Ink

Chapter 4
Part 4

Chapter Description: Part 4

(Tuesday)

The cab ride back home was silent, awkward, slightly smelly, and, for Margaret, squishy. She’d spent close to an hour in her wet Goodnites already, and while the act itself had long since passed, the evidence of her accident was literally all around her. But really, she was getting ahead of herself.

She’d argued on the phone with Molly for close to twenty minutes in a never-ending loop of panic and sophistry.

“Just get back on the next bus and ride the loop around if you don’t want to go to work.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“There are strangers!”

“There were strangers on the bus before, weren’t there?”

“And that’s what made me freak out!”

“So, what am I supposed to do? I don’t have a car right now, either.”

“I don’t know! Help!”

“You want me to take the bus and meet you there?”

“NO!”

“We could ride back together…”

“NOOOOOOO!”

And so it went in degrees and variations on the theme. Molly would make a suggestion, and Margaret would feel her mind gripped by an animal-like panic. Finally, after the contents of Margaret’s accident had cooled and the innards of her disposable panties were swollen and sagging, held up only by the extra layer of actual panties over them acting like a sling, did the option of a cab come up.

“How about I call you a taxi?”

“Will you come with it?”

There was a pause. Then an audible sigh from the other end. “It’ll take longer if I do.”

“I don’t care,” Margaret said, tears threatening to spill out again. Then she added, “Please come,” before hanging up the phone and turning it off so that she could finally have the last word.

Margaret wasn’t sure why, but she felt she needed Molly with her if she was going to get back home, almost as if her new Roommate was some kind of guardian angel or human security blanket. Nothing bad seemed to happen as long as Molly was around; it was only AFTER Molly and Margaret parted company that things would go awry. More importantly in Margaret’s mind was the idea that she was NOT getting back on one of those buses.

Forgetting to wear a bra, the quiet laughter and impatient grunts of the huddled masses crowding onto the bus, wetting her pants in the street…it was like she was stuck in some bad dream, and getting back onto another bus would just restart the whole thing. She’d be surrounded.

But sitting in the back of a cozy little cab, Molly next to her? She’d be okay. Secure. Safe. With Mo…Molly. She’d be with Molly. Her friend.

Margaret paced back and forth along the sidewalk; a muted, sodden crinkle sounding off with each step made the back of her teeth tingle unpleasantly, like when you hear someone else brush their teeth. Like an idiot, she kept looking at her phone to check the time. Oh. Yeah. I turned it off, she thought.

At least here on the sidewalk, in the broad daylight, waiting on a cab (at a bus stop no less), in a wet diaper covered by dry panties, things seemed no more real but much less intimidating. The absurdity of her situation was less scary and dehumanizing, and instead came off as quirky. It was the difference between Wes Craven and Wes Anderson.

A bus pulled up to the stop, and Margaret waved it on and kept pacing. The driver gave her a little wave and moved on, but Margaret didn’t return the wave. Her back ached and a little voice inside her head told her it was a bad idea to talk to strangers.

Buses were filled with strangers, bus drivers included. Without Molly, how would she know that the bus would have taken her where she wanted to go anyways? Better to stay put (pacing not included) and wait for Molly to come pick her up.

After approximately five hundred paces back and forth- Margaret had lost count around four hundred sixty-three- she decided to sit down, the squish against her backside reminding her of what she’d done to herself. A gasp escaped her lips as the gel and fabric pressed against her, the way the diaper pushed back up against her from the bench its own unique (though not entirely unpleasant) sensation. In her mild fatigue and impatience at waiting for her ride, Margaret had allowed herself to forget her lapse of control, even though the evidence clearly remained to remind her. Another bus pulled up to the stop, and a few strangers limped off and loped away, not even bothering to look at her.

Margaret snuck a hand between her legs and gave the Goodnite beneath her panties a squeeze, feeling the misshapen, not quite symmetrical bulge caused by the absorbent pulp. The sensation was a little like a cross between a water balloon and a bean bag; malleable yet sturdy.

How long had she been in this thing, anyway? How long was she going to be sitting in her own wet diaper? Again, for what felt like the millionth time, Margaret reached in and looked at her phone to check the time, only to remember (again) that she’d turned it off. Not that it mattered; she hadn’t thought to look at the time when she got off the bus…when she’d peed herself…when she’d called Molly.

