Ink

Chapter 7
Part 7

Chapter Description: Part 7

(Thursday)

There’s a nearly universal experience; almost the exact opposite of “déjà vu”. It’s called a “senior moment”.  It’s that feeling that an otherwise mentally alert person gets when they walk into a room, or get in their car, or open the door of the refrigerator, and their mind goes blank.  They’re left staring off into the middle distance, and for moment their mind goes static like an old television with old wires and bad reception.  They wonder, “What did I come in here to do?” or “Where was I going?” or “What was it I wanted to eat?”  Then, the moment passes, and like that same old T.V. getting smacked on the side, the picture becomes clear again and they remember.  Either that, or they just walk away and go about their business.

Molly was having what felt like the mother of all “senior moments”.  She was in her apartment, her home that she had been in less than a full week; so much yet to do, she knew; but if a gun had been placed to her head she couldn’t begin to say what had happened or what exactly she had been doing or needed to do.

The walls of her living room were painted with murals of children’s characters.  Why?  She hadn’t the faintest of notions. Not even a week in and she had likely already violated the lease.  One of her little creative, whimsical, and perhaps drug induced fugues had likely overtaken her and now she’d have to repaint at least the living room before she moved out.  It likely had seemed like a good idea when she was drunk, stoned, and/or tripping on ecstasy.  She made a silent little prayer to whatever spirit or god out there that would listen that she hadn’t painted over her apartment.  At least then, months from now when she moved onto the next flight of fancy, she could hold up a paint swatch and figure out whatever boring shade of beige she’d need to buy and clean up her mess.

Speaking of moving, cardboard boxes littered the floor around her.  But some tiny voice in the back of her head, (déjà vu perhaps?) reminded her that those weren’t moving boxes.  She’d just gotten a delivery of some sort and had been in the midst of unpacking when she’d had her “senior moment”.  All of the sudden, the picture was becoming clearer.

Molly’s nose wrinkled as a disgusting, fetid, truly odious smell flooded her synapses.  What was making that god awful terrible sme-?

Scent is a curious sense: It is arguably the least important of human senses in terms of survival.  Rotting food, garbage and disease can still be detected through the other senses.  No one has ever needed to learn a new language or means to communicate because they had anosmia.  Most of the worst poisons are odorless, anyways.

And yet, for its tertiary status (if that) among our five senses, smell is still greatly valued.  Food tastes better when your nose isn’t clogged up by mucus.  How you smell is a key component of personal hygiene and daily social interactions.  Scent is said to be deeply connected to memory and parental associations.  Molly even had a psychology teacher back in high school who changed perfumes once she became a teacher as a way of transforming herself from “sex-kitten” to “matronly”.

Scent is important.

It was the scent, and the associations with it, that ended Molly’s “senior moment”.  Her daughter (that wasn’t quite right, but it’d work until the right word buzzed into head) Margaret stood in front of her, legs bowed and face red from strain.  Clothed in just a cloth diaper, (a very shoddy one at that; were those bedsheets?)  Margaret stood there, proudly as if she had accomplished a most difficult task.

Then it hit her.  “Uh oh,” she said.

Molly couldn’t help but smile at that and fall in love with her little girl all over again.  Little girl.  Closer, but not quite.  That’s when the lightbulb in Molly’s head flickered to life.  The bright coloring on the walls; the packages of supplies; a red faced Margaret; the toddlerish admission of guilt and the smell as evidence;  Molly remembered where she was and what she had to do.

“I think I know a certain someone who needs to be changed,” Molly said, grabbing a pack of diapers and ripping them open.  The perfumed lavender scent mixed with the offensive reek of Margaret’s accident; the new mixing with the old.

Margaret whined, but didn’t move. “Noooooooooooooooo!” she screamed.  Giggling, Molly paid her charge no mind as she scooped her up and laid her down to the ground. So dramatic.  Babies so often acted as if a diaper change were a death sentence.  Pinning Margaret with one hand, Molly reached out and grabbed a nearby packet of wipes, chuckling to herself all the while.

