Anxiety

Anxiety

The guilt you feel for a wrong you never knew.

The fear of hurting another to push them away.

The worry that you will never be what the world expects.

The constant constriction in your chest that squeezes like a vice.

It is a master of infiltration and disguise.

Its target, peace. Its calling card, perception.

Its compatriots: fear and doubt.

Its occasional ally: pride.

Spawned by: love, hate, lust,

MISUNDERSTANDING.

And there are times where it cannot be removed, cannot be destroyed. You cannot simply shoot it. One may mask it, but that disguise often makes it stronger.

One may seek to control it. But control does not come easily, and can be an expensive venture.

So what is the antidote? Is there an antidote?

Not always.

But there are things that help:

Openness.

Patience.

Empathy.

Love unfeigned.

Gentleness.

Kindness.

Hope.

These things are there, and they will come.

But only if you SPEAK.

Only if you ACT.

So.

Will you be the hostage,

or will you try again?

For me, I will ACT.

For me, I will try.

For me, I will do.

And we will see what will be.

Together.

The Builder

“Framework is coming along very nicely,” you complimented your foreman as you looked over the joists and beams that had been nailed together and inserted into the foundation. “Wiring and plumbing seem to be going well. How soon until the basics are finished?”

“Another couple of weeks. Had to get a special distributor to fit the client’s specifications for a green building.”

“Let me guess, recycled material?”

He nodded. “You know how people want to focus on the environment now.”

“Protecting the environment, I understand. Insisting on using materials that may not be the same quality, however, just seems like a crime to me.”

“Sometimes, you just have to work with what you have. Speaking of which, I think someone wants a word with you.” The foreman motioned curtly with his head.

You turned around to stare at your latest work in progress. The lad had grown a great deal since he helped with the last house. A sleeveless tank clung to his bulky frame as his nipples stood out against the tight material. Veins ran down his arms in rivers as a set of dog tags jingled and clinked in the gap between his pectorals. A shiny white helmet obscured all signs of the lad’s hair, but you already knew he’d buzzed it down at your request.

“What did you do to me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“What the hell did you do?”

You shrugged. “Employ you, train you, pay you. Was there anything else you wanted to accuse me of?”

“What did you use on me, steroids or something?” he growled as he stepped closer.

You rolled your eyes. “Please. I’m a builder, not a drug lord. All I did was remodel you for the job, the same way I would any house. It did the trick. You’re adhering to the rules of the site and performing your job admirably. Thank you for actually wearing your hardhat today, by the way. It suits your hard head, a head so thick and square, so well defined. Why, I’d even go so far as to call it a block. Yes, a hard hat on a block head.”

“Wh-what’re you--?”

“A hard hat making it so hard to think. A block head blocking those pesky thoughts. Built like a brick, built like a wall, a wall that only I can pass with my words, my key.”

He stumbled and swayed. “S-stop--.”

“Yes, stop talking. Stop thinking.”

His hands clenched as he trembled. “No,” he practically whimpered.

“No thoughts, no worries,” you continued relentlessly. “No pesky doubts. Just my voice. It’s time for an inspection, Blockhead.”

His shoulders slumped. His arms rested lazily at his sides as he stared blankly ahead at you. “Ready for inspection,” he said in a dull monotone.

Your foreman whistled. “Damn. I never get tired of seeing that.”

“You think that’s special, wait till you see what I have in store next.” You smirk as you look at the young man. “You’ve been building nicely. A strong foundation is important in any building project.” You brush over each of the man’s muscles, testing for resistance, mass, and fat index. “Strong walls,” you note. “You built them sturdily and well. A little more strength never hurts, though. Let’s make them a little bigger, shall we?”

The workman rasped as his jaw snapped and cracked to gain greater definition, while the tanktop rode up higher and tighter under his armpits. His shoulders broadened as his biceps, triceps, and flexors swelled alongside his pectorals.

