Warning: This may be a bit different than what I wrote in the past. This story contains death, controversial issues, and there might be some sexual situations later. I haven’t gotten to the diaper content but it will be there in future additions. I usually write in first person, but this story had to be written in third.
Write and Left
Life and Death Decisions Made Casually: Day One
The bell rang and Angela stood up gingerly to leave the classroom. She clenched her butt cheeks together and walked as quickly as she could toward the bathroom. She passed by the rows of lockers and didn’t even stop by her books.
Her stomach rumbled and she winced in pain as the cramp hit her. She squeezed her cheeks with all her might, but she knew she would make it to the girl’s bathroom. She had to. She was eighteen and a senior in high school. There was no way she could live down an accident.
The cramp subsided and she continued her journey to the porcelain relief. It was just down the hall. She hurried as fast as she could, but she couldn’t run or even walk normally or she would poop–in her panties. Still, she persisted until she made it to the bathroom.
The girl’s room was a mess at 1:30 in the afternoon. There were paper towels on the floor, lipstick on the mirrors, and she was sure she would find pee on the seats, but it didn’t matter. She was desperate.
She groaned in disgust. All of the stalls were full. She stood in front of the row of stalls waiting. “Please hurry. I’m desperate.” Her voice sounded soft and alien to her.
“Hold on a bit,” a girl called from one of the stalls.
A girl flushed and exited a stall and Angela stepped toward it. Before she took a second step, she felt another cramp in her abdomen and she bent over slightly. That was all it took to make it the worst day of her life. The load she had been holding in Mrs. Miller’s class squeezed out in her panties.
It was sudden, her accident. It wasn’t slow; it just came out and there was a lot of it. Her load was wet too, but solid enough that it met the resistance of her jeans and spread in the seat of her panties.
She looked around and saw at least ten girls who were staring at her. One of them had her mouth open in surprise, but soon they would all know and then the who school would make fun of her.
She felt a blob of poop escape the leg bands of her panties and ride its slimy journey down the inside of her blue jeans to the floor.
“She pooped her pants,” a girl said.
“Hey everyone,” one of the girls yelled into the hallway. “Angela pooped her pants.”
Angela wanted to say something. They had to be wrong. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. She heard a pattering noise and looked down. To add insult to injury she was peeing her pants as well. She could only stare as the wet patch on the front of her jeans grew.
“I wish I could die,” she said.
Bridget Addison cowered in fear in the passenger seat of her big rig. Eighteen wheels of power moved uncontrollably down the street. She was supposed to be the driver. She had the commercial drivers license to prove it. She also had the hazardous materials and explosives endorsements that allowed her to haul the 9000 gallons of gasoline in the tank trailer behind her rig.
It was supposed to be an easy job. She didn’t even have to leave the city. She just drove around from gas station to gas station refilling their stock. At five o’clock she would return to the oil depot and drive home in her own car.
Today was different. As soon as she left the oil depot, she headed toward her first stop. It wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods, but she had always felt safe. She had grown up here. In fact the truck driving school where she got her license was in the same neighborhood. She was the only pretty thirty-two-year-old in the whole class.
When she arrived at the first street light she had to stop. The armed gunman opened the driver’s side door and pushed her aside as he mounted the cab of her eighteen wheeler.
“Sit quietly or you’re dead,” he said. He took the wheel and begin to drive east away from the city.
It wasn’t worth dying over someone stealing gas. Bridget sat still in the passenger seat. Still the calculations came to her head. That was her talent. Gas was $2.53 a gallon for regular. With her combined load of super and medium grades as well, the fuel was worth $23,470. She made a little more than that in a year, but not much. It was still not worth her life. She pulled her knees up to her chin and stared at the gunman.
The man drove in silence. Every so often he pointed the gun in her direction, but he still had to shift. Bridget needed both hands to drive. At lights and on straight roads she could reach for the radio or even take a cell phone call, but she generally kept one hand on the steering wheel and another on the shifter just in case. The highjacker had to shift and hold her at gun point as well as steer. She cringed with each metal on metal crunch as the rig clipped other cars.
