Mom served breakfast and Dad read the newspaper. “Morning honey,” he said, without looking up. “You’re a little behind schedule.”

“I know. I had some problems with my clothes.”

“Oh,” he said, though not really in response. He wasn’t paying attention, but I wanted him to look at me. I figured if he saw me, he might say something. He might tell me what to do or give me some advice. I waited a little longer. Mom, busy at the stove, didn’t look at me either. I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, and I let words fall out of my mouth.

“I don’t think my clothes fit right, but they did yesterday.” Out of the corner of my eye, Mom gave me a double-take, though when I looked back to her, she’d returned to setting plates for breakfast. I caught her removing one of two slices of toast from the plate she'd prepared for me. Dad continued reading his paper, not acknowledging my concern.

Mom returned to the table with my breakfast. “Here. This is all you need,” she said, spitting the words through her thick Japanese accent with a healthy dose of condescension. I looked at my plate: one half-slice of wheat toast without butter and a bowl of oatmeal without its usual sprinkling of brown sugar. She set the plate and bowl down hastily as if she did not want to be near me. By the time I looked up, she had already turned around. Whatever. I was not in the mood for snark about my weight, in English or Japanese.

I ate the toast and most of the oatmeal, being careful not to eat too quickly. As I rose to leave, Mom moved in to pick up the plates and we nearly collided. She looked at me, down, then back at me again. Surprise, then confusion, then, ever so briefly, fear flashed on her face. She must have seen my reaction to her reaction because she mumbled something under her breath before shuffling out of the kitchen. I'd have been offended if I hadn't been so preoccupied with how I had looked my 5’3” mother straight in the eyes for the first time.

The newspaper still covered Dad's face. I stood there in the middle of the kitchen, not knowing what to say.

“You’d better get to work, honey. You don’t want to be late.”

“I think I’m growing,” I blurted.

The newspaper lowered a smidgen. “Hm, I don’t think so.”

“I feel taller, I guess. Maybe it’s something else.”

“You know, height is funny that way. It actually fluctuates a little throughout the day.” He still did not look at me—not directly anyways. The newspaper inched back up. I tugged at my bra strap, which I’d loosened as much as I could. I wanted to say something else, but he'd already settled the matter. I was not any taller or bigger than yesterday.

I left the house. As I started my car, I glanced in through the window. Mom and Dad were talking about something. Mom didn’t look too happy.

Work was uneventful. I worked a standard office job Dad set up for me when I finished high school, and he encouraged me to stay on board after college. By the time I finished school, he’d talked to my supervisor about taking me on full time. I’d taken culinary classes and I wanted to pursue an internship opportunity outside the city, but it didn’t pay as much. Dad said I shouldn’t sacrifice a good job for a gamble. He said I wasn’t ready to live on my own. I said okay.

Tuesday morning I ripped one of my work shirts trying to fit it around my shoulders. I definitely had grown more overnight, but I didn’t measure myself. I dressed in sandals and a long skirt instead of slacks. When I came into the kitchen, Dad said I looked too casual, and told me to change.

“My clothes are too small,” I said.

“Wear your slacks to the office and the business shoes.”

“Okay.”

I obeyed, changing into my slacks, which stopped above my ankles. After I changed, he said I looked nice and Mom agreed, though she kept staring at me. The shoes pinched my feet badly. I drove to work barefoot, and left my shoes off under my desk at work, standing up only when absolutely necessary. At dinner later, Mom gave me a smaller portion of lasagna and piled on the salad, but no one said anything


For the next few days, I went through the motions, doing my best to ignore my body's signals. By the end of my work week I was wearing my sports bra and a bathing suit bottom as underwear to feel even remotely comfortable. Wanting to put a hard figure to my suspicions, I measured my height Friday morning. At 5’8,” I’d grown seven inches since the beginning of the week. Dad didn't say anything. I hadn't seen Mom much recently.

At work on Friday, my boss asked to speak with me. He asked if I was okay, and if everything was alright at home. I told him everything was fine, but I’d been feeling sick lately. He told me to take Monday off if I still didn't feel well, and I noncommittally thanked him, though I knew I’d have to be bleeding from my eyes before Dad would ever let me take a sick day. As I left, I caught him staring at me in the reflective glass of his office door.

Saturday I hit 5’10”, Dad’s height. I remember coming downstairs, catching him near the coffee pot. He'd heard me approach and turned to meet me. Both of us stopped, looking each other straight in the eyes. I saw something unfamiliar: an opportunity. Much like when I’d graduated high school and thought about going to college out of state, a subtle look in his eyes—one you’d only recognize if you saw him every day—told me things could change. Everything could change.

But I didn’t know what to say. I folded, my body retreating into a slouch. Instantly I fell back into the self-conscious, subservient girl in the undersized t-shirt and unbuttoned highwater pants. Dad picked up on this and straightened up.

