Patrick didn’t remember the accident. He didn’t remember the cat, not wearing his helmet, or the three pints that he’d had. He didn’t remember the damage to his cross bike, the ambulance, or what the doctors had said. The only thing he remembered was that he was hungry.

In the days after being discharged from hospital his parents had to remind him again and again what had happened. Why did his shoulder hurt? “You came off your bike.” Where was this bruise from? “You came off your bike.” When is breakfast? “We had it, you just don’t remember, cos you came off your bike.”

After a few weeks “you came off your bike” finally passed into long term memory and became stuck. Patrick’s physical wounds healed and his parents were able to return to work. His short term memory was still fucked though.

Unable to go to college, Patrick was home alone eight hours a day, five days a week, with no one around to remind him that he had already had breakfast. A note was pinned to the inside of the front door that read; Don’t go out. You will get lost. No short term memory. Motorbike crash. Patrick read it at least twelve times every day, roughly the same amount of times that he would eat breakfast.

The weight soon began to pile on.

Patrick would wake up at about eight in the morning, wonder why his pyjama bottoms felt tight, go clean his teeth, and wander to the kitchen for breakfast. On his way there he would pass the front door and read the note. He would then make toast and jam, or a bowl of Frosties. After finishing his breakfast he would get up, wonder why his pyjama bottoms felt tight, go clean his teeth, and head to the kitchen for breakfast. In the kitchen he would make himself a bowl of Frosties or jam on toast, eat it, and then go clean his teeth. Passing the front door he would read the note, get distracted from where he was going and return to the kitchen in order to make breakfast. This process was often repeated until around midday when he would wonder why his pyjama bottoms felt so tight and would go change into a pair of shorts before lunch.

This pattern of behaviour naturally concerned his parents, who within a few months honestly thought that their son was in danger of eating himself to death. Now three stone heavier than when he’d had the crash, Patrick was bungled into the car, complaining that he’d not had any breakfast, and taken back to the TBI clinic in Cork for a check up.

Doctor O’Shawn asked Patrick a few questions, shone a torch in his eyes, and had him get on the scales. He was 15 stone and 6 lbs. “Yes, he’s big for his age but not so much that I would worry about it,” he said, “His short term memory should come back with time and then he will naturally start to lose the excess and return to his normal weight.” This did not ease Patrick’s parents' concerns. Patrick seemed disinterested. He just kept complaining about being dragged out of the house before breakfast.

A month later and there was no change to Patrick’s patterns of behaviour. If anything, he seemed to be getting worse. His new pyjama bottoms barely fit and his ample stomach hung low and loose out of the bottom of his pyjama top. He would make himself a cup of tea with four sugars every morning and put the bread in the toaster before going to clean his teeth. Then he would make a bowl of Frosties, eat half of it, throw the cold toast away, and put some fresh bread in the toaster before going to clean his teeth.

His parents would return home from work just after five o’clock to find the house littered with empty wrappers, dozens of half empty plates of food, and several cold cups of tea. They would usually find Patrick busy in the kitchen making himself a bowl of Frosties.

This was the case one Tuesday when his mother finally lost her rag. Yelling her head off she dragged him confused to the bathroom and made him stand on the scales. 17 stone 9 lbs. Patrick leant forward to peer over his belly at the numbers. He blinked and didn’t say anything. “Look how fat you are!” His mother screamed. “If you keep this up you’ll be a right blob of lard!” Patrick wished he knew why his mother was mad at him. He had no idea what he was supposed to weigh. After a few minutes of being screamed at, Patrick was relieved when his Dad entered and told him Mum off. He left his parents arguing in the bathroom while he went to make breakfast.

In a calmer moment his Dad sat him down and explained quickly to him what the problem was. Patrick nodded. His father’s suggestion was as simple as it was surprising; every time you feel hungry, have a cigarette. Patrick’s Dad knew that his son had started smoking on the sly with his mates a couple of years earlier. He couldn’t say anything about this as he was a twenty a day man himself. The way he figured it, he would rather that his son die of lung cancer in fifty years time than eat himself into a bedridden mess and risk coronary failure in his thirties. A stark choice, but one that made sense to Mr O’Fett.

The plan was put into place and multiple packets of Benson & Hedges were left lying around the house. In addition new notes were pinned inside the kitchen cupboard and fridge doors that read; Feeling hungry? Have a fag instead!