“Those walls need a firm foundation.”

A few seconds later, the workman grunted as a bulge began to press against the toes of his work boots. A brush of your hands over the footwear, and they expanded by two more sizes to fit the new broad feet they housed.

“Now for the plumbing. A proper house needs good strong pipes and a powerful pump for the well.”

The worker’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he groaned. More veins spread over his musculature, creating a vascular spectacle.

“Such a deep, deep well. So full. So deep.”

The muscles in the workman’s neck thickened as heavy cords became more apparent. A thick lump jutted out midway down his neck, while a bulge pressed slowly against the crotch of his jeans and continued to expand with every breath.

You nod in satisfaction. “Now, more importantly, it’s clear we need to work on that faulty wiring. You’re too suspicious of me. That needs to change. After all, I’m your boss. I want my workmen to trust me. No more worry about changes. All you need know is that I’m the boss. You do what I tell you, because of that. From now on, you’re a proper member of my work crew, understand? No need to question the builder’s renovations. He knows what he’s doing, and I’m a builder, so i know what I’m doing. I’ll even install a dimmer switch for the lights upstairs, so you can think more clearly on the important tasks with my permission. Aside from that, though, you’re going to stay my big lumbering blockhead, got it?”

“Yes, Sir, Boss....”

“Good boy.” You snap your fingers and watch as he blinks. There’s a definite dullness about his eyes as he stares at you for a few moments. “Yeah, Blockhead?” you ask.

He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “Uh ... you need me to carry more stuff today, Boss?”

You shake your head. “No, but Taft here bet me fifty dollars you won’t be willing to put on a gun show for us.”

He blinked slowly, then raised an arm and flexed it as he furrowed his brow. A subtle protrusion began to form in the bone structure over his eye sockets as he did. A few seconds later, he beamed at you. “Do I get to split it with you?”

You smirk. “Sure, big guy.”

He chuckled. “Then let’s do this.” And with that, he began to flex, straining his clothing to its absolute limits against his new physique. The whole time, he bassooned a deep husky chuckle. “Huhuhuhuh....”

It didn’t take long for the other workers to respond in kind. You sigh contentedly at the sound.

“I do love my blockheads,” you say. Then you chuckle. “And that’s why you never mess with the builder, Taft.”

Taft chuckled. “Don’t gotta tell me twice, boss.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to remodel you, too.”

The Muscelhaüse Part 1

Charlie scratched his head as he looked over the directions on his phone’s GPS for what had to be the fifth time. He’d circled the walkway far longer, but when he’d tried to ask anyone in the building nearby, nobody would answer. The place seemed deserted. The skeletons of trees and vines crawled along the support poles and wire fencing that had been laid along the sidewalk leading to a wooden fence.

“Charles Walker?”

Charlie nearly dropped his phone at the sound of the voice. The heavy clunk of thick-soled boots beat repetitively on the sidewalk slabs. He looked up to behold one of the most aesthetically pleasing males he had ever seen.

The man had to be at least six-one, maybe taller. He wore a set of darkened shades that emphasized the subtle squareness of his cheekbones, while preserving the general egg shape of his face. His chin and lips were ringed by carefully groomed black stubble. A patch of well kept hair rose in style with a high-and-tight look that left his sides faded to join the top. The sun threw the definition of the man’s bare torso into a work of art akin to the ancient statues of Greece and Rome.

No, he’s buffer, Charlie thought.

A fitbit tracker was strapped to one wrist, and a simple wristwatch to the other. A hole had been torn in the black jeans that clung so tightly to the man’s frame.

“Who wants to know?” Charles asked.

“The name’s Gabriel. I was sent to help you get to your destination. The Muscelhaüse is difficult to find on one’s own, even with the assistance of a GPS. Since you kept circling the same place, and happen to be rolling a suitcase behind you, I figured you were probably him.”