Another bus drove by her, this one not even stopping to drop off passengers. Was that the third bus, Molly wondered, or the fourth? The fifth? It was hard to tell.

How long had she been waiting?

As if in answer, she felt the slightest ache in her bladder. She had to pee again. That meant it had been a while since she’d had her accident, didn’t it? It didn’t feel as overwhelming as it had the first time, so maybe it hadn’t been quite as long.

Logically, the feeling of a filling bladder was not a reliable indicator of the passage of time. For all Margaret knew, it was only a matter of perception, like when a person felt hungry when food was mentioned. If the topic hadn’t come up, a busy enough person could have carried enough and not even notice they were hungry; they might not even have been hungry until they realized food was a possibility.

The same principle applied here. Margaret was in a damp Goodnite, effectively wearing her toilet, so maybe she was being more sensitive to the condition of her bladder than she might otherwise be. Maybe a slight dribble only felt like a building gush, in the same way that a little extra room could feel like ravenous hunger. That’s what Margaret told herself, anyway: she didn’t really have to pee again…and if she did that was because so much time had passed and Molly would be here any minute.

But the aching in her bladder, however slight, was like an itch. It would drive her mad unless she scratched. Where was a toilet though? Margaret certainly didn’t see any nearby public restrooms or businesses that would let her use their facilities.

What if Molly and the cab came while she was going to the potty? Wouldn’t Molly be worried then? How would she get home without Molly? An alien thought burrowed itself into the customer service rep’s brain. Despite herself, she pondered: “What if I just wet again?” The Goodnite was damp, to be sure, but it wasn’t as bad as the other one had been this morning. She must have wet it at least twice, no three times, at full volume, she reasoned. That’s why it had leaked. A little tinkle wouldn’t hurt it. And that way, she could relieve herself and not lose her chance to get home.

Oh, what the heck.

Margaret closed her eyes, took a deep breath in through her nose, and as she released through her mouth, willed herself to do what this morning had been unthinkable. Better than missing Molly.

Slowly, a trickle came out and leaked into her Goodnite. She actually felt like she was pushing. She was Sisyphus pushing a bolder up a hill, for no reward at all. Margaret felt her face flush with effort.

It was barely anything. She could have likely let it out into her adult underwear and it wouldn’t have shown. Her panties warmed up a bit, but that was all. Warmer was better at least, almost more comfortable. Honestly, it wasn’t so bad when she was doing it on purpose.

“What are you doing?”

Molly’s voice broke Margaret’s concentration. The tiny trickle sped up in a final surge as Margaret completely released her bladder in shock. The fourth bus (or was it the fifth?) roared away as Molly stepped off.

“Molly?” Margaret stumbled over her words. “I thought you were coming in a cab…I…why..bus…?”

Her Roommate crossed her arms, seeming more authoritative despite being a head shorter. “How was I supposed to come pick you up in a cab if I didn’t know where you were?” she asked. “You turned off your phone.”

Margaret hung her head in shame. “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to come find me. That’s why I hung up.” Molly’s hand on her chin caused Margaret to look into the other girl’s eyes. There was resolve there, but no real anger.

“I took the bus, and found you,” Molly said. “The hard part’s over. Now I’ll call the cab and take us home.” Margaret wrapped her arms around her roommate, taking her into a gleeful hug. Finally. Home. Everything would be all right when they got home.

Little did either of them know that it was when they got home that things would be out of control.

(Tuesday)

“Home sweet home,” Margaret sang out, as they crossed the threshold into their apartment. With the almost guilty, but way too giddy spring in her step of a child who’d just faked her way out of school, Margaret dance-walked to the couch.

Inwardly, Molly cringed as her taller, formerly more reserved roommate plopped onto the couch. Her eyes darted to Margaret’s skirt, searching for signs of leakage on the couch. The furniture wasn’t even hers, yet she still found herself worried about the upholstery.

Margaret had pissed herself. This was fact. Molly wasn’t sure when exactly this had happened, but she was certain all the same. The slight but lingering smell of ammonia in the backseat of an otherwise surprisingly clean taxi cab had cemented the idea in her mind. At some point, her roomie had peed her panties, and even now was lounging about in her soiled underwear, her legs spread open in a complete and (some would say) unladylike lack of modesty.

What the hell?