“We should get you some clothes,” he said.

“Yeah."

"I'll give you some money. You can buy what you need for work.

"Okay."

"You can find what you need at Goodwill. No sense in paying too much for a bunch of new clothes."

"Okay."

"Good." Dad turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. There it was. The first admission anything had changed, and it became yet another way for him to maintain control of me. Of everything. I stood next to him for a while.

"Is there something else?"

"No."

"Then you should go to the store now, so you can get back by lunch."

"Okay."

"Good. I'll talk to you later."

"Okay."

Dad gave me $100 for clothes, a pathetic amount. When I’d started growing, I had my suspicions I'd done more than grow taller. While I’d outgrown all of my clothes, I outgrew my undergarments even faster. Further investigation indicated I’d gone from a 32A to a 36C, and my hips—well, I definitely had them now. On Dad’s budget, I could only afford to purchase one half-decent bra. The rest of my wardrobe consisted of necessities: work slacks, blouses, some t-shirts, and a pair of size 11 shoes.

I woke up Sunday morning at 8:30, and immediately measured myself. I'd grown to 6'1", my fastest gain yet. Having nowhere to be and no clothes that fit, I went back to bed. By noon, I hadn't heard a peep from Mom or Dad. Mom avoided me if she could help it. Dad saw me as a problem he hoped would go away if he ignored it, or threw money at it, or just denied it. I stayed in bed until around 2:30, when my hunger got the best of me and I decided to head downstairs wearing only my tight blue cotton panties and a t-shirt so short the undersides of my breasts were visible.

Mom sat in the living room reading a gossip magazine. She saw me coming down the stairs, and her mouth gaped in horror at my appearance. I looked back at her with a blank expression and headed straight for the kitchen. I'm not sure if I wanted Dad to be in there or not, but the kitchen was empty. I ate cereal out of a large Tupperware bowl, and then headed back to my room with a bag of tortilla chips, a box of granola bars, a tray of cold leftover lasagna, and a gallon of water.

From then on, Mom left meals outside my door.

I didn't go to work Monday.Even if I wanted to go, I didn't have any clothes to fit my seven-foot body. I stayed at home wrapped in a bed sheet and tinkered on the internet. I took a selfie (neck up, obviously), looking as pathetic as possible, and posted it online. Sick at home. Bleh. A few friends from college posted their sympathies. I read a few chapters of a book I'd finished the previous week, and binged on online tv. Work never called, and I never called them.

Tuesday afternoon, Dad knocked on my door.

"Sweetie. Could you close the blinds in your room, please? I don't want the neighbors looking in and making a fuss."

"Can they see me?"

"Their house is right across the way, and your window is open."

"Did they call?"

Silence.

"Just close the window, sweetie. We don't need them seeing you."

From my desk, I reached back across my bed and twisted the blinds shut. The late-Summer sunshine faded away behind the thick wooden blinds. I turned on the desk lamp to give the room some kind of light besides my computer monitor.

"Okay, Dad. They're closed."

"Thanks, sweetie."

I read for a few more hours, and I'm not sure what time I went to sleep. My sleeping schedule became erratic, and I slept anywhere from a few hours to half a day at a time. Sometimes it would be dark when woke up, and other times I woke to slits of daylight peeking through edges of my window. When my legs grew too long for the bed, I separated the mattress and boxspring to make a larger bed. I gave up showering somewhere around eight feet—Wednesday evening, I think, but I'm not sure.

I hadn't seen Mom or Dad in a couple days. Mom stopped knocking when she delivered my food if she heard me moving around. I'd hear her outside the door, along with the clinking of dishes, but by the time I reached the door she'd be gone. I voraciously consume the food—mostly rice, pasta, sandwiches, anything she could make in bulk. In spite of most meals leaving me hungry, I put on weight like crazy, primarily in my hips and chest. By Thursday, my ass had grown too wide for my desk chair. My boobs hung ponderously down my lower rib cage.

Dad would knock from time to time, always asking the same question.

"How you doin' in there?"

"Bigger."

Silence.

"Well, let me know if you need something."


On Friday, Dad knocked and told me he'd called work and arranged medical leave. He said they'd take me back as soon as I felt well enough. I entertained myself by imagining all ten or so feet of me walking into the office, buck naked, and sitting down at my desk. I'd sit at the front desk and answer phones and file insurance forms. People no taller than my legs would gape at me as I navigated the small, crowded office space. Hunched over, I'd try not to smack people in the head with my dangling boobs, but I inevitably would. I'd have to wedge my way into the tiny copy room. The copy machine would jam, and I'd sit on the fucking thing, smashing it to a pile of eWaste. Then I'd...

"Honey?"

"Dad."

"The blinds are open again."