“You’re from the Muscelhaüse?” Charlie raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Gabriel shrugged. “I was just getting off shift. Figured I’d help you get there, since I needed to get some cardio in before my workout. It’s not far. We’re that big purple building over there.” He pointed behind him at the empty lot behind the wooden fence, only this time it wasn’t empty.

“How...?” Gabriel started.

“Yeah, we get that a lot. Come on. We’ve been waiting for you to check in for the last hour.” He reached down and seized the suitcase from Charlie’s weakened grip, then turned. “You’re going to love it there.”

The Captive

“How do you do it?” a young teen asked as he looked up at the muscle man tugging the elastic bands for his resistance training. “How can you always be so dedicated?”

The man cocked his head as the veins bulged out of his arms. The slightest fluctuation around his cheeks and jaw betrayed anxiety. The rest of his face seemed more calm, curious. The light reflected off his sculpted chest as his swollen biceps flexed and strained with his triceps and flexors. “You really want to know?”

“Yes!” the kid said excitedly. “I’d give anything to get strong like you.”

The man laughed. His mouth broadened into a grin. His eyes watered, but that was likely a result of either Spring allergies or maybe irritation from contacts. “Anything, huh?” His breathing remained steady as he strained against the tense wires. “Even your freedom?”

“Uh ... what?”

“There’s a reason I wear this gear, you know. There’s a reason I’m always working out. I used to be like you, kid. Normal, small, weak. I was just a lot chubbier, and I had a lot more nasty habits when it came to food.” He sighed. “Well, my body got sick of it.”

He shook his head to cut off any commentary. “No, I don’t mean that metaphorically, I mean literally. I woke up one morning to find myself actively doing pushups and situps without any memory of how I got there. It was small at first, little things like that. A minor piece of fitness here, a few healthier choices there. For example, when I reached toward a bag of chips, and there was something better close at hand, my body would freeze, and I’d have to either pick the healthy snack or just forget it.

“I talked to doctors about it when it got worse. Eventually, I got locked away in a psych ward. I went through hypnotists, psychiatrists, psychologists, and who knows what else.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t fun. I finally got out of that hell, and by then I had little choice. My body had gained more control than I had. I walked where my legs wanted me to go. I lifted what my arms wanted me to lift. I ate what my hands put in front of my face, because I couldn’t do anything else.” A tear slid down his cheek. “I still can’t.” He gestured to his thigh with a jerk of his head. “There’s a reason I wear that brand of shorts, you know. My muscles like the idea of the joke. They’re alive, kid. My body literally has its own consciousness, and it’s taken the driving seat away from me.”

He lowered his broad back and released the tool he’d been using, then tromped past the kid toward the leg press. “I get maybe a couple of hours to call my own each day, and only if they fall within the habits my body wants me to follow.” He released a deep chuckle as he set the weight and positioned himself on the chair. “My consciousness broke for a while when I couldn’t cope, you know. I created the persona of a musclehead. For all intents and purposes, I was the perfect dumb jock stereotype, right down to the low IQ and bro talk.” He sighed. “Eventually, I clawed my way back to my old self again, but I still couldn’t really do much.” He grunted as he pushed against the plate, and his calves and thighs bulged with the effort. “I still try to work out a compromise with it from time to time. Sometimes negotiations succeed, and sometimes they fail. When I do what my muscles want, I get....” He shuddered and groaned as his legs retracted and the plates clanked against each other. “Rewarded.” His cheeks flushed as he pushed again. “I’m a slave to my own body, kid. Trust me, it’s--” His neck twitched. “It’s--” His head jerked. “No, no, no!” he snarled. “You pro--”

His mouth broadened into a grin as haunted eyes stared helplessly, pleadingly. He rose from the machine and adjusted the weight to a lighter setting. “It’s an experience you’ll learn to love.” He motioned to the chair and its plate.

The boy trembled as he approached the chair with wide eyes. He sat down. “What’s--?”

