I woke up

I groaned as I pulled myself out of bed, every joint creaking like an old rusty hinge under my weight. Stumbling into the bathroom, I glanced at the mirror, and there I was, a sight I’d grown used to but never quite accepted. My face was broad and swollen, the skin stretched taut and shiny, like an overripe tomato, over the fat underneath, red and blotchy in patches. My eyes were small, almost lost beneath the heavy folds of skin that drooped from my forehead and cheeks like melting wax. They looked dull, glazed over with years of exhaustion, set deep into my face like two tired pits in a plum, surrounded by the shadow of dark circles that seemed permanent.

My nose sat crooked in the middle of it all, bulbous and pocked with broken capillaries, like a misshapen strawberry. My lips were thin, nearly disappearing into the fleshy expanse of my cheeks, two pale slugs against a red canvas. The whole face seemed to sag under its own weight, the jowls hanging loose and heavy, pulling everything downward, like a melted candle. It looked misshapen, tired, and bloated, a grotesque mask I was **** to wear.

My gut hung low, a swollen, misshapen mass that stretched the fabric of my shirt until it looked like it might burst, straining at the seams like an overfilled sausage. I poked at it, watching it jiggle, the flab hanging over my waistband like a permanent fixture, a fleshy apron that obscured my belt.

My chest was no better, drooping and soft, two lumps of fat sagging over the roundness of my belly like deflated balloons. My arms, thick and useless, hung at my sides, pale and flabby, barely able to carry their own weight, let alone anything else, resembling nothing more than pale, doughy appendages>

My reflection was a picture of neglect, a body that had long stopped caring, a mess that was simply there—ugly, tired, and worn down by the years, a testament to my own self-loathing.

I looked down at my cock, my thick, sausage-like fingers couldn't even curl completely around it. It was darkened with sweat, a musty, sour smell wafted up from it, its imposing sight ruined by its dirty appearance, like a forgotten piece of fruit left to rot in the sun.

I didn’t bother to clean myself up. My shirt was still stained with sweat, my hair unkempt, but none of it mattered. I trudged downstairs into the kitchen, each step a heavy thud against the floor, where they were gathered, their beauty a stark contrast to my own ugliness.

I first noticed my brother, an imposing figure of effortless charm. Oh, I hated him so much. Tall and lean, his physique was athletic, every muscle perfectly defined beneath his clothes. His dark brown hair was thick and tousled just so, giving him a ruggedly handsome look that commanded attention. His chiseled jawline and high cheekbones framed a sculpted face, every feature perfectly in place. His eyes, a deep, mesmerizing brown, were alive with a magnetic confidence, a sparkle that suggested he was both aware of and indifferent to the effect he had on everyone around him.

Such a steep contrast to me that no one would believe we were brothers if it didn't come from his mouth. Of course, we were only half-brothers. Even genes could not make two humans so opposite, one a masterpiece, the other a grotesque parody.

Next to him, sat his wife, Julia, already throwing a look of disgust at me, her nose wrinkled in distaste. What would I give to have such a beautiful creature under my fingers. Her golden blonde hair fell in glamorous, cascading waves, like spun gold, accentuating her graceful neckline. Her blue eyes were striking, their depth both alluring and inviting, like sapphires sparkling in the sunlight. Her skin was smooth and flawless, glowing with an almost ethereal quality of purity, giving her an air of timeless elegance. She looked like a princess, and even dressed the part, she wore a pair of denim dungarees with adjustable straps and a bib. The dungarees had a relaxed fit and ended mid-thigh, revealing her long, slender legs. Underneath, she had on a simple, fitted white top that complemented her figure perfectly, accentuating her curves.

Then throwing me the same look as her mother, their daughter, Emily, at twenty, was the stunning blend of her parents' best traits. Her long, chestnut-brown hair framed a face with exquisite, symmetrical features, and her emerald-green eyes were both intoxicating and enchanting, like pools of liquid jade. However, unlike her mother, she was dressed to impress, wearing a short, tight-fitting tank top that showed off her toned midriff and a pair of low-rise jeans that hugged her hips, leaving her flat stomach exposed.

I stood there, disheveled and unnoticed, feeling like a shadow against their radiant brilliance, a grotesque gargoyle in a garden of roses.

"Morning, champ!" Richard's voice boomed, grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He was always so damn cheerful, so relentlessly optimistic, it made my skin crawl. "You look like you spent the night wrestling a werewolf! Did you win?" He punctuated this with a boisterous laugh, seemingly oblivious to the dark circles under my eyes and the general air of despair that clung to me like a shroud.

I grunted in response, the sound heavy with resentment. Even the smell of frying bacon, usually a guaranteed path to my heart, couldn't penetrate the thick layer of bitterness that coated my senses.

"Pancakes?" Richard offered, his voice overflowing with that nauseatingly cheerful lilt. "Julia made a whole stack, extra fluffy, just the way you like them."

My gaze slid towards the plate piled high with golden pancakes, glistening with syrup. My stomach, the traitor, responded with a loud growl. "I'm not hungry," I mumbled, pushing my chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the floor with an irritating screech.

"Nonsense," Richard chirped, his brow furrowed with exaggerated concern. "You need fuel for our big day! We're going to that new gym, the one with the rock climbing wall, remember?"

The gym. Another one of Richard's misguided attempts to "fix" me, to magically transform me into a replica of his energetic, athletic self. I suppressed a groan. "I don't know, Richard," I said, my voice thick with apathy. "Maybe I'll just stay here and…" I trailed off, unable to feign even a flicker of interest in any activity.

"Don't be silly," Richard insisted, his tone brooking no argument. "It'll be good for you. Besides, a promise is a promise."

I had promised, of course, if only to avoid another one of his lectures on the virtues of exercise and "healthy living." He, with his perfect physique and boundless energy, could never understand. It wasn't about the gym, or the food, or any of his other well-intentioned attempts to improve me. It was about the grotesque reflection that haunted me every time I dared to look in the mirror, a constant, cruel reminder of my own failings. Failings that stood in stark contrast to Richard's effortless successes.

Julia, perched elegantly at the kitchen island like a beautiful bird of paradise, stifled a yawn behind a perfectly manicured hand. "Oh Richard," she sighed dramatically, "must you insist? Perhaps a strenuous workout isn't quite what… everyone needs this morning." Her eyes, sharp as shards of ice, flickered towards me, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. Did she think I didn't notice the way her gaze lingered a moment too long on my protruding belly, the way her lips curled ever so slightly at the sight of my unkempt hair?

Emily, chimed in. "Yeah, Dad," she said, her voice dripping with faux concern. "Maybe Uncle needs a… rest day. Wouldn't want to overdo it, you know?" She punctuated her words with a delicate giggle, her eyes alight with amusement. They knew, they both knew, how much I loathed their effortless perfection, their casual cruelty disguised as concern.

A rest day. The image of me sprawled on the couch, a monument to laziness and gluttony, while they spent the day engaged in some active, healthy pursuit, filled me with a burning resentment. "Maybe," I mumbled, my gaze fixed on the chipped mug in my hands, a pathetic symbol of my own brokenness.

Richard, ever oblivious, beamed at me. "No!" Richard's smile widened, a flash of white teeth against his tanned skin. "Oh, come now," he chuckled, his voice a blend of gentle persuasion and unwavering determination. "Don't tell me you're backing down from a challenge. We are going !"