“Slow down,” she yelled. “You’ll get us both killed.” Sirens sounded in the distance and she knew it wouldn’t be too long until the police caught them and she would be safe, unless…
The man pointed the gun at her again. “Shut up or you’ll get it,” he yelled.
…unless he planned to hold her as a hostage. She shivered. She just wanted to get home to her apartment and forget about today.
The gunman turned a right and Bridget saw the trailer take out a fire hydrant as the rear of the trailer hopped the curb. Bridget felt the whole rig shake and she worried that her cargo might ignite. A full load would sure be hazardous.
He turned left again, but it was less violent.
“Why’d you turn here?” she asked. “This road only goes to the school.”
The gunman turned off into the grass and drove toward the Arthur Miller Elementary School building.
She realized what he was doing and knew she had to do something. She waited until he had to shift gears and then dove for the steering wheel. Riding her momentum, she turned the wheel to the left, hoping to turn the truck away from the school.
The truck careened and jackknifed around and she was thrown free out the window of the semi. She lay on the ground stunned, the wind knocked out of her. If she could have taken a breath, she would have breathed a sigh of relief as she watched as the tanker missed the elementary school.
Her relief was short lived as the tanker plowed into the building next to it: the middle school. She watched in horror as the gasoline exploded on impact. The screams of the students mixed with her own as she woke up in her sweaty jumpsuit.
“Will you knock it off?” yelled the inmate in the cell next to hers. She looked at her surroundings. Bars, a steel toilet, the narrow cot in which she slept, and more bars. She had awakened to the same nightmare every day since the terrorist attack.
“Today is the last day I wake up screaming,” she promised. The next time she went to sleep, she would never wake again. The terrorist who had tried to ram her truck into the elementary school was consumed in the explosion. The terrorist group had also claimed responsibility for the attack. No one had believed her that the gunman existed and today she would die because she couldn’t prove that he was the real killer.
“If only I would have turned the wheel to the right,” she whispered. She knew if she did that, the elementary school would have been hit. She had twelve years to relive the attack over and over again. Every day she had second guessed herself as she sat in a prison cell.
At least today she would be able to eat what she wanted. She knew a New York strip steak, a slice of apple pie with ice cream would be on its way to her today. She debated with herself on the ice cream. She didn’t dare eat dairy products because lactose intolerance would give her digestion problems, but she figured she may as well enjoy the ice cream because she wouldn’t be around long enough to need to worry about the after effects.
She went to the sink in her cell and splash water on her face and returned to her cot to wait for her fate.
The priest hadn’t been helpful. The food, on the other hand, was divine. She walked slowly down the hallway toward the waiting gurney.
“Will you want the needle in your right arm or left,” an orderly dressed in white asked her.
“Does it matter?” she asked. She hopped up on the gurney. Is this really how things are going to end, she thought.
The orderlies strapped her down to the gurney. A strap across her knees and chest and wrist and leg cuffs made any desire to fight impossible.
She could have fought. She almost wished she did as they rolled her into the execution chamber, past the witnesses. The witnesses were some of the parents of the middle school children. Most had to watch the execution on a video monitor outside the prison since the number of witnesses were limited to twelve.
Their eyes stared cold daggers into her as she lay helpless as the execution took an alcohol-soaked cotton swab and cleaned her arm.
“Is that to prevent infection?” she asked. She smiled a bit, but no one else seemed to think it was funny. Gallows humor couldn’t hurt, could it?
“Do you wish to make a statement?” the executioner asked.
“I tried to stop him,” she began. “If only I’d turned the wheel to the left. No that wouldn’t have worked. Or if I fought him before he was going to hit a school…” She stopped talking when she realized she was only babbling.
The executioner took the needle inserted it in her arm.