“Trust me, baby girl, you’ll feel so much better with a clean, fresh, and,” she emphasized, “real diaper.”

Margaret howled again. “Noooooooooooooooooo!”  The child’s objections went unanswered as Molly undid the safety pins on her makeshift diaper.  So over-the-top.  The girl might as well be shouting “Khaaaaaaaaaaaan!”.  At that thought, Molly had to suck her lips in to stop herself from laughing.  William Shatner in a diaper. Too funny.    “Big kid!  Panties!” Margaret insisted, meekly struggling against Molly’s grip.

The other safety pin came undone, and Molly pulled back the front of Margaret’s diaper.  Gesturing to the contents of the sagging sack as evidence, Molly said, “Honey, just because I put you in a cloth diaper doesn’t mean you’re wearing big girl panties.  Now hold still, or Mommy will have to spank.”

“Mommy?” Margaret echoed with a note of confusion.

“Uh huh,” Molly said.  Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a senior moment.  “I’m your Mommy.  You’re my baby girl. Now let Mommy change you.”  Without waiting for acknowledgement, Molly took her hand off of Margaret’s chest and moved to lifting her legs so she could go to work down below.  Margaret, for her part, just whimpered as wipe after wipe after wipe was dragged across her delicate skin.  Poor thing.

“Honestly,” Molly admitted to herself, “I don’t know what I was thinking when I put you in cloth diapers.”  There was more truth to that than the artist and single “mother” cared to admit.  She really didn’t have an idea of why her baby girl had been wrapped in a bedsheet.  She’d remembered a little factoid she’d read that Cloth Diapers were better for potty training since it allowed the child to feel their accidents happen; but Margaret was nowhere near potty training age yet, was she?  Maybe she’d forgotten to go to the store and run out of diapers, and thus had to improvise.  That wasn’t like Molly either.  She’d been super on top of things- at least since Margaret had come along.  Nothing made a young woman grow up faster than becoming somebody’s Mommy.

Regardless, she decided as she slid out the soiled sheets from underneath Margaret’s rear, those sheets were going straight into the trash.  Cloth or not, that diaper was being disposed of.  “Big kid!” Margaret insisted right as Molly was sliding a fresh diaper under her little bum.  So adorable.

“Maybe someday,” Molly said, reaching for a bottle of baby powder. “Someday you’ll be going to Kindergarten and dressing yourself and talking in full sentences and even going potty.”  A little voice in the back of her mind told her she was lying, she realized as she sprinkled the cooling white powder over her baby girl’s diaper area and started rubbing it in.

She craved the kind of intimacy that came with being a Mommy.  She loved the tender intimacy of moments like this, or breast feeding, or just the simple act of cuddling indoors on a rainy day.  Molly needed those things just as much, if not more, than Margaret did.  Rationally speaking, Molly knew that Margaret would eventually grow up…and sooner rather than later.  What would happen if Molly still had those needs?

She supposed she could just make another baby, but how would that be fair to Margaret, the tiny little voice in the back of her head asked.   The moment that Margaret was fully potty trained was the moment that she’d seek privacy and know shame.  Privacy was the enemy of intimacy.  Shame was the enemy of love.  Molly didn’t want her baby girl to ever have those enemies.  Why not just keep Margaret as her baby girl?  Wasn’t that the better option?  The more maternal option?  Yes.  Yes it was.  No need to let the baby know, though.  Babies just couldn’t understand.   “Someday,” Molly repeated her lie.  “But not today.”  Not ever.

Pulling the diaper up and taping it shut, Molly smiled in satisfaction.  “There we go.  All fresh and clean,” she announced.  With that, she pivoted and rose to her feet.  Scooping the absolutely vile pile of bedsheets in her hands, she looked for a garbage can.  “Now where to put this?” she wondered aloud.  How did you dispose of cloth diapers anyways?  Shouldn’t she wash them first?  At least dunk them in the toilet?  Maybe she could just put this in a garbage bag and throw it in a far away dumpster.  It definitely wasn’t staying in her home any longer than absolutely necessary.