Molly stretched her arms out and yawned audibly to catch her roomie’s attention. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” she announced as the taller girl flipped over to her belly and idly reached for the T.V. remote. “Been holding it for a while,” she added, hoping that Margaret would take the hint. Why the hell had she yawned? Molly might have been an artist, but she was a shit actor.

“Okie dokie,” Molly said, shimmying down to the floor, her knees rising to her chest, (and giving anyone who’d care to look a peek at her almost ruined panties).

The young artist (and shit actor) snuck a look between her roomie’s legs on the way to the bathroom. The Goodnite was sopping wet, pushed to its limit and sagging over the edges of her adult underwear. It was already cut thicker between the legs, making it hard to conceal, but now it was akin to a water balloon pressed against a mesh net.

Oh no! The carpet!

This must be how mothers felt when they were potty training their toddlers.

While Margaret turned on cartoons for herself, Molly shuffled off to the bathroom, shaking her head, and unsure of what to do. The door locked behind her, Molly was left to her thoughts.

To say that she found Margaret’s behavior to be unusual was an understatement. The little (okay, not so little) bed wetter had thrown a temper tantrum when Molly had left the Goodnite out on her bed next to her other clothes. Not only had Margaret put it on, she’d used it for its intended purpose.

No, a little voice in the back of her mind told her- the tattoo on her wrist tingling the entire time- that wasn’t quite right. The purpose of the Goodnite was to keep her from ruining her bed while she slept. Margaret had been completely awake since getting out of bed, and unless she took a nap on a crowded bus (possible, but not plausible), she had been wide awake when she had used the Goodnite.

Molly scoffed. The other girl was using the bed wetting pants like they were Pull-Ups. She had seemed completely content to lounge around in her own mess like a two-year-old.

Guiltily, in the back her mind, in a voice that was her own, Molly stewed over this information. She was to blame as much as anything, though. She’d left the Goodni…the diaper out there for Margaret. Every step of the way she’d been the one to put the ideas into Margaret’s head.

Now, after her temper tantrum, Margaret had decided to skip work again AND was now laying about in a squishy and soaked diaper after having a panic attack over the phone. Either this was the most subtle form of rebellion via reverse psychology or something inside the other girl had broken. No matter how she analyzed it, Molly concluded that at least one of them was being seriously fucked with.

The only way to deal with it, the little voice that wasn’t quite hers concluded, was to face the problem head on. If Margaret was trying to make a point, the best way to deal with this would be to up the ante and call her bluff; if not…well she probably wouldn’t mind it so much, would she?

Taking a deep breath, Molly stood up and flushed the toilet. She had only used it as a chair, but it was important to keep up the ruse. For some reason she wasn’t entirely certain of, that meant feigning toilet usage. A cold sweat broke out over her face as she pretended to wash her hands, slowly counting to ten.

The bathroom door swung open and Molly coolly walked out a few steps before U-turning into directly Margaret’s bedroom. The airlock was open. Time to go swimming with sharks. “What are you doing?” Margaret called out over an episode of Sid the Science Kid.

God. Sid the Science Kid. What happened to the fighting games and first-person shooters she’d talked about? There was adolescent level guilty pleasures, and then there was mind numbingly pre-school endeavors. If Margaret were doing this out of spite, then she must be some kind of mental and emotional masochist; cutting off her own nose to spite Molly’s face.

Margaret’s questions persisted. “I said, ‘what are you doing?’” There was something empty about her tone, however. Less anxiety or outrage, and more idle curiosity in Molly’s estimation. Wordlessly, the artist grabbed and smoothed out one of the slightly crumpled but clean Goodnites out of the little stack she’d made on top of Margaret’s dresser.

A nearby packet of baby wipes (formerly used to clean up clay residue and paint spills) was in her hands an instant later as she wordlessly approached Margaret. From her spot on the floor, Margaret looked up at her Roommate. “Hmmm?” she asked.

“Margaret,” Molly said, “we need to talk.”

Margaret leaned to her side to look around Molly and at the Muppet-ish CGI Monstrosities talking about the basics of the scientific method. “Bout what?” she said. Molly noticed that her roomie’s Goodnites weren’t quite moving with her as she fidgeted from side to side, they were sagging so much. Had she wet herself even more since they’d gotten home? Had the girl even made to the toilet once today?