At the same instant Angela Murphy said, “I wish I could die,” Bridget Addison said, “I wish I could live.” Both of them got their wish.
Bridget almost stumbled. First she was lying horizontally and then she was standing. She looked around. She was in the middle of a bathroom surrounded by high school kids. Was this hell? It had to be and the students must have been what the children her truck had killed would have looked like when they got older. No, the math wasn’t right. Those students would be in their mid thirties now.
“Angela pooped her pants. Angela pooped her pants,” the students chanted.
Bridget’s legs felt warm and wet. She looked down. She had peed herself. She smelled a foul odor, felt a glob of poop rolling down her leg. She had pooped her pants.
If she had pooped her pants, who was this Angela girl that did the same?
A blonde girl walked into the bathroom. She looked at Bridget and her eyes traveled downward toward her crotch. She pushed through the crowd and took Bridget’s hand. “Stop making fun of her. You should be ashamed. Go to class.” She pulled Bridget out into the hall.
The blonde girl was pretty, but just a tad chunky. A size eight or ten, Bridget thought. No, this is high school: a size seven or nine. She wore jeans and a long sleeved shirt. On top of the shirt she wore a T-shirt that said, “I heart dorks.” She wore the yuckiest brown glasses Bridget had ever seen. They had big eighties lenses like Bridget had worn in junior high.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you to the nurse’s office.” She pulled Bridget by the hand.
She was in still shocked by what happened. One minute she was about to be executed and another minute she was standing in the middle of a high school having disgraced herself.
Bridget felt the school nurse’s eyes glare at her. “You’re eighteen?” she asked.
“Miss Grosstree wouldn’t let her go to the bathroom,” the blonde said.
“She is very strict,” the nurse agreed. “We’ll have to call your mother to pick you up.” She turned toward her desk and picked up the phone.
“What is your mom’s number?” the nurse asked.
“Umm,” Bridget said.
“It’s 555-8273,” the blonde said.
The nurse dialed.
“Angela, I got to get to class,” the blonde said. “I’ll call you tonight.” She turned and walked away.
The nurse was already on the phone when Bridget looked away from the blonde. “Mrs. Murphy. You daughter had an accident. You need to come to school right away. No, she’s okay. She just soiled herself. I know she’s eighteen. No, it is not usual at that age. Just come and pick her up.”
Bridget was confused. She wondered who Angela and Mrs. Murphy were. She had a sneaking suspicion, but she dared not speculate. She stood inside the nurse’s office flushed and embarrassed. She refused to think about how she had gone from the death chamber to a high school.
Twenty minutes later a woman arrived. She looked to be in her early fifties. From the look on her face, Bridget thought she looked very angry. She walked straight toward Bridget. "Young lady, what do you have to say for yourself? How old are you?
Bridget blushed. “Umm, I…” She wasn’t about to tell this woman she was a death row inmate. She hoped the age question was rhetorical. She was thirty when the attack happened and she spent the last twelve years on death row, but she wasn’t going to tell her age in front of this stranger. “I’m too old to be having accidents,” she said.
She had to walk the walk of shame through the halls to the parking lot. She followed the woman outside toward the parking lot in silence. She kept her head down as she walked toward the car. As she walked she felt the poop slide around in her panties and against the inside of her leg.
“How could you disgrace yourself so badly?” said the woman. "I could imagine a first grader having an accident, but you? You’re eighteen years old and a senior. She led Bridget to a maroon Taurus and opened the passenger side door.
Bridget was about to get in, but the woman grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t sit down,” the woman said. She opened the back door. Bridget watched as the woman stripped the plastic off the dry cleaning laid in the back seat. She put the plastic on the passenger seat. “You can sit down now.”
Bridget sat. It felt disgusting enough to have poop in her pants, but when she sat down it was worse. The poop was soft enough that it squeezed into empty spaces inside her panties. Some felt like it moved to the front of her panties. She hoped it didn’t go inside her.