The artist-come-mommy didn’t have proper time to consider her options when yet another emergency loomed large. The squeaking of the door hinge followed in quick succession by the door slamming backwards against the living room wall was the only warning Molly got.  “MARGARET!” she yelled, dropping the soiled sheet back onto the floor.  “GET YOUR CRINKLY BUTT BACK IN HERE!”

Margaret was more than halfway out the door before Molly was able to grasp ahold of the toddler’s wrist and drag her back inside. “Margaret, what on earth do you think you’re doing little-?“

CRACK!

Margaret’s tiny hand swung out in a fist and knocked Molly right on her ass.  She couldn’t believe it.  Not only had her baby girl hit her, but it had hurt; hurt bad.  “Hurt like a Cho De” as her own her own mother would have said.

“BITCH!” Molly spat, picking herself off the ground.  “You goddamn spoiled little bi-!”  Rearing back to throw a punch of her own, Molly set her jaw and decided to give her roomie a taste of her own medicine.

Roomie?

That was when the fog lifted from Molly’s mind. She looked at her own clenched fist and was reminded of the tattoo just below her wrist.  She gazed at a panting, angry, and yes, frightened Margaret; full grown, yet wearing nothing but a very babyish diaper sized for an adult.  The only thing that had a smile were the pastel colored teddy bears holding the balloons.

“Oh god, Margaret.” She gasped. “I’m so sorry!”

A nightmare can be defined as a “bad dream” wherein the sleeper experiences stress, anxiety, and fear.  A general sense of helplessness and lack of control are also notable characteristics.  Upon waking from nightmares, children often describe imagined scenarios where they were running from a monster, witch or another such bogeyman and yet were powerless to escape.  Everything would go in slow motion, or the ground would become putty beneath their fleeing feet, or the monster killing sword that they’re dream-selves just KNEW was in their hand a moment ago has suddenly disappeared.

Margaret was having a nightmare, albeit a waking one.  She was powerless.  The worst part yet, as she stood there, bow legged and knock kneed, her face red and the faintest trace of panting lingering in her chest, it was a nightmare partially of her own making.  The tattoo on the small of her back tingled with delight, almost snickering as she finished her latest act of spite against her would-be caregiver, Molly.

It wasn’t until she had emptied herself out into her makeshift diaper that she felt the weight- both literally and figuratively- to what she’d just willingly done to herself.  Bile rose up in her throat, just as Molly turned around and looked at her.

“Margaret!” she’d shouted, her voice filled with an intense mixture of surprise, disgust, and yes that most delicious of all emotions to elicit, anger.  But then, her Roommate’s eyes clouded over for a moment, and when they refocused, it was as if Molly wasn’t actually looking at her anymore.  Someone; some god, or demon, or Shen, or whatever the hell had been manipulating, had just changed the channel in Molly’s brain.  And all it had needed was the smell of Margaret’s not-quite-accident and the sight of her standing in a very used makeshift diaper to do it.

“Uh oh…” she said.  Regret is a little bit like seasoning as far as emotions go: All flavor, no nourishment. Regret filled Margaret’s mouth as Molly looked adoringly at her and smiled- sweetly and unironically- back at her.  Normally the phrase “like a funhouse mirror” means that the original image or intent has been warped into hideous parody of what it was.  The fact that Margaret’s own mean-spirited and spiteful smirk (a funhouse mirror smile in its own right) was being returned with complete affection and sincerity made it no less disturbing.

Molly bent down quickly, and without the smallest hint of anger or malice in her voice, said “I think I know a certain someone who needs to be changed.”  As she ripped open the vacuum sealed pack of adult sized diapers, Margaret’s nose was greeted by the pleasant smell of lavender mixing in with her own bodily waste; a strange kind of witch’s brew.

The taller girl tried to move, tried to retreat, tried to do anything other than stand there, feet rooted to the floor as if she were some kind of imbecile in a horror movie.  But this was a waking nightmare, wasn’t it?  And the victim never got away in the nightmare.  Up from the back of her throat, Margaret issued an absolutely blood curdling scream.  “Noooooooooooooooo!”  Surely, any nearby listeners would think that she was being murdered…or worse.

