Interview: The Making of Matilda - Part 1

“I hate… to admit… it… to myself… but I've… given up… on… them… giving…up…“ Matilda’s voice was little more than a quiet whisper, continually punctuated with strained, breathless gasps for air. To make things even more difficult, it was enough of a challenge just to get close to her. Well, in truth, getting close to her body wasn't the problem, but the enormity of the rolls and mounds of fat that surrounded and buried her modest frame made getting close enough for conversation quite the test. 

Eventually, I was rigged up with a cherry-picker - a platform on a hydraulic arm - that could put me in polite talking distance with, quite possibly, the heaviest woman I had interviewed to date. Perched atop the platform, on a functional but comfortable seat, I felt akin to a mediaeval guard in a watchtower, surveying the rolling landscape of a dangerously over-engorged body. As my self-consciousness abated, however, I was met with a surprisingly warm and friendly smile from Matilda. As a young woman pushed well beyond her limits, I was keen to hear her story…

“Whatever my destiny is, there's little I can do to change it now. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would end up like… like this. What am I supposed to do though? They treat me more like a balloon than a real person, feeding and fattening me around the clock until… until what? Just how huge do they expect me to get? I'm not sure I can take much more!”

I hate to admit it to myself, but I've given up on them giving up. I'm sure they know that, too. ‘More is good’, that is all they keep telling you whenever you question them or try to protest, and after a while, you start to believe it. After all, at this size, what else can I do?

Being greedy was always in my nature, even as a kid, and it's a trait they definitely took advantage of when I first volunteered for this program just a few years ago. Actually, I volunteered for a program being conducted at a private research clinic local to my home town, but I have a feeling they are simply a front used by the government, to wheedle out suitable test subjects for things like… like this. Maybe I'm being a conspiracy theorist, but I've had a lot of time to think about these things. Think about it, it's not impossible, that's all I'm saying. 

The initial trial by the private clinic was, well, a piece of cake, pretty much. I was given a diet to follow, a booklet to fill in with my progress, and each week for six weeks I would be required to check back in at the clinic to be weighed and measured, that kind of thing. I knew that the goal was to gain weight in some capacity, but at five foot six and around two-hundred pounds back then, I wasn't too bothered about a little more. 

With regards to the ‘diet’ I was given to follow, well, it was pretty much an ‘eat what you want’ kind of deal, but I guess the research element of it took away a lot of the guilt people get from eating whatever they want, you know? You just had to write down what you ate, and when, in the little booklet they gave you. They even paid - about two hundred bucks a week - although you would only get it on satisfactory completion of the trial, of course. I was out of work at the time, and so the extra cash was a much needed bonus.

By the end of the six week trial, I think I'd gained at least fifteen pounds! The research clinic seemed so impressed with my results, that they asked me if I was interested in doing another? I recall having mixed feelings, I'm sure, however it felt incredible just eating what I wanted, when I wanted, almost guilt free! Reasoning that I'd lose the weight after the next one, I signed up again. 

The second trial lasted another six weeks, and actually overlapped my 20th birthday. I vividly remember having to go clothes shopping in a hurry before my birthday night out, because all my ‘nice’ outfits were becoming noticeably too tight - that's if they would fasten at all. My friends bought me a beautiful, big cake, and I took at least half of that home with me. I also bought myself a large sheet cake, just because I could, and proceeded to tackle it over the course of the next few days too. It was greedy, sure, but it was supposed to be for science, right?

That was at least another twenty pounds by the time that the second trial came to an end. Once that one ended, that was it - I was paid, as promised - then went back to job hunting, albeit almost forty pounds heavier! It was a few days later, and as luck would have it, I was sitting, anxiously staring at my ‘phone, waiting for a callback for a job interview, when it rang. When I answered it nervously, it wasn't the hiring manager if expected, but instead someone from another research department - a government attached one. They were reluctant to give too much away, but they stated that they had been analysing my data from the recent trials, and wondered if I would be interested in taking part in further, more in-depth research. 

Naturally, I expressed my concerns; I had already gained quite a bit of weight, and I was also struggling to kick some of the bad, indulgent habits that I'd picked up over the past few months. I had been chubby and plump throughout most of my teens, but I was beginning to feel ‘big’ - even my friends and family had begun noticing my recent gains - and I wasn't sure how to process that. Part of me, I must admit, got a bit of thrill from seeing their reactions to my increased size. The other part of me, however, worried that if the floodgates were removed for too long, then there would be no turning back. I said I'd let them know. 

That hiring manager, the one for that job interview, never rang back. I hate when they do that. He wasn't the first, either. Mood wise, I was beginning to feel super-low - rejected, bored and useless. I hated job hunting. Then, as I sat on the couch, scraping the hollowed out tub of ice-cream with a spoon for its last half-melted morsels, I just thought, ‘What have you got to lose?’ Indeed, it seemed better than sitting around waiting for no-hopers to call me all day and getting fat anyway. And, I reasoned to myself, if I didn't like it, I could just quit, right? 