The woman got behind the wheel and they drove off. The only conversation was the woman berating the state of her underwear.
Bridget just ignored her and looked out the window. When she caught her badly angled reflection in the mirror she froze. Her wavy red hair was now dark brown and straight. Her face was now had the glow of youth. It wasn’t her face. She put her hand to her face and the reflection did the same. This wasn’t even her body.
She looked at the woman. Her colorations and looks were an older version of the reflection. “Mother?”
“What?” the woman said.
She didn’t know what to say. Was this how reincarnation worked? She didn’t think she was in Heaven or Hell. She didn’t know much about reincarnation, but she had thought reincarnated people start their new life at birth, not as an embarrassed teen in high school.
“What, Angela?” the woman, her mother repeated.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m sure you are,” her mother said. “You still are grounded. No TV and no computer beyond what you need for schoolwork, understand?”
Oh joy, do I really have to repeat this horrible part of growing up too? she thought. “How long?”
“For the rest of the week.”
That wasn’t too bad. “It’s Wednesday, right?”
“Yes,” her mother said and turned into a driveway.
The house was a suburban two story house. So much for lucking out and being reincarnated to a rich family. Maybe her karma was wrong because of how she reacted during the attack. What if she could have turned the truck far enough to the right? Would have she have ended up in a rich family or at least made the transition with clean underwear?
“Now straight to the bathroom,” her mother said.
I hope she didn’t think I would sit around stinking like I am, she thought. She had to waddle a bit as the poop was stuck to her bottom. Worse, it was starting to cool. Her pee stained thighs felt as if they were freezing.
Her mother led her to the bathroom and left her standing inside. “Don’t move. I’ll get a trash bag.”
Bridget looked longingly at the bathtub, but she stood on the cold tiled floor until her new mother returned.
“I think everything from the waist down is a loss.” She shook open the trash bag and set it opened on the floor.
Bridget kicked off her shoes and stepped inside the trash bag. She looked at her mother, but shrugged and lowered her pants and panties down into the trash. She looked down at her poop-streaked legs and sighed.
“Would you like me to help you clean up?” her mother asked.
The woman might be her mother, but Bridget still felt like she was a stranger. “I can handle it, mother.”
“Okay, I will lay some clothes on the sink for you.” She left.
Bridget took toilet paper and tried to get the worse of the mess off her legs and bottom. She let the paper drop into the trash bag. The shower that followed made her feel somewhat clean again. The water washed away the smeared poop, the horrible smell that seeped into her skin, and the clammy feeling of cold pee, but it didn’t make her feel truly clean again.
When she emerged from the shower, the disgusting trash bag was gone. Clean panties, jeans and a T-shirt lay on the counter. She dried off with a fluffy white towel and dressed into the new clothes.
When she left the bathroom, her mother noticed right away. “I put your backpack on the bed up in your room. Work on your homework until I say you can come down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bridget. She walked up the stairs and into a hallway. She didn’t know which was her room, but she knew it was the one with the red backpack on the bed. She looked in all three bedrooms until she found the one that was hers.
The room was smallish. It contained a twin bed, a writing desk with a Macbook on it and a large chest of drawers. A bookshelf stood by the window, filled with horrible romance novels. Bridget shuttered at the sight of them. The room was overly neat. That told her that information about herself would be easy to find or not there at all. The red Jansport on the bed showed the most promise of having the information she sought.
She unzipped the backpack and dumped the contents onto the bed: five spiral notebooks, a physics textbook, a Pre-Calculus book, and an English book lay on her bed. She opened the small pocket on the backpack and took out a cell phone, a little brown leather calendar, and a romance novel with a bookmark in it.
She picked up the little leather book and opened it to the first page. Inside in very neat handwriting was her class schedule. She groaned when she read the list of classes. Physics AP, Pre-Calculus AP, English AP, Fundamentals of Computers, Spanish II, and Study Hall. At least she had a study hall.