Molly only giggled, somewhat dementedly, as she closed the distance between Margaret and herself, fresh diaper in hand.  A tap at the back of her knees was all Margaret needed for her legs to buckle and be caught in Molly’s arms, gently lowering her to the floor.

Margaret tried to sit up, tried to roll over, tried to scramble out of the smaller girl’s grasp, but an open palm on her chest might as well have been an anvil.  How was Molly this strong?  Or was Margaret just suddenly this weak?  Six of one, half-a-dozen of the other.  End result was the same.  Just go with it.  That’s what the little voice that wasn’t quite Margaret’s whispered in the back of her mind as Molly reached with her free hand for a packet of baby wipes.

“Trust me, baby girl,” Molly told her.  Her voice was playful and reassuring, but something in the other woman’s eyes just wasn’t there. “You’ll feel so much better with a clean, fresh, and,” she emphasized, “real diaper.”  The word “real” made Margaret’s blood run cold.  Wetting her bed.  The Goodnites.  The makeshift mess clinging to her hips.  All of that was just practice for what was coming next.

Her body had been play-acting on her.  Everything before this moment had been half-measures and rehearsal for this very moment; baby steps.  Now, completely against her will, and with no assistance on her part, she was about to be put in a diaper.

A Big. Puffy. Bulky. Crinkly. Infantile. Soft. Diaper.  Not an incontinence brief.  Not bed wetting pants. Not training pants.  Not even an “adult” diaper.  Just a diaper that was big enough to fit a very big baby. A baby just about her size.

The safety pins being undone by Molly, Margaret let out another spine-tingling howl of anguish. “Noooooooooooooooooo!”  She looked up into the more petite girl’s face to see if there was any sign of recognition; any sign of her would-be friend in there.  Instead, Molly appeared to be holding back a hearty laugh; as if Margaret had done something absolutely funny…and…and…adorable.

Wriggling beneath her Roommate’s iron vice of a grip, Margaret tried to reason with her.  “Molly! Listen to me!” she pleaded.  “This isn’t you.  This isn’t me.  I’m an adult!  I haven’t worn diapers in decades! Literal decades!  And I don’t need them now!”

In reply, Molly undid the last safety pin holding her homemade underpants together and pulled back.  There, in all of its non-glory, now cooling in the open air, was what Margaret had just done to herself. “Honey,” Molly said, “just because I put you in a cloth diaper doesn’t mean you’re wearing big girl panties.  Now hold still, or Mommy will have to spank.”

“Mommy?” Margaret echoed with a note of confusion.  The last time Margaret had called her roommate that word it had snapped them both out of whatever trance they’d been in.  Now Molly was calling herself that.

“Uh huh,” Molly nodded.  “I’m your Mommy.  You’re my baby girl. Now let Mommy change you.”  Being called ‘baby girl’ made Margaret’s stomach churn.  She could only hope that that meant she was about to vomit.  A full sized adult spit-up would be preferable at this point.

Any chance at freedom that Margaret might have had was instantly downed. The moment that Molly took her hand off of Margaret’s chest, the latter felt an equal weight on the small of her back tugging her down to the ground.  The floor beneath her was flypaper.  She was a roach that had just checked into the motel.   The only thing missing was Margaret’s anguished and high pitched cries of “Help meeeeeeee.”

Meanwhile, Molly was going to town between Margaret’s legs with a barrage of baby wipes; moving her legs up and out as she deemed appropriate.  The taller woman (though was it really fair to call herself a woman at this point…wouldn’t “girl” be more appropriate?) flinched and gasped as each cold wipe was dragged across her again and again and again.  So cold.  So wet.  Almost too much to think straight.

