Charlie had once overheard his mother tell her sister on the phone that raising him felt like dragging a dead horse uphill. That was years ago, but the words had stuck. Not because they stung—though maybe they should have—but because Charlie thought they sounded about right.
At seventeen years old, Charlie Finch was big. Not "football player" big, or "farmer's son" big. No, Charlie was the kind of big that made people shuffle awkwardly to give him more room, the kind of big that made chairs creak ominously when he sat down. He weighed as much as three of the other boys in his high school put together, but that wasn't even the worst of it. His size wasn't the solid, barrel-chested kind that sometimes passed for strength. It was soft, sagging, and hopeless. His body was a testament to inertia, a collection of flesh that seemed to cling to him out of spite.
His arms, thick and pale, hung uselessly at his sides most of the time, except when ferrying snacks to his mouth. His belly, an imposing slab of fat, bulged over the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, which were stretched so thin they looked ready to give up entirely. His face was round and flushed, always slightly damp from the effort of simply existing.
Charlie's eyes were small and dull, brown orbs lost in the sea of his face. They seemed perpetually half-lidded, not out of arrogance but sheer exhaustion. His hair was limp and greasy, plastered to his head like it had given up on trying to be presentable long ago. He was a picture of neglect, the result of too many years spent in the basement of his parents' house, glued to a screen while his body quietly rebelled against him.
---
Marge Finch, Charlie's mother, watched him shuffle from the couch to the fridge for what felt like the hundredth time that day. She had long since given up on subtlety.
"Charlie," she said, leaning on the kitchen counter, a dishcloth clutched in her hand. "Do you ever think about getting up and... I don't know, doing something?"
"Uh-huh," Charlie mumbled, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of voice you'd expect from a man twice his age who smoked a pack a day. He didn't even look at her, too busy rummaging through the fridge for the last slice of pizza.
"You know, most boys your age have jobs. Or hobbies. Or... or girlfriends." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she hated herself for it.
Charlie shrugged, pizza in hand. He plodded back to the couch, where a video game paused on the screen blinked impatiently at him. "I'm fine, Mom," he said around a mouthful of crust.
Marge sighed, long and deep, the kind of sigh that felt like it was coming from the soles of her feet. From the living room, Howard, Charlie's father, grunted without looking up from his newspaper.
"You coddle him too much," Howard said.
"Coddle him?" Marge snapped, turning to her husband with a glare that could have melted steel. "If I coddled him, he wouldn't look like... like that." She gestured vaguely toward the couch, where Charlie sat sprawled, one hand holding the pizza and the other clutching a controller.
Howard folded the paper neatly and set it down, his movements slow and deliberate. "He's seventeen, Marge. He should be out there making something of himself. Or at least mowing the damn lawn."
"I don't need both of you talking about me like I'm not here," Charlie muttered from the couch, though his voice lacked any real heat.
Howard shot him a look. "Then act like you're here, son."
---
School was no better for Charlie, though it wasn't like he tried to make it any better. Most days, he slouched into class late, his sweatpants sagging and his oversized hoodie doing its best to hide his bulk. He barely fit into the desks, his thighs pressing uncomfortably against the edges, his belly spilling over the tabletop.
The other kids didn't bother trying to include him. Bobby Klein, the track star with a jawline carved from marble, called him "Sludge." It started during gym class, when Charlie left a dark, sweaty imprint on a bench after failing to complete a single push-up.
"Man, you're like human sludge," Bobby had said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The laughter echoed in Charlie's ears for weeks.
The girls were worse, in their own way. Most didn't even look at him, as though acknowledging his existence might somehow taint their perfect little lives. A few—Katie Rogers, who always wore a kind smile, and Emily Chen, who seemed genuinely nice—occasionally said hi to him in the hallway, but it was the kind of politeness that felt more like pity.
Charlie didn't mind, or at least he told himself he didn't. He ignored the whispers, the snickers, the way people moved their chairs just a little further away when he sat down. He had his games, his snacks, and his couch. He didn't need anything else.
---
One day, in the cafeteria, Charlie stood with his tray—pizza, fries, and a chocolate milk—surveying the tables. No one moved to make room for him, as usual. He spotted Katie Rogers at the far end, her blond ponytail bouncing as she laughed at something her friend said.
For a moment, Charlie thought about walking over, about asking if he could sit with them. But before he could take a step, Katie leaned toward her friend and whispered something. The friend laughed, glancing briefly in Charlie's direction before covering her mouth with her hand.
Charlie froze. They're laughing at me.
The thought wasn't new, but this time it hit differently. He felt the heat rise in his face, the sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He turned quickly and shuffled toward the corner of the cafeteria, where he sat alone, his tray clattering onto the table.
He stared at the pizza, suddenly nauseous.
---
That night, Charlie lay on the couch, the glow of the TV painting the room in shades of blue. His parents had gone to bed hours ago, leaving him alone in the silence of the basement. His game controller lay forgotten on the floor, the screen frozen on a pause menu.
He stared at the ceiling, the memory of Katie's laughter looping endlessly in his mind. For the first time in a long while, Charlie felt something other than apathy. It wasn't anger, exactly. It was more like... a flicker of awareness.
He hated it.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling. It was as though some long-dormant part of him had stirred, a faint, unfamiliar voice whispering, "This can't be it. This can't be all there is."
Charlie closed his eyes and turned over, the springs of the couch groaning under his weight. He told himself he'd feel better in the morning.
He was wrong.