MASS
His hair was too long. It weighed him down. Especially when wet.
Everything about him was mammoth.
He shaved his head down to the bumpy skin that covered his skull. Still, he felt like there was too much of him. He wanted less.
Crop.
He shaved all his body hair. From his eyebrows to his armpits to his chest to his pubes to his legs. He covered his body with hair removing gel. The gel scorched as if a blowtorch were held to his skin. But it was the price he had to pay to keep the hairs from creeping out of his back and shoulders, making him heavier.
Clear.
He blew the snot out of his nose until his ears popped. And scrapped the wax out of his ears until they were sore.
He spit into the sink constantly, trying to drain the saliva from his glands. He turned up the heat and sweat until he was about to pass out. He watched sad movies and forced himself to cry.
But the scale told him these efforts were futile.
Discharge.
He masturbated constantly. He didn’t want semen building up and amplifying his mass. It had to be ejected from his body. Orgasms were a chore not a pleasure.
Lessen.
He cut his finger and toe nails as short as possible. These useless clusters of dead cells felt like a burden to those appendages. One day, he pried them off with pliers. Those protein plates reluctantly tore from his flesh like a hundred newly formed scabs on fresh wounds, making his hands and feet feel lighter.
Wrest.
He kicked himself for not pulling out his teeth first. Those were certainly heavier than finger and toe nails. YouTube had plenty of videos on how to remove a tooth at home. He only needed the six teeth at the top and the six at the bottom for appearances. Plus, it would help him eat less.
Each tooth was wrenched from his mouth like metal spikes being yanked out of concrete. By the time he’d pried the sixteen unnecessary teeth from his mouth, he’d gotten a knack for it. He regretted having his wisdom teeth extracted when he was a teen, he would have enjoyed pulling them out himself.
The scale barely changed, but his head felt buoyant on his shoulders.
Though the rest of his body still dragged him down.
Deplete.
That’s when he began cutting himself. He’d heard about people self-mutilating as a cry for help. But this would help lighten himself.
He stood in the shower and cut various parts of his body. After removing his nails and teeth, slicing open his flesh tickled. He watched his blood (and excess weight) flow down the drain. He cut until he was dizzy. His blurry vision barely made out the scale’s digital numbers. Smaller, but not small enough.
Reduce.
Inspired by Van Gogh, he realized his ears were just weighty, unnecessary cartilage. He used an X-Acto knife to slice the pinna off both his ears. He heated a steak knife and pressed the scorching blade to the bloody void to cauterize it.
He studied the pieces of flesh he had only been able to see in the mirror until now. Sadly, he had no lover to present them to. They were flushed down the toilet. One at a time. The second backed up his plumbing, but a few plunges sent the discarded flesh to the ocean.
The change in weight was barely noticeable. And having to wear hats in public further increased his mass.
Decrease.
Did he really need all those fingers and toes? How much did each of those weigh? Removing half of them would make him much more agile.
That bolt cutter he got from his father that time he lost the key to his storage unit’s lock would do the trick. He had to prop the tool on his shoulder in order to place the fingers of one hand between its short jaws and use the other to bring its handles together.
The snapping of bone was a pleasing sound. The action was so quick, he didn’t have time to feel pain.
The reduction of weight was noticeable. And the thin leather gloves that concealed his digit-lessened hands from prying eyes were as light as a feather.
Carve.
He continued to cut himself daily, to drain as much blood out of him as he could. One day, he recalled that line from The Merchant of Venice about a pound of flesh. If they had the means to do such things way back then, it certainly could be done today. There were plenty of places he could carve a pound of flesh: his stomach, the back of his legs, his upper arms.
He’d be his goal weight in no time.
Diminish.
***
Tom Misuraca studied Writing, Publishing and Literature at Emerson College in Boston before moving to Los Angeles. Over 95 of his short stories and two novels have been published. This year his work appeared in Capsule Stories, The Crypt and Alchemy Literary Magazine. His story, Giving Up The Ghosts, was published in Constellations Journal, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is also a multi-award winning playwright with over 135 shot plays and 11 full-lengths produced globally. His musical, Geeks!, was produced Off-Broadway in May 2019.