She had taken German in high school, but she didn’t remember much. The only Spanish she knew was from coworkers. She hoped it would be enough. She would have to seriously study to catch up. She’d also taken Physics and Calculus during the two years before she ran out of money and had to take that job at the department store. If her father wouldn’t have fronted her the money for truck driving school, she would still be working retail. During the past twelve years, she wished she would have stayed in retail. Her truck would not have been hijacked and her father would not have died of a heart attack the day she was arrested.
She opened the calendar to the current date. Every date had the date each homework assignment was due. Her new life had been incredibly organized.
She started on the pre-calc assignment. It took her over two hours to do. There were at least twenty-five complex problems and she had to read the text portion of the chapter and consult her notes to even know what to do. All the problems were even numbered problems, so she couldn’t look for answers in the back of the book. She had to solve the odd problems anyway so she would know she was doing the problems correctly.
Physics was different. She thought physics would be hard, but they were studying electricity. The problems were just resistance or capacitance of circuits, and her father was an electrician. She knew the theory. It was simple to calculate those problems. That took another hour. She was about to open up her English book, when her mother opened her bedroom door.
“You can come down for supper,” she said. “How is your homework coming?”
“Two subjects down.”
“Come down and eat.”
Bridget went down the stairs.
The table was set for two. A TV dinner was set at each place. “I didn’t make a big production of dinner because your father is not here tonight.”
“Where is he?” Bridget asked.
“Don’t you remember? He is one of the witnesses to the execution.” She frowned. “I wanted to be there to see that horrible woman put to death myself, but there were so many parents who lost a child at that school.”
Bridget froze. Was she talking about her. “The woman who couldn’t stop the terrorist from…”
“That woman was the terrorist, and you were in kindergarten then. Your poor big sister died because of that wicked woman.”
Bridget remembered when the joy that the tanker missed the elementary school turned to horror as she watched it veer into the middle school instead. The twelve years of second guessing her brief struggle with the terrorist. She relived every scenario in her mind and still no matter what children died and she couldn’t go back and fix it anyway.
At least she had not been put to death. By Fates she ended up in a young body. She smiled when she thought of the chaos that was probably ensuing due to her disappearance from the gurney. The timing was none too soon; needle had almost gone into her vein.
She dug her fork into the food and tried to take a bite. Her lasagna, cooked with all the finesse of a microwave, seemed a bit more satisfying.
Her mother looked at her watch. “We’re missing the News.” She picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV. “I’ll let you watch this even though I grounded you from the TV, but Angela,” her mother said, “No other TV until you are ungrounded.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bridget said. She felt excitement. She was going to relish hearing the news of her magical escape. She could barely eat her meal as she impatiently waited for the weatherman to stop droning on about cumulus clouds.
“In the capital today, the terrorist Bridget Addison was set to be executed.” The TV screen showed protesters out protesting the death penalty.
Bridget scowled at them. She hated death penalty protesters in spite of the fact that the death penalty had made a mistake in her case. She looked back at the screen.
“Two hundred forty children died when Bridget Addison rammed a tanker truck into a middle school.” The screen showed another group of people holding signs. One said, “Burn, Bridget, burn.” “I wish we could strap her to a tanker and light her up,” said a man when a reporter held a microphone up to her face.
Just wait, thought Bridget, until they announce my escape.
“At 1:32 PM,” the news announcer continued, “Bridget Addison was given lethal injection. She jokingly asked if the alcohol on her arm was to prevent infection, and then made a rambling statement. When she finished, she whispered something to the executioner, and lay back as the needle entered her arm. She then screamed for her father, and was pronounced dead at 1:36 PM”
It couldn’t have happened like that. She didn’t die. She was sitting right here watching it on TV. Sure she had another body, but it was a newly created life she was starting anew. Wasn’t it?
What if it wasn’t a great escape, but she just traded bodies with Angela Murphy? That girl was innocent of everything, but if their bodies were switched… “Oh God, Oh God,” she said. She had another life on her conscious now. She felt hot as the blood rushed to her face. Her whole body felt numb and then her thighs felt warm.