“You’re wet, honey.” Molly said. It wasn’t aggressive or reproachful. Simply a statement of fact. Margaret went rigid, her skin becoming a hue that almost perfectly matched the fresh diaper in the other woman’s hands.

“You noticed…huh?” Margaret asked sheepishly.

“Kinda hard not to,” Molly said. She smirked a bit. Something was funny about this. Not funny ha-ha, but funny in the you had to be there moment; the special selective kind of funny when someone you’ve known intimately says something stupid but too cute to make you angry.

The taller of the two girls shot to her feet, her Pull-Up almost a full second behind her. “Sorry! I thought you didn’t notice! Sorry!” Molly took note how her roomie said “I thought you didn’t notice” instead of “I didn’t mean to.” Margaret knew she was basting in her own bladder juices. She just didn’t care enough to do something about it and only shame was motivating her.

“I noticed,” Molly confirmed. “That thing looks pretty maxed out.”

“Yeah, these things suck,” Margaret agreed, pivoting slightly to the side so that she wouldn’t have to look the shorter woman in the eye.

Still holding the dry Goodnite, Molly held it up to Margaret’s waist, visually sizing it up. “I don’t think they suck. I just don’t think they’re intended for…this.”

“They’re diapers!” Margaret whipped her head back around and looked Molly in the eye.

“They’re diapers for little kids,” Molly answered in reply. “It can’t hold all of what you’re putting into it. You’re a big girl.”

You’re a big girl.

Silence followed that lie. It wasn’t a malicious lie in spirit; more of the fake-it-till-you-make-it fibs that adults told children so that they could make progress and mature. Margaret’s eyes became glassy, and the frown across her face was a poorly constructed mask for the smile she was attempting to hide. Molly felt a tingle on her wrist. Margaret nervously massaged the small of her back. Neither girl noticed the mixture of pain, pleasure, embarrassment and even guilt in the other’s eyes.

Nervously, Margaret ran her fingers through her long brown hair. “I’ll get in the shower and change into something more…umm…grown-” she stopped and corrected herself, “…appropriate.” She made a move to walk around Molly.

“Or…” Molly let the word hang in the air.

Margaret froze. “Or…?”

Molly held up the clean Goodnite and the wipes. “I brought these for a reason.” Margaret was biting her lip, obviously anxious about what her Roommate would say next.

Time to take charge, the voice in Molly’s head hissed. She needs you. Give her what she wants. Give her what she needs. Be the adult. Do it.

“It’d be a pain if you had to take a shower,” Molly said. “Just change your undies.”

Like a big toddler trying too late to hide her shame, Margaret’s hands shot down to her wet and padded crotch. “This was just an accident. It’s no big deal.”

“Is that the same one you were wearing when you woke up this morning?” Molly asked. Margaret opened her mouth to answer, and Molly heard herself cutting the other girl off. “Tell the truth.”

Margaret bristled, and moved one hand to rub the small of her back. “No…”

“No…?” Molly repeated, her tone making it clear that something was missing from her roomie’s reply.

“No ma’am.”

Molly had always been a bit of a free spirit. She’d been drunk more times than she could count; same with being stoned. Back in college she’d gone through a phase with mushrooms and other psychedelics, and there was that one time she experimented with ecstasy. The rush of endorphins at being called “Ma’am?” That natural high outweighed all other forms of intoxication she’d experienced. Every part of her danced in exultation of that feeling.

To be respected. To be needed. To be authoritative and nourishing at the same time, like an ancient Pagan goddess. In that instant, like it or not (and oh, did she like it) she was hooked.

Molly followed where her feelings took her. “So how about you just take that wet thing off, throw it away, and put a fresh one on?” Margaret’s mouth hung open, unable to generate a reply. They stared at one another for a minute that stretched into eternity. Molly had taken that step over the line; Margaret hadn’t yet. “Let me help.”

Both were in a trance. Molly pivoted and took a knee next to the couch, placing the Goodnite and wipes down on the cushions as she took a knee. Margaret’s hands lifted up her skirt, her nipples becoming erect underneath her shirt with no bra to conceal them. Molly reached for the other girl’s panties and shimmied them down her skinny legs.

Their collective breaths became fast and shallow. Their skin buzzed. Their bodies moving detached from fully conscious thought, like in a daydream, or a routine so practiced that it can be done without thought.