"I rolled over last night and messed up the blinds. I can't get them to close."

"What do you mean 'messed up'?"

"I backed into them in the dark when I woke up this morning. My hands are too big to untangle them. I just made it worse."

"Well, sweetie, do you have a blanket or something to put over the window?"

"It's too heavy. It won't stay up. Can you come in and fix them?"

Silence.

"Just try to stay out of sight. We don't want to alarm the neighbors," he said. I heard him walk away from the door and—quickly—back down the stairs.

I laid on the ground again, as flat as I could and let my naked breasts flatten out and flow down the sides of my ribcage. If I didn't, they pressed hard enough on my chest to hinder my breathing. After a while I turned onto my side. The increasingly loud creaks from the floorboards started to worry me, but not enough to keep me from sleep, one the few refuges I had left

Sunday afternoon, Dad knocked and told me to lie more evenly on the ground. He said the living room ceiling had started to sag under my weight. I obliged, moving to the center of the room and stretching my legs toward the corners. He returned a few minutes later asking me to move out of the center of the room. I moved further toward the door, which put only the bottom half of my body on the mattresses, one of my legs elevated up against the wall, and my head under my desk. I asked if we could move the desk, but he said we had nowhere to put it.


So this brings us back to today, Monday morning. My cramping leg has gone numb from how I'd slept on it, trying to distribute my weight around the room. My stomach tugs at my insides from hunger, and claustrophobia begins to unhinge my self-control. I start to cry, but it catches in my throat. Instead, a primal groan erupts from me, which unfolds into a growl of frustration. I kick my other leg out, sending my foot through the closet door. My body trembles, flush with rage. Gripping the sheets, I twist them until they rip. I sob until my stomach aches. When I can't sob anymore, I scream. Eventually I cry it all out, and I just lay here. When I finally pull myself together, I've grown six more inches.

It's time to leave.

Roll away from the center of the room towards the door, I plow through piles of accumulated trash all over the floor. I press on the door with my hand, my spread fingers covering nearly half of its surface area. The hinges surrender, and another push cracks it down the middle. The door collapses outward, and I push the pieces into the hall as far as I can. At around twenty feet tall and growing, fitting through the doorway is a pain, but I'm in no hurry. My broad shoulders will not fit horizontally, so I turn onto my side and shimmy towards the door, putting my arms through first. My breasts make me too wide to make it through, but they have a little more give.

"What are you doing?" Dad's shouts from behind me.

"I'm leaving." I don't look at him as I say this. I'd like to say it is for dramatic effect, but actually I'm unable to turn around oriented in the doorway as I am. Fortunately this spares both of us the awkwardness of having my giant bare tits shoved in his face.

"You can't leave!" he says, though I'm not sure to whom.

Taking a sort of diving position, I manage to fit both my arms through the door. Dad continues yelling behind me and I see the with anger, instantly adding a few more feet to my height. My torso now stuck, the door frame cracks and a muscle spasm sends my foot blasting into the wall, taking out the entirety of the window as well as the pane around it. The neighbors now have a glorious view of my tremendous legs and ass. Good for them.

I struggle to free myself from the door frame which constricts my chest as I continue expanding. I press on the wall from both sides and my body, as if in response, abruptly balloons in all directions, decimating the wall around me and pressing my face into the far side of the upstairs hallway. I hear Mom's muffled screaming on the other side of the wall, which is more of an annoyance than anything. Dad's retreated to the end of the hall, doing his best to stay clear of his incredible growing daughter. I estimate myself to be about thirty or forty feet tall, since my toes now touch the lawn from the second floor. My annoyance dissipates, and I felt a goofy sort of euphoria at my immensity. After all, I'm not as much in a house as wearing it at this point.

With all my shuffling and squirming, I have not considered the effect of my ever-increasing mass on the structural integrity of the house. With a series of loud cracks and snaps, the floor gives way, and I crash onto ground floor, flattening the sofa, recliner, and television like dollhouse furniture. From my vantage point on the ground floor, I can still see the ceiling of my old room—the same ceiling I'd stared at for years, wishing things could be different. Dad stands at the edge of what remains of the second floor hallway. In his face, I see traces of anger and fear. More than anything though, I see defeat. He's lost his grip on me as well as a good thirty percent of his house—both of which I'd handily outgrown.

I sit up, feeling the cool Summer night air on my body. After taking some time to extract a chandelier tangled in my hair, I relax, smiling with a contentment that puts every muscle in my body at ease. Rolling onto my feet and out of the rubble, I stand to my full height—a head taller than a two-story house. I don't look back at Dad or the wreckage of his house. Instead, I walk away from the broken pieces behind me. I feel a tad ill-prepared for whatever lies ahead—I'm still naked for God's sake. Regardless, I set off down the road with nothing but a desire to confront the world on my own terms.