It sounds stupid in hindsight, I know, but there was just no way of knowing back then. When I called the department back, they were thrilled - actually thrilled! They wanted me! The assistant on the phone informed me it was a more formal trial, but I would be provided with accommodation and, of course, financially reimbursed for taking part. I was told to pack a bag for a week's stay, but informed it may be a little longer if things went ‘well’. Oh boy, did things go well. 

So that was that; I packed my bags, said a few farewells, and left on the pretence that I was taking a much needed vacation. I suppose you could call it a working holiday, in some ways.

On the day I was expected to start the trial, they even sent a car to pick me up. A nice car! It was an early pickup - around 5am if I remember correctly - yet the driver was enthusiastic, friendly and chatted away for much of the long drive. I often wonder if that early start was, in fact, deliberate, as part way through the journey I fell asleep, and only woke up when we reached the facility gates. To put it simply; I know where I am, I'm just not sure how I got here. Perhaps I am just being paranoid, but either way, it doesn't really seem to matter anymore. I’m not exactly about to get up and leave, am I?

In preparation for my fake-cation, I had downloaded loads of nice looking holiday snapshots to upload to my social media accounts, and message people I knew with over the next week or so. I hadn't told a soul that I was essentially getting paid to gain weight, even if it was for science. So, I had a story figured out in my head, ready. In the end though, it didn't really matter, as I was required to surrender my phone for the week. In truth, what with all the fruitless job hunting, a week without my phone sounded like bliss, and I willingly handed it over. To this day, it is probably stuck in a locker somewhere!

I was given the rest of the day to settle into my new digs, which were really nice. It was an actual suite, with a huge, plush bed, lounge area, its own small but fully stocked kitchenette and a generous bathroom with a big, sunken bathtub in the middle. This was far nicer than any hotel I could have hoped to stay in, that is, if I was actually going on holiday! It was hard not to be impressed, and I had to admit, it sure beat starting at any of the other crummy jobs I'd been applying for.

Then came the briefing, and it was pretty simple: Finishing a meal would mean that I was entitled to also have afters - either another helping, or dessert, as well as snacks and treats before the next main meal. However, failing to finish a meal meant, as they phrased it, ‘withdrawal of edible privileges’ until the next main meal. I was told to do with that information as I wished, and that I would be weighed and measured at the end of the week. Well, despite some initial hesitation, it didn't take long for my greed to kick in, and it kicked hard. Just the thought of being denied an extra helping that I was entitled to immediately pushed my buttons, and I knew it did. It pissed me off. There was some reasoning, too; I was only supposed to be at the facility for a week or so, and with that in mind I decided to make the most out of not only the well-appointed apartment, but also the incredibly delicious food…”

At that moment, I began to feel the platform on which I was standing begin to slowly retract, and I could do little except give Matilda a pleasant, if slightly awkward smile. She smiled back - she seemed used to this. When the basket reached the ground, I was politely ushered out and a slim, befreckled nurse took my place, taking with her the end of a long, soft hose that undoubtedly connected to the impressive pair of nearby feeding pumps. 

From ground height, it was almost impossible to see Matilda's head. In fact, even her hands were barely visible amongst the mounds, and even the tips of her toes struggled to be seen, as her feet threatened to disappear into the ever deepening swells of her over-fattened legs.

Another nurse - small, plump and soft cheeked - appeared beside me, “I hope you don't mind, but you can continue your interview in a little while. Matilda is an ongoing subject of ours, you see, and she needs to be fed. I'm sure you understand.”

“Needs?” I questioned, but the nurse didn't bite. Instead, she continued about her duties, busily checking her tablet computer. For a few moments I mused in my head about the sheer insanity of a girl like Matilda needing to be fed anything else, ever. There must be a point when enough is enough, but clearly they weren't there yet. The steady, pulsing hum of the feeding pump coming to life brought me out of my thoughts, and I watched as the feeding hose wriggled and stiffened its way along the side of the huge bed, and up and across the vast, bulging body to its feedee. There were faint moans, and gentle ripples in the monstrous flanks of supple flesh. Then, everything calmed and settled. Matilda’s offhand comment about being treated like a balloon didn't seem that far from the truth, in a way.

Yet another nurse approached, this time pushing a sturdy trolley, laden with buckets of soapy water and an assortment of cleaning equipment, from sponges and towels, to cleansers and moisturisers. “You must be the interviewer, right?” the pale, slender nurse ventured, “and let me guess, they told you she'd be a little while?”

I nodded dumbly. She raised an eyebrow and smiled, “Come with me, I'll find you somewhere to get a strong coffee and a bite to eat…”

Continued in Part 2...