Margaret stared down past her skirt and saw the wisps of perfumed white cornstarch staining her big girl underwear. “Is that baby powder in my panties?” she asked.

Inwardly, Molly froze, feeling guilty that her past…modifications…to Margaret’s underwear had been noticed. Her eyes stayed locked to the carpet, but her arms and mouth continued unabated. “Must be something put in the diaper packaging,” she heard herself lie. “Probably why most kids don’t wear underwear over these things.” Another lie. “Might be a good idea to not put these one over the next one. It could ruin them.” Yet another. “Let’s keep your big girl panties off until this problem blows over.” So many lies in just that one sentence. Big girls didn’t wear big girl panties…they just wore panties. The phrase itself was double think worthy of Orwell.

It wasn’t a problem, either. Had it been a problem, Margaret would have made more of an effort to make it to the toilet, or had the idea to change herself, or would have put up some kind of resistance. Molly found herself enjoying this far too much and on levels both deeper and darker than she knew existed within herself. Molly’s own panties were becoming damp, just not because of bladder control.

Finally, deep down, Molly knew that this wouldn’t blow over. The little voice inside her whispered that this giant toddler in the wet Pull-Ups was who Margaret was, and the guardian, the caregiver, the mother helping her change out of her soiled training pants was who Molly was. This wasn’t a problem. This was the new normal. This was the way things should be.

But yeah…keep the lies going. Go big or go home, right? Right. These were the thoughts that washed up to the forefront of Molly’s mind as Margaret quietly stepped out of the adult underwear.

Neither of them knew, but at least one of them hoped, that it would be the last pair of panties that Margaret Masterson ever wore.

Both women breathed in sharply as Molly ripped the sides open, and caught the nearly dripping undergarment before balling it up and placing it on the floor; obliterating the façade that the soaking wet Goodnite was anything other than a pair of sized up toddler pants.

Hands normally used to sketch out the most intricate details popped open the top on a packet of baby wipes and withdrew the wet napkin. “This is gonna be cold,” Molly warned Margaret. “Sorry.” Molly made a note that she’d have to go out and get a wipe warmer at some point in the future. She’d have to order it online, of course. She clearly couldn’t leave Margaret alone to go shopping, and a part of her knew that Margaret wouldn’t like all the fuss. That’s why she’d been so resistant, Molly decided. She couldn’t handle all the fuss.

Margaret stood there, hands still holding her skirt up, as Molly took the single baby wipe and cleaned her up. As expected, and despite the warning (or maybe because of it) Margaret visibly shuddered as the cold damp cloth caressed her bare shaven sex. The wipe was placed on top of the balled up Goodnites, and a second one finished up Margaret’s backside. Molly relished in the momentary shudder when she probed between Margaret’s cheeks.

When she was done, Molly put the used wipe with the other and grabbed the Goodnite. “In ya go,” she instructed her friend, popping it open. Margret obeyed and stepped in the leg holes, still holding her skirt up as Molly pulled it the rest of the way up her legs, the material starting to stretch out. Margaret was skinny, Molly could see, but she was still a grown woman with full hips, and the padded bed wetting pants were made for kids who were still in elementary school, with smaller bladders and less surface area to protect.

No wonder these things could take only a wetting or two before they were on the verge of leaking. It was a miracle they held as much as they did. If this “problem” was going to continue, then Margaret would need something that she could wear instead of just squeeze into. Molly thought back to the order confirmations on her computer, and a thin smile appeared as she pulled the large pink pull-up diaper over Margaret’s hips.

The little grin was gone by the time Molly stood up. Still shorter than the woman whose training pants she’d just changed, she had to look up a bit into Margaret’s eyes to tell her, “There ya go. Try to keep this dry for a while, okay?”

Dumbly, Margaret nodded her head, shaking with what could only be excitement. “Okay,” she mumbled. While Molly moved to throw away the used Goodnite and wipes, she caught a glimpse of the other woman sitting back down on the carpet, her left thumb unsteadily inching its way to her mouth.

The image was almost too much for Molly. With hurried feet she shuffled over to her bedroom. “Gotta go,” she half-whispered through gritted teeth.

“What?”

Molly almost ignored Margaret’s question. A need was building up inside her and was ready to burst like a shaken up pop bottle. “IMPORTANT….STUFF!” she called back before closing her bedroom door behind her. She’d almost said ‘Grown-Up Stuff’, but voicing the words would have sent her over the edge.

