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Flash Fiction: Advanced
🕑 Added 2023-04-18 15:53:52 +0000 UTCFlash Fiction: Advanced
Day 2
You’re wandering around the re-education center’s playroom. You feel the old familiar cramp in your stomach, and the fullness in your bottom.
You stop.
You pick a spot in the middle distance.
You bend your knees slightly.
You push.
No muss. No fuss. No crying. No shouting. A slight groan rattles up from your throat, but that can be forgiven. You feel your cheeks spread and your anus stretch while you push. Gravity helps a tiny bit, but the brown squishy mass hits the back of your diaper very quickly. You’re going to have to push the rest of the way.
This is weird. This is gross. This is weird and gross. Just don’t think about it.
Don’t stop!
You keep pushing. It’s easy. Your stool is soft and your sphincter muscle’s need to contract and push makes it feel more natural than it is. Just keep pushing. Don’t think about the mucky warmth. Don’t reach back and feel the lump that is forming.
You just push and push and push until the pain stops and you unintentionally sigh with relief. Then, like a good ‘baby, you keep toddling around as if you had no idea what just occurred. You ignore the body temperature mess or the smell that is starting to invade your nostrils.
“Hold on,” one of the Mommies says. That’s what the center calls them here: Every woman is ‘Mommy’. Every man is ‘Daddy’. She reaches around and squeezes the front of your diaper without preamble or explanation. “You’re a little wet, but I don’t think you need a change yet.” She gives you a tiny swat, right on the lump of protruding out the back of your onesie. “Okay. Go on.’
So you do.
Three steps like nothing happened,and the same hand that groped you snatches you by the wrist. “Hold up! Almost forgot!” That’s a lie, but you’re smart enough to correct her. You’ve seen what happens to the babies that correct the Mommies and Daddies. A mushy tushy is better than a blisteringly smacked bottom.
She starts patting your backside, practically massaging the lump in your non-pants. “Oh wow! You really made a big poop!”
A droplet of sweat starts to form on your forehead.
“Good baby!”
She tugs at your wrist and leads you away. Your spirits are only slightly dampened when you realize she’s not leading you towards the changing tables, but you chastise yourself. This doesn’t bother you. It won’t bother you. You refuse.
This Mommy parks herself in a rocking chair and pats her lap. Without hesitation, you sit down in her lap. Your face is a mask of comfort as the lumpy mass is flattened and spread out to more of your bum. You nuzzle her forehead with your own like you’ve seen the other, more successful babies do.
You feel and smell gross, but you remind yourself: You’ve been here forty-eight hours, and in that time you haven’t seen a single baby have to change themselves. Diapers are only gross when they’re your problem.
You add to that rationalization with a dash of hope. You’ve only been here forty-eight hours. Someone will rescue you. Your pardon will come. They’ll know you don’t deserve to be treated like this.
Mommy produces a bottle and offers it to you. You take it and start suckling on it while she rocks you both.
“You’re doing so well!” she praises you. “You’re such a smart baby!” You are. You know what’s up. “Most babies your age need help and reminders! But not you!” She gives you tiny pecks on your cheeks and strokes your hair. “You must be advanced!”
You’re not advanced. You’re just not stupid. Since you’ve been here you’ve seen a boy screaming through his pacifier shaped gag while Daddies held him down and inserted an enema tube up his ass. He needed help pooping. Another girl asked for a change during naptime, so today they overfilled her bladder, waited until the wetness indicator turned all the way blue, and then chemically sedated her so she got used to laying in nothing but a wet diaper.
Good babies played the part they were given. Those who didn’t, had things turned up to eleven until being a regular baby didn’t seem so bad.
The room starts spinning and the Mommy hugs you closer so you don’t fall out of her lap. “Uh oh. I think someone’s getting sleepy,” she coos tauntingly. “I think someone needs a nap.”
Your lips start to move, to ask about getting changed first. But your speech is too slurred to comprehend. That wasn’t just milk you’d been chugging.
She bounces you on her lap, making the poop smear and smash up, as if your pants are filled with the foulest smelling playdoh. “Aw, you’re so tuckered out,” Mommy says. “I was gonna change you, but I think the rest is more important.”
You did everything right, and you’re still getting the extreme treatment. It’s not fair. You can’t win.
“Let’s put you down right away, my clever little baby. Then we’ll change you…if you need it.”
You can’t win.
That’s the lesson. No matter what you do, you’re going to be a baby and at the whims of whomever isn’t.
That’s the real lesson.
And it didn’t even take you two days.
Maybe you are advanced.
Comments
Brandon Horton
I'm loving these flash fictions you're doing