“Honestly,” Molly said, clearly not expecting a dialogue, “I don’t know what I was thinking when I put you in cloth diapers.” Margaret knew the answer.  She hadn’t been.  The Shen, the god or spirit or whatever that had been weaved into the ink on their skin had turned them both into puppets.  Margaret had been put into a makeshift cloth diaper precisely because it’s what the tattoos had wanted.  They had gotten impatient with their little puppets, and had decided to turn things up a notch while they waited for the supplies to show up.  But now that all of the little accoutrements of adult infancy had been dropped at their doorstep, it was time for the party to really begin.

As if she’d just been shoved out an airlock and into the cold void of the cosmos, Margaret stiffened as her homemade diaper was slid out from beneath her.   “I’m an adult!” Margaret insisted, right as Molly slid the fresh diaper beneath her.  The twinkle in the other woman’s eyes told Margaret everything she needed to know.  No she wasn’t.  Not in Molly’s eyes.  The dry crinkling sound as her rump settled on the fresh padding might as well have been a death knell.

Her ‘Mommy’ chose to seize on that idea. “Maybe someday,” Molly said, reaching for a bottle of baby powder. “Someday you’ll be going to Kindergarten and dressing yourself and talking in full sentences and even going potty.” Margaret recognized that as the lie it was the moment it came out of Molly’s mouth. As the soft powdery flakes of scented cornstarch poured onto her private areas (though how private were they, now?) the Shen whispered the truth to Margaret:

She’d never be out of diapers again.  The only time she wouldn’t be padded up was during baths-babies didn’t take shower- and the fleeting moments during a diaper change.  This was her first of many diaper changes, an uncountable number, an infinite number that awaited her.  Never again would she have privacy or independence, or agency.  Never again would she have a moment to herself.  If she was lucky she might have a quiet moment here and there between going to sleep and being gotten up for the day, but other than that, she’d be under constant surveillance, constant monitoring, and constant care.  She was her Mommy’s baby girl.  And she’d never, ever, be allowed to grow up.  “Someday,” Molly repeated the lie. “But not today.”  Not ever.

Margaret held her breath as the diaper was pulled up between her open legs, and fastened on, one tape at a time.  The tiny cartoon bears holding the balloons smiled up at her, welcoming her to her new life.  Welcome to Babyhood.  Enjoy your stay.  You’ll love it.  “There we go,” Molly said.  She brushed her hands together.  “All fresh and clean.”  The baby girl wanted to cry, but they weren’t tears of happiness.

The weight pulling her downward had ceased as soon as the diaper had been properly fastened on, and Margaret found herself able to sit up again.  The temptation to undo the tapes said diaper was there, but Margaret had the creeping sense that such an act would cause her to fall floorward.

The act of changing done (until next time), Molly had risen to her feet and turned her back on her baby, gingerly picking up the absolutely disgusting sheets that had been wrapped around Margaret’s ass just moments ago.  If the ex-customer service rep hadn’t known better, she would have figured that Molly was in some kind of artistic trance, the kind seen in the movies before the genius has their “Eureka” moment.   “Now where to put this?” Molly said, more to herself than to Margaret.  Nope.  She was just trying to figure out where to throw the damn thing out.

It was a shame, in the ironic sense, that there wasn’t such a thing as an adult diaper pail.  Or was there?  Sitting on her padded rump, Margaret looked around the living room.  Cardboard boxes abounded, but they didn’t all have diapers in them, did they.   Some had diapers for sure.  Some had clothes, she could imagine.  And a little voice- hers or the Shen’s, she didn’t know-told her that some of the boxes had other items.  There were adult baby diapers.  Why couldn’t there be an adult baby highchair, or an adult baby playpen, or an adult baby crib?  There could be, and in the boxes, there likely were.  Diapers were just the start of it.  Margaret had so much more than just diapers to look forward to…unless she did something now.

Carefully, like a cat readying its pounce, Margaret gathered her feet underneath her, cringing at the loud crinkle that even the slightest movement on her brought caused.  She inched toward the door.  Molly was still in whatever la-la land she was in as she likely tried to remember which box had the adult diaper genie in it. T

She inched again. And again.  And again.  Then, just as her fingers were grazing the doorknob, the tall, slender girl, through the door open with a slam and dashed out of the apartment.  Naked save for the diaper, she ran out the door.  She might be embarrassed or humiliated; she might even be arrested for indecent exposure, but the bars of a jail cell were still better than the bars of a crib.