A pattering sound came from beneath her chair, but she couldn’t investigate it until the news story ended. “They killed her,” her she said. She finally managed to look down and just stared at her lap as she finished peeing her pants.
“Angela Mae Murphy,” said her mother. No, it was Angela’s mother. She was just a cuckoo egg left behind to devour the woman’s children. She was a pretender. “Angela, you’re peeing your pants.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. She forced herself to look in the woman’s eyes, “I’m truly sorry for everything.”
The lady looked at her with sad eyes. “Go to your room and change.” The woman sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Angela.?”
Bridget got up from the table and went to the upstairs bathroom. She undressed from the waist down and threw her wet things in the hamper. She walked bare-bottomed to her room and got dressed into some clean clothes.
She heard an annoying tune. Her phone sat on top of her bed where she had dumped everything out and a light on it was flashing. She picked it up.
“Are you okay?” the voice asked.
Bridget looked at the display on the phone. “Lia?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Are you all right? I felt bad leaving you in the nurses office, but I had to go to class. The whole school is talking about your accident.”
She’s the blonde girl with the glasses, Bridget thought. “I was afraid of that? Do you think they will make fun of me for the rest of time, or did I just lose temporary coolness points?”
“Angela, we are both in AP courses and we are in the top ten percent of the class. We never had coolness points.”
“Oh,” she said disappointed, “Any other bad news?”
“Umm, yes,” said Lia, “but I can’t tell you because it will make you cry.”
“Go ahead,” Bridget said.
“It’s about Evan Fiscus.”
She had no clue who the guy was, but the way Lia was going on, she probably should know. “Is this news going to change any of my plans?”
“Yes. He is being a bastard about your accident. He told me to tell you he won’t take you to prom anymore. He asked that ho, Julia Grass instead. I’m so sorry, Angela.”
“Oh, darn,” Bridget said. She really didn’t care about Angela’s boyfriend and it was just as well. It was bad enough replacing a daughter that was executed in her place. A complex relationship was just too much.
“You’re taking this well,” Lia said. “I hope you’re not getting depression. If you’re sad you can talk to me.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I just had a really bad day. I actually forgot how to speak Spanish.”
“What? You’re the best Spanish student in the class. Just re-read the conversation over and over. We have until Monday to get it down. We can practice this weekend.”
“Well I suppose you called me about homework. I finished Pre-Calculus and Physics.”
“In English, just read the last three chapters of Brave New World. Miss Crampton is going to have us compare 1984 to Brave New World in an essay we have to write. That’s not due until next week. In Spanish: just work on our conversation. You wrote the whole thing in your notebook. You know this backward and forward.”
“Okay, so I just memorize my part and we read it together like in a play?” I ask.
“Yes. Are you sure you are all right. You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m so grounded though.”
“For how long?”
“This fundamentals of computers class: I don’t have the book at home with me. What do we have to do in there?”
“You’re usually the organized one. The Powerpoint thing is due Friday.”
“The power what?” she asked. Oh God, I am so screwed, she thought.
“Your Powerpoint Presentation.”
“Oh,” she said, “Powerpoint.” The Internet really took off while she was in prison. She had limited access to computers, but she could get magazines and read about them. She had had plenty of time to read.
“You’re acting a little weird.”
“Sorry, I am really drained because I had the worst day of my life today.”
“Well I will let you go. I will see you on the bus.”
“Bye,” Bridget said and closed the phone.
Bridget opened up the spiral notebook labeled Spanish and flipped to the last marked page. Each line had neatly written gibberish following the name Angela or Lia. She flipped back until there was a heading. The conversation was three pages long.
“Tomorrow, get the pronunciation of every word,” she said to herself. She pulled out her book for English class and read 1984 halfway through. “Catch up on this too,” she said.
She packed her backpack and got ready for class. She wasn’t sure she wanted to face high