Margaret might be the one peeing herself, but Molly’s pants were starting to become wet.

The young artist back flopped onto her bed and her nimble fingers went for the buttons on her pants.

Eyes closed.

Lips wet.

Panting.

Molly went to work.

She didn’t last long. In fact, she didn’t even finish. It was not to be.

Before she got too far into it, a switch flipped on in her brain. The post orgasmic clarity (and disgust) came before she managed to feel the barest hints of climax on the horizon. And just like that, the illusion she’d been fed cracked and she looked at herself from an outsider’s critical view.

What was she doing?!

Why was she feeling like THAT after changing someone like they were a three-year-old? What kind of sicko did that? What kind of freak was she turning into?

Molly’s stomach turned, a hideous, almost angry groan rumbled through her guts. Pants still around her ankles, she rolled over and vomited into her bedside wastebasket which until a few days ago had been filled with brushes and paints and other doo-dads that she had never found proper time to store away. Thank goodness for this new organizational streak.

The artist had run out of stomach fluid before the little pink wastebasket was all the way filled up. Praise be to small mercies. Her pulse pounding, and her breath racing, Molly rose to her feet wiping off bits of spittle and vomit from her lips. She’d have to empty the puke filled plastic bucket, she knew, but for the time being, her mess would stay contained and secreted away.

On unsteady legs, she wobbled back over to her computer and sat down. This had to stop. This whole…whole…whatever it was had to stop. She was treating Margaret like a small child all because of some bed wetting accidents. That was fucked up and wrong, and no amount of sophistic logic could convince her otherwise.

“I have to help her,” Molly muttered to herself, logging back onto her computer and going straight to her email. She blanched at the messages saying that all the things she’d ordered had already shipped. Her great windfall of sleepwalking productivity was being eaten away at by spending money on stuff she didn’t even want. Chances are she was going to have to eat the losses, bust her ass on the myriad of projects she’d miraculously snagged, and hope to get more work down the line.

Then again, these websites existed for a reason. There were people out there who actually wanted to buy this garbage. Worst case scenario, she’d sell the big diapers and baby clothes on ebay. She might not make a profit. She might not break even. But she wouldn’t have to have useless dress-up clothes taking up space in her closet or throw a bunch of money into a dumpster.

Okay. Okay. Maybe things weren’t so bad just yet. The situation was still salvageable, financially at least.

How to salvage her roomie though? Margaret was definitely getting worse. Pissing her bed and missing work were bad enough. Today, she’d regressed to peeing her pants and was watching friggin’ Sid the Science Kid in the living room. How to stop that?

A huff of annoyance puffed out of Molly’s throat, which still stung from stomach acid. Only one way to do it. Just one way to help her. “Gotta make sure she remembers to go potty,” Molly whispered to herself.

Wheels gliding across the floor, Molly moved her chair over to her work desk, and began sketching. It was rudimentary, just some straight lines in a grid, but it would do: Columns for dates, rows for aisles. Molly was short on stickers, but she knew she had some daubers that would work.

Instantly, she’d slapped together a coding system. Green would be dry, but no luck on the toilet. Blue would be dry and success. Yellow would be if Margaret wet herself and red would be…well she sincerely hoped she wouldn’t have to use red. For reasons beyond Molly’s understanding, what didn’t occur to her was that in devising a plan to make her roommate less childish, Molly Huang was constructing a basic potty training chart.

Without looking up, Molly reached into a supply drawer where she knew she’d kept the daubers. Instead of any of the bulky paint tube/stamp hybrid, her fist clasped around something small, flimsy, and rectangular.

It was a tiny matchbook, like something you’d get out of a cheap hotel. Tiny little sticks with red phosphorous heads poked out, sliding haphazardly with just a little shake. It wasn’t even full. Molly didn’t remember having a matchbook, but then again, there were lots of things she didn’t remember getting over the years; she was such a packrat. Maybe this was left over from her scented candle phase from a few months ago.

She closed the flap and examined the cover, hoping to jog her memory. The matchbook had a shiny reflective foil on it, but in bright red letters it had the words “True U Tattoo” on it.