“MARGARET!” Molly’s voice roared after her.  “GET YOUR CRINKLY BUTT BACK IN HERE!”  In a fair world, the sudden fear combined with opportunity would have given Margaret an amazing adrenaline boost, allowing her to dash out of the apartment and run down the street, naked but free.  This wasn’t a fair world, however.  It was a waking nightmare.

Her legs became jelly.  The floor beneath her became quicksand.  A supernatural force gripped ahold of her at the small of her back and actually pulled her backwards towards the door, back into her loving Mommy’s arms.  A small but inhumanly strong hand grabbed onto Margaret’s wrist. “Margaret, what on earth do you think you’re doing little-?“

CRACK!

Without thinking, Margaret had balled her hand into a fist and swung at her captor’s face as if it had a target on it.  Turns out Molly had a bit of a glass jaw.  The diapered girl didn’t have any time to celebrate or bask in her victory.

Molly was up and fuming a moment later.  There was murder- or at least a spanking- in her eyes. “BITCH!” she screamed as she rose to her feet.  Margaret’s knees locked as the shorter woman marched over to her, her own arm rearing back to strike.  “You goddamn spoiled little bi-!”

She froze.  She blinked.  And then she looked- really looked- at Margaret.  ‘Mommy’ was gone.  Molly was in the driver’s seat again.  “Oh god, Margaret.” She gasped. “I’m so sorry!”

“What are we going to do?”

“I have no idea. I have no fu-“

“Language!”

Margaret bit her lip.  “I have no fudging’ idea,” she corrected herself.  Molly was at least courteous enough to blush apologetically for yelling out “Language” like Margaret was some errant toddler.  Though honestly, given the situation, either of them could be forgiven for swearing.

Apologies had been offered and accepted.  Hugs had been given and tears had been shed at the madness that their life had become.  Both mourned, however briefly, for themselves as well as each other.  Having hit rock bottom, they both went inside, and shut the door behind them.

They had shut the door behind them, and lost two hours in the process.  The found themselves standing in Margaret’s room- now a full blown nursery, the blinking self-setting alarm clock on the dresser indicating how much time had gone by.  Margaret’s bed had been converted into a crib with drop side railing, and a mobile dangling over it.

Her dresser now had a foam changing pad contoured to fit her slender frame on top of it; her drawers filled with diapers, wipes, powder, and soaker pads: a proper changing table.  Her closet had been utterly ransacked, and now nothing remotely “adult” was left for her to wear.  It was all onesies and rompers and dresses too short to cover anything but the top of her diaper.  Even the shortalls all had pictures of baby ducks and (dare she say it) the Little Mermaid stitched on the bibs.  Arguably the most adult thing in there was the sailor suit with light pink trim.

The kitchen wasn’t any better, with an adult sized high chair now taking up residence on the tiled floor.  The packaging that all of this ridiculous stuff had come in was all gone, now, along with the adult clothes that Margaret owned, (not to mention any number of whimsical, funny, or otherwise ‘immature’ t-shirts belonging to Molly).  Both of them prayed that it was at least Molly who had shambled out in a fugue and disposed of the stuff.

A pang of modesty buzzed in Margaret’s ear, and she crossed her arms over her breasts.  At least her diaper was still dry, she thought.  Or maybe she’d just been changed during the missing two hours.  Did the tapes look like they were on different, or was it just her?  The thought must have occurred to Molly too, as both of them cast an uncomfortable glance at the adult diaper pale next to the changing table.  Neither of them had the courage to look inside and see if it was empty or not.

“Whelp,” Molly said, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.  “We’re boned.”

“Hey,” Margaret whined.  “How come you can say naughty things, and I can’t?”

“Because I’m the adult,” Molly growled.  There was a tense silence.  They were already slipping.  “Fine,” Molly said.  “Knock yourself out.  Cuss.”