A heavy hand patted him on the shoulder, and it was like an electrical current passing through. “Welcome to your new life.”

The boy groaned as his legs pushed and a surge of pleasure rebounded through his body.

The man’s chuckle was low and deep. “We knew we were’t alone.”

Horse Play

This is a little experiment. Let me know what you think. If you don’t like it, I can edit it and adapt it to fit a third person story, instead, with more descriptors, rather than relying on the dialogue of the one character alone.

Hello, hello! Welcome to my humble part of the globe. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Now that I see you, I’m certain you’ll be a shoe-in for the opening on my staff. Just come over here, please. There we are. I’d like to introduce you Dulcie. She’s one of our best mares: gentle, patient, and very good with riders.

Well, would you look at that? She likes you. That’s good. You’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few months.

Is something the matter? You look a little flushed. Oh ... oh, my. I knew she was in heat, but I thought we’d agreed that--

*Ahem* Just ... stay calm. It’ll be over soon. Yes, yes, I know my face looks funny. No need to stare. I’m just *nicker* going through a few ... alterations. Mmmph, oh, by the Dagda, that feels good! Th-thank you, Mistress. I’m ... *sputter* glad I could help.

Mmm ... what am I? I’m a centaur, of course. Well, I suppose Equitaur would be more accurate. My mistress desired a new companion, and she has decided to claim you. It was most kind of you to offer your name so readily to her.

...

Well, of course I have hooves. I told you. I’m an equitaur. I serve the herd, and the lead mare. She smells ... so wonderful, doesn’t she?

Oh, come now. Don’t be that way. Your body is already responding to her. I see those nostrils of yours flaring. She chose you, human, but you also chose her. These contracts require such things, you know. You agreed to the position, gave us your name, bound yourself to this place of your own free will. Can’t you hear them? All those mares calling for a strong male to protect them and their young.

They want. They need. And judging by that flush in your cheeks, I’d say you do, too, human. Well, maybe not quite so human anymore.

Now, now. You won’t be able to get out that way. You’re already bound, remember? Mm ... Though feel free to run and stretch those legs of yours. It’s good for working out the nerves. And for casting off those annoying garments. You feel it, don’t you? That breathlessness, the excitement, the urge to race, even as your clothing constricts. Mmm, and that hair. Yes, you’ll grow quite the mane, indeed.

Haha! And would you listen to that! Congratulations. You just made your first nicker. I knew you had it in you! Why don’t you just relax, enjoy the ride? Trust me, there’s so much pleasure to be had, if you do. Mistress rewards her stallions well for compliance. Besides, those clothes of yours won’t last much longer at this-- And there it is. Mmm. That rump is coming along nicely. Let’s give that tail a few shakes, hmm?

Oho! Would you look at that? Sleek and black, dark as the night, and oily as the veins of the earth. Beautiful. Oh, yes. I know that look. You feel it, don’t you? That euphoria, that longing. Fingers no longer wanting to work. Toes straining against the fabric of your shoes. And it all feels so ... sensitive, doesn’t it?

Mmm ... your barrel is coming along nicely, as is your neck. Here, stud. Eat this.

...

Well, of course you’re going to be a stud. Do you really think my mistress would accept anything less? That’s right. There you go. Have some more. Oh, you don’t remember taking that extra morsel? What a shame. Oh, but don’t worry. That’s natural. Horses have very little appetite control. Mmm ... good stud. I bet that brushing is helping you to feel a little calmer. Calmer as your muzzle expands and your arms lengthen.

Careful now. Easy does it. Just let it come naturally. Go ahead. I’ve got you, stud. Good boy. Things are feeling hazy now, aren’t they? But so good. So very good. There we go. Now doesn’t that feel so much better? It’s natural being on all fours.

Shh, shh, shh. Don’t try to talk now. You’re just embarrassing yourself. You’re confused. I get that. But right now, I think you have something else to worry about. Ahhh, there it is. Took you long enough, stud. My lady does not like to be kept waiting. I was afraid you were going to turn out a gelding.