Now when Mr and Mrs O’Fett returned from work they would find dozens of half smoked and smouldering cigarettes lying around the house in ashtrays, tea cups, and on half-eaten dinner plates. It seemed that the plan was working, but Patrick still kept gaining weight.

One morning Mr O’Fett asked his son how he was feeling. Patrick said that he liked that he was allowed to smoke in the house now, it made him feel like an adult, like an equal. But when was breakfast?

Patrick was soon over 21 stone and as big as a horse. His bulging belly burst out over his newest XXL pyjama bottoms and he didn’t bother wearing a top. It was June now, afterall. Patrick was perfectly content munching down his bowls of Frosties, blissfully unaware of how large and low his giant moobs now hung. He lifted his spoon, gripped lightly in his pudgy hand, and shovelled another spoonful into his mouth. “We’re going to the doctor’s for a check up,” his mother told him. She didn’t spot the look of concern that flashed across Patrick’s fat face.

Doctor O’Shawn shone a torch in his eyes, asked him a few questions, and on his mother’s insistence made him stand on the scales. 21 stone 7 lbs. He again insisted that Patrick would regain his memory soon and that weight loss would naturally follow. 

“Am I overweight?” Patrick asked. “No,” the doctor said, thinking that it was better to be kind as he would just forget anyway. “Yes!” his Mum said. “Oh,” Patrick said, “When are we going to get breakfast?”

In order to appease Mrs O’Fett the doctor said that he would perform a few more tests and then get back to them. Patrick made himself toast and jam and a cup of tea as soon as he got home. He then smoked half a cigarette and made himself some jam on toast. Mrs O’Fett went to the pub in a huff.

Since his crash, Patrick hadn’t seen much of his friends. Only one boy, Danny from college, ever came to visit him, and he was always sure to do so while his parents were at work. Patrick’s Mum and Dad would often ask him if any of his friends had been around but Patrick could never remember.

The autumn began to set in and Patrick was assessed as not being fit to return to education. His Dad began to worry that his son must be feeling lonely but Patrick showed no signs of depression. It was now eight months since his accident and he had gained 9 stone in weight. Most of which hung around his middle. Some had settled on his thighs and rather a lot on his now hugely fleshy arse. But mostly around the middle. His belly was huge and round and plush. It bounced with every step to the toaster and kettle. Despite the smoking he seemed to be eating just as much as always.

One morning, in between brushing his teeth and a bowl of Frosties the phone rang. He was about to answer it as there was a note next to the phone telling him to do so, when he suddenly noticed another note stuck to the inside of the front door, he turned around to read it and the phone stopped ringing. Forgetting all about it he went to the kitchen to make himself a bowl of Frosties. Half way through his breakfast the phone rang again, he ignored it. Half way through his next breakfast the phone rang and he got up to answer it. It was Doctor O’Fett, he was ringing about his test results. Patrick thanked him, hung up, and went to brush his teeth before breakfast.

“Did the Doctor call today?” His Mum asked him. “No,” Patrick said, and went back to his cup of tea, toast, and cigarette.

A few weeks later Patrick was in the kitchen having breakfast with Danny who had popped over to see him. They were both shocked to hear the front door fling open and Patrick’s Mum scream; “Patrick! Where the fuck are you?” Danny ran and hid in the bathroom.

Patrick stayed still in his chair. He was too big to move quickly. He munched on his toast until his Mum snatched it out of his hand and threw it on the floor.

“What the fuck, Patrick? What the absolute fuck?”

Patrick froze, a dazed look of confusion on his face.

“Don’t pull that shit with me young boy! I’ve just got back from Doctor O’Fett’s. He says your tests show that your memory returned months ago! Months ago!”

Patrick didn’t dare look at his mother. He just stared down at his huge distended belly. 

“But, I like being fat,” he mumbled.

“Get up! Get the fuck up!” his mother yelled at him.

He rose slowly and she led him to the bathroom where she made him stand on the scales.

“Look!” she screamed. “Look how fucking fat you are!”

“I can’t see,” he mumbled.

“What?” she screamed.

“I can’t see, my belly’s in the way.” Patrick couldn’t help but raise his lips to form a little smirk.

“24 stone 8 lbs. 24 fucking stone!”

At that moment, Danny, who had been hiding behind the shower curtain, lost his footing and slid out onto the floor with a thwack! He landed on his chubby naked arse, cock and balls proudly up for everyone to see.

“And who the fuck are you, ya little pervert!?” Mrs O’Fett screamed at him.