The taller of the two opened her mouth to swear like a dock worker, but nothing came up.  “Uh oh,” she said.  Molly’s hand swung around for the front of Margaret’s diaper and then froze.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“Please don’t say ‘uh-oh’ anymore.” Molly said.  “It makes me think you’ve had an accident.”  A beat.  A blush. Then she added, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I can cuss anymore,” Margaret admitted.

Molly’s face twisted.  “You weren’t much of a curser before all this.”

“Yeah,” Margaret said, feeling absolutely ridiculous, “but at least I COULD curse.  I think I might’ve actually been about to say ‘fudging’ the first time…before you stopped me.”

“That’s ridiculous. Try swearing.”

“Caca. Poo poo. Doodie. Meanie head.”

If either of them had been a little more drunk or a little less frightened, they might have laughed.  They didn’t.  “This is insane,” Molly scoffed.  “Our brains are being rewired.  We’re turning into…into…”

“Mommy and baby?” Margaret offered.

“FREAKS!” Molly shouted loud enough to cause the mobile above Margaret’s crib to rattle.  “FREAKS!”

“I’m the one wearing the diaper.”

“And I’m the one changing it!  Which do you think is worse?”

“I know which I’d rather be…”

Molly held up her hand.  “We’re not going back there again.  We lose our temper at each other, and then we make up in the worst way possible.”  Molly started pacing.  “Can you even take off your diaper?”

Margaret didn’t even need to try.  Her Mommy might as well have asked ‘Can you even breathe underwater?’.  Margaret shook her head.  “Positive I can’t.  Can you?  Take off my diaper I mean.”

The shorter woman drooped as if a tremendous load had just been piled onto her shoulders.  “Not to sound creepy, but I would honestly prefer to see you naked.  But alarms go off in my brain every time I even think about letting you walk around unprotected.”  Unprotected.  There was a new euphemism for “not looking like a pants-pissing moron”.  “I could probably get it off you in the bathroom, but then I think I’d just HAVE to give you a bath.”

“This is insane.”

“It is.” Molly agreed.  “These tattoos have driven us completely insane.”

That’s when the mother of all bad ideas crept up Margaret’s spine and straight into her brain. An idea so utterly stupid that it just might work.  “That’s it!”  Molly said.  “I’m insane.  You’re insane.  We’re both insane!”

Molly sucked on her teeth.  “What’s your point?”

“You ever seen Boondock Saints?” Margaret asked.  Molly hadn’t.  “It’s about these two street vigilantes who believe they are ordained by God to bring down the mob and the FBI agent who is hot on their trail.”

“And?”

“And one of the recurring elements in the movie is that the vigilantes have no idea of what they’re doing.  They’re keep knocking off mobsters because they’re insane and are doing stuff that is so stupid, no one in their right mind would prepare for it.”

“What’s your point?”

“WE NEED TO GO OUT!” Margaret gushed.

The room shook, Molly was shaking her head so fast.  “Are you kidding?  If we go out like this, we’ll get stared at. Maybe even arrested..”

The diapered woman was bouncing.  “EXACTLY! They’ll put us in jail. They’ll commit us! And maybe, just maybe they’ll have a way to snap us out of this!  Even if they don’t. I’d rather be in a straight jacket than diapers.”

“You do realize that those two articles of clothing aren’t mutually exclusive, right?” Molly interjected.

“I DON’T CARE!” Margaret screamed with manic jubilation.  “We go out.  We get our Mommy and baby girl on in public.  People are gonna notice us.  People are gonna yell at us!  People are gonna want to stop us! Then they’re gonna wanna find out what’s wrong with us!  Then they’ll want to cure us!  Even if I go to jail, even if I’m still in diapers YOU won’t be the one changing me!  So what do you have to lose?”

Molly nodded.  She didn’t smile, but a certain something sparked in her eyes.  Maybe it was hope.  Maybe it was madness.  Either way, it was worth a shot.  “That’s just dumb enough to work.”

“BOONDOCK SAINTS!”