...

Nevermind. That’s not important. What is important is the fact that you happen to have a lovely mare over there who wants you very, very much, stud. Now why don’t you just let go and accept, hmm? My lady rewards most graciously for compliance.

Ahhhh, and there go the eyes. Good stud. Good boy. Come, let me lead you to my lady’s quarters. You will serve the Pookahs of the herd well, indeed. Now go on, big boy. She’s waiting for you.

Don’t Look

One year. One whole fucking year, you’d been trapped in this hellhole. One whole year of weights and shakes, supps and bros, grunts and flexes, and that constant arrogant son of a bitch that made you into the MUSCLE GOD you are today.

...

Damn it. You can’t even think like you used to anymore. Bro was clever, for a dumb pile of meat. No sooner do the words cross your mind than your body acts on its own. You hear that deep husky chuckle as your voice echoes and rebounds through the gym. You hardly even recognize it anymore. It just sounds so ... dull, so empty.

Didn’t used to like him. Hell, like never came into it. You loathed him. Kept strutting his stuff, showing off, bringing home girls and bros alike at all hours of the day and night. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. You had a schedule to keep, damn it. You had to WORK OUT.

...

WORK OUT

...

WORK OU--

Damn it! You had to go to your job. You had to SLEEP DEEP AND FLEX.

...

It’s so hard to fight this thing. Your head jumps tracks every time you try to finish a sentence, to think about the old life. Everything just jumps right back to the GYM and WEIGHTS.

“FUCK!” you snarl. You wish you’d never worn those stupid AWESOME HEADPHONES.

You remember when you blew up at him. The look on his face, the blindside, the anger, and a glimmer of something else. Curiosity? Intrigue? Or had you just imagined that?

Mmm ... you’d love to imagine some hot a--

NO! Can’t give in to base instincts. That’s what he wants.

Though that one blonde, ... damn was she fine. Her voice. Her hips. You’re ashamed of what you did, but ... at the same time, ...

“I want more,” you whisper. You clench a hand into a fist. “Damn it....”

You remember the gift. He said to consider them an apology, a way to compromise, so you could, “sleep deep, bro.”

The dumbbells clack with every lunge you take now. Your body follows a set rhythm that you cannot break. Those words, those thoughts, those actions. Carefully planned, every last one. And you didn’t realize until it was too late.

Your headphones became your collar, its white noise your leash.

You’re still not sure what was real and what was dream. Strip clubs, health bars, gym work, muscle ache, kneeling, listening, a shadow, a phantom figure posing you like some giant mannequin.

It takes a moment to realize you’re now reflecting that exact pose in the mirror.

“Damn it,” you swear. “I’m such a dumbass.”

You feel your body shudder at that word. You know your programming approves, and he would, too.

You can’t remember when you first found out the truth. You just remember the anger and rage boiling inside, followed immediately by his crisp command. And suddenly, you were on the floor doing pushups. The anger was fueling you to break your last plateau.

You look down at your swollen arms.

You broke that plateau, all right.

Every move you tried to make against him, he would counter neatly, as a chess master would a novice.

You lost your job.

“Numbers are too hard for a dumbass like you.”

You lost your friends.

“You’ve got, like, nothing in common with them anymore, bro.”

The library banned you. You’re still not sure why. Maybe he greased a few palms. Big bro was hella rich.

“Who needs books, when you’ve got weights, bro?”

He blocked the channels with a password, so you could only watch athletic events.

“Come on, bro. Big game’s on. You know you wanna watch it....”

Even the beard was his idea.

“It’ll make you look like a total rugged badass, bro! Who wouldn’t want that?”

You were completely surrounded.

“Let me introduce you to some of my best bros...”

Always watched.

“Here, let me spot you, little bro.”

Stripped.