(Tuesday)

Arms crossed, lip pouting, brow furrowed, and skirt and big kid Pull-Ups around her ankles, Margaret Masterson sat on the toilet of her bathroom with the door wide open, her Roommate peering in from her perch on the couch. It used to be her bathroom. Right now, Margaret wasn’t so sure. Nothing felt like hers the last few days, not even her bladder.

After some strange noises started coming out of Molly’s room- noises so loud that Margaret had to turn up Sid the Science Kid to drown them out- Molly had marched out with some poster board and grid paper. She explained how she was going to help Margaret, and went over an entire convoluted system of checks and color coding and everything.

There was a bit about “routines” and “reinforcement” and “expectations”. In short, Margaret was potty training again. Somehow, Margaret couldn’t find the voice to resist. The objections were there, and they were obvious; like, what right did Molly have to assume authority in “helping” her with her slight bed wetting problem? For some reason though, Margaret just nodded and agreed so that she could get back to cartoons.

So every hour today, on the hour, Molly had come out of her room and demanded that Margaret go sit on the toilet. Sometimes she got a blue, sometimes she got a green, she never got a red, and other than that time where she almost made it, (Molly had said she could finish watching that episode of Curious George first), she hadn’t gotten any yellows.

What’s the big deal? Margaret wondered. This was just a phase. Something to work out. Not some kind of crisis that required immediate attention. She had plenty of sick days left at work, (though she did forget to call out sick today…aaaand she’d been unreachable by phone since turning it off after the bus incident), and had plenty of these Goodnites to go through. She’d be ready for her regular underwear again by the time she ran out of Goodnites.

Right?

Right.

Margaret glanced between her legs and down into the bowl beneath her. The water was still clear and no telltale tinkle had rang out in her ears as she pouted. Another false alarm.

Margaret reached for her ankles and started when a nagging voice stopped her. “Did you flush?” She had an inkling to give Molly a piece of her mind- remind her that she was going along with this to humor her, not because she actually needed to- but restrained herself. Years of being nagged at her job had built up a tolerance.

Margaret let out a breath and then called back, “About to.”

“Did you wipe?” Molly asked, sounding every bit the mother to a child with bad habits.

Margaret closed her eyes so Molly wouldn’t see them and then rolled them inside her sockets. “Didn’t need to,” she replied, sounding annoyed.

“Okay,” Molly replied. “If you’re sure.” By the tone of her voice, Molly wasn’t sure.

As Molly grabbed a green dauber and went to put a mark on the chart she’d so tastelessly put up beside the T.V., Margaret looked outside the frosted bathroom window. It was finally getting dark. Rather than sit up and watch more cartoons or forage around her own kitchen for something to eat (and thus inevitably have to go through this stupid ritual again), Margaret decided to take the easy way out.

“I’m going to bed,” she said.

“Do you need-?” Molly started.

Margaret cut her off. “What? Do I need a diaper? I’ve got that. What-“

Molly looked hurt. “I was gonna say ‘hug.’”

(Wednesday)

DEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEP….

Molly startled herself awake and picked her head off her work desk. Damnit. The drawings she’d been working on: the candy mascot, the comic page, and the fantasy portrait- none of them had changed. So much for thinking she’d miraculously sleep pai-

DEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEP….

The piercing, annoying, maddening alarm broke off her chain of thought. What time was it? The sun wasn’t even out yet. Margaret must have set her alarm to go off extra early and extra loud to prove to Molly (and herself) that she didn’t need all this supervis-

DEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEP….

“MARGARET!” Molly screamed. “TURN THAT DARN ALARM CLO-“

DEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEPDEEP…

“HEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!” The muffled scream came from outside Molly’s door. “HEEEEEEEELP!” Molly jumped up and flung open the door to her bedroom. Only when she started coughing, from the cloud of smoke pouring into the living room did Molly realize that it wasn’t Margaret’s alarm clock going off.

A smoke detector!

Adrenaline pumping, and with no regard to her own safety, Molly bolted through the living room, ramming her shoulder into Margaret’s door. The smoke covered her eyes like a blanket, the acrid, burning stench causing her eyes to water.

Molly ducked down under the smoke, and caught a glimpse of a terrified Margaret, naked save for a sopping Goodnite pressed up against the headboard of her bed in a tight ball, while on the opposite wall, a tiny inferno belched out smoke, ashes, and burning baby powder.

Margaret’s underwear drawer was on fire…