"My god, you haven't done it again?" the formerly large man asked.
"No, of course not," came the sarcastic reply.
A giant sigh. "Why do I put up with this shit?" he asked.
"Because, you have no choice in the matter."
The man, an ex-290 pound behemoth, paced the length of the hardwood floor.
He was the shadow of his former self in many ways.
He had seen the impact his intimidating and large frame had had on people for almost a decade, but the wake up call had come when he had attempted to sign on for life insurance and had been sent to a doctor.
The pure extract of that visit had been that if he didn't immediately lose weight and lower his cholesterol and blood pressure, he'd have a good chance of not seeing much more than another ten years of life. Being only 33 might have helped perpetuate the blanket of self-denial that had come to rest over all aspects of his life had his doctor not used such clear and convincing words.
Words that he had known were true at some level.
But now he had to learn new ways of interacting; of getting what he wanted from people.
He was 210 pounds four months after the doctors' appointment with only a change in diet and a slight increase in exercise. From taking out the garbage once per week to playing basketball with the occasional lifting of weights.
People didn't seem to take notice when he entered a room any longer. At least that was how he saw it.
He furrowed his eyebrows and stared at his sister with all of the intensity he could conjure.
"Tough shit, I can do it this way if I want to," she answered his look.
"Fine," he said. Fool, he thought. "Don't ask for my help when it backfires."
"I won't," she said simply before returning to cutting the vegetables in large, square-like chunks.
The 210-pound man took his regular seat outside of the kitchen, clenching his hands as tightly as he could manage.
He'd lost eighty pounds, but more importantly he'd lost youth's most valuable asset in spite of his achievement: The feeling of immortality.