“You need some new duds, bro.”

Dressed.

“Aw, hell yeah. Now that’s what I call ALPHA!”

Fed.

“Chicken and rice. Gotta get your lean proteins, bro.”

... Programmed.

“Time to SLEEP DEEP AND FLEX, bro. Got something new for ya....”

And you let him. The plastic sheath on one of the machines creaks and groans under your muscular grip as you grit your teeth, all while the white noise continues to play, pushing you, motivating you to work harder and grow your meat. The bulge straining in your crotch would have left you embarrassed at one point. Now, all you can do is stare at it blankly and chuckle, like it’s all some sort of game, and you’re winning.

... But how much have you lost?

Then the static cuts off. You hear the ringtone from your cell phone.

Your neck strains as the muscles you’ve spent so long developing pulse and writhe under the skin. There’s only one person who’d call you this late anymore.

And you hate his guts, even as his words push you to obey and respect him.

“‘Sup, bro?”

His voice on the other end is smug. “Just checking in on my new best bro.”

You try to bite back the glow of pride swelling in your chest. You don’t succeed.

“Was just getting in some extra sets before coming home. I’m fucking starved. What’s for dinner?”

“Your favorite.”

You moan. “Ribs?” Damn him for using your love of barbecue against you.

“I figured you deserved a reward, after all your hard work.”

You flex, as though he were there. It’s natural, automatic. It’s ... how you react to a lot of things now, actually.

“It has been a whole year,” he noted. “And I wanted to celebrate with you. We’re pulling out all the stops. Hell, I’ve even got a special gift lined up for you, if you want it.”

“Don’t I have to accept all your ‘gifts,’ anyway?”

“Was that a note of bitterness I detected?”

“Maybe just a little,” you admit. You can’t lie to him. He made sure of that. Bros before hoes. Bros don’t keep secrets.

“So, you’re still not happy?”

“You should know. You are my roommate.”

“I thought you would’ve warmed up to it by now. You flirt like a champ, tackle weights like a beast, and you practically baptized yourself with beer at the superbowl party.”

You shrug your titanic shoulders. “I’m a bro, bro. You kinda m--. M--.” You furrow your brow. You can’t say the word.

“I made you like this. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

You nod.

After a period of silence, he spoke up. “You do realize I can’t see you, right?”

The sound of your hand slapping your forehead was enough to set him off laughing.

“Fuck you,” you snarl. S’not funny!” Finally, a loophole in your programming you can exploit.

He was silent for a time. “No, I suppose it’s not. It wasn’t funny when you challenged me either. You killed my date that night. Not cool, bro.”

“And that justifies putting me on a training regimen?” You couldn’t outright call it brainwashing or hypnosis. Those words had been forbidden.

“Considering all the names you called me that night, yeah. I wanted you to see just what it was like to be a bro, to think like a bro, to act like a bro. I wanted you to know just how it feels to have society judging you every second of every day for your choices, always thinking you’re just some dumb musclehead waiting to show off. Never taking you seriously, never giving you the time of day. I wanted you to see the sacrifices we had to make to get where we are with the whole world laughing in our faces. So yes, I think your ‘training regimen’ was well deserved.”

You could practically see his glare over the line.

“I may be a dumbass and a jerk at times, but at least I own it. I told you what I had planned. I let you know in advance, and you never said a word to me, not one word. Did you really think I wouldn’t have listened, if you’d just pulled me aside in private and asked? But no, you were too scared to. You thought the big bad alpha bro was gonna beat you up the moment you stepped out of line. You’re not scared of me now, are you?”

“No.”

“And why do you think that is?”

You grit your teeth again.

“Judging by your silence, you know the right answer. You’re angry at me, but you’re not scared of me, because you’ve gotten to know me.” He was silent for a time. He didn’t have to worry about you closing the call. Only he could end the conversation. “I’ll tell you what. It’s clear enough that you’ve learned your lesson, even if you’re not willing to admit it. Part of that is the pride I helped build, and part of it is the pride you had before I even started helping you. So, I’m going to give you a choice, or rather, a chance. If you want to be your old self again in every way, you just have to do one little thing. I’ll even make sure to pay you back for all your troubles and losses.”

“... I’m listening.”

“All you have to do is keep yourself from admiring yourself in the mirror. No flexing, no posing, no standing still to look over your changes. If you can keep that up for the rest of your workout time without doing any exercises or fitness-related stretches, then I’ll reverse everything I’ve done in your head. Fail, though, and you have to pay the price.”

“Which is?”

“You get to say goodbye to your old self entirely of your own free will. You’ll accept being a bro, embrace it, love it, revel in it. The bro will be you, and you will be the bro. You’ll become the dimwitted musclehead you feared. The gym will be your home, your fellow bros your family. Sports and weights, muscle and shakes, and letting your meat do all the thinking for you will be your new norm, and you’ll love every second of it.”

“And if I don’t accept?”

“Then we continue as we have.”

“Let me get this straight. So, it’s either try and possibly be free, or don’t and wind up with the failure option eventually happening no matter what.”

“Exactly.”

“... You’re on.”

“Excellent. Good luck, little bro.”

The call cut off. The static returned, and you took your seat as you reviewed your phone. Just had to keep distracted. That was all.

The first few minutes were a breeze, but after that the restlessness set in. Your body wanted to move, and you knew the recording was reinforcing that need to egg you on. You leaned forward and pulled up your phone’s apps. Your brainwashing had forced you to delete the entertainment apps and left you only with fitness trackers and camera.

You clicked into the camera app and scrolled through your selfies from the start to now. Big bro had done a good job. You had to admit that. That uncertainty solidifying into a cocky smirk. The clothes shifting to large, then extra large, then XXL. Sleeves being torn. Seams burst. It left you feeling breathless. You squirmed in your chair as you felt another surge of instinct scream at you to act, to move, to work out.

Your chest heaved as your triceps contracted under the sudden shift in your posture. You looked desperately down at your dangling necklace swinging back and forth. The chain was designed to highlight the amount of muscle you’d built in your pectorals. Surely, it could help keep you distracted for a few more minutes.

You fiddled with the chain, listening to its links hiss and chink as you hefted and manipulated it. You dug it into your skin a few times to try and distract yourself from that gnawing urge. Toes tapped, heels bounced. It was so difficult!

Why?

Your fingers played with the exercise band to keep your mind occupied, but that didn’t help. Your phone glitched, and the appc losed out. You opened the camera again, and caught a snatch of calf between all the weights.

Your breath became shallow as your hand shook.

Come on. You’re stronger than this. Think about the consequences. Think about ... about ... what were their names again? 

You could barely recall the faces of your former friends. They were more blurs than proper images. Blurs that slowly hardened into thick, square jaws and piercing eyes. The familiar impact of dice rolling on the table was replaced with the equally familiar clank of weights smacking against one another and the retort of guns on the shooting range.

Clapping hands became back slaps. Hand shakes were fist bumps. Exultant cheers and jubilant hugs were replaced with grunts, roars, and chest bumps.

That’s ... that’s not....

Tackling.

I...

Videogames with wrestling.

Can’t....

Soda cans replaced with beer.

No....

Delicate hands brushing over your beastly arms. “Hey there, stud. How about a gun show?”

Your legs are spread wide, your eyes unfocused. Weight and bars and chicks and muscle and posing and wrestling and ... and ... and....

“Heads up, Bro!”

The camera flash had been so intense back then. You blinked. You heard a shutter click.

You gaped at the image on your phone. Your thumbs moved on autopilot. You hit send.

Back at your apartment, your Big Bro smiles at the image and its accompanying text as he pulls the ribs out of the oven.

Better have those fucking ribs ready, Bro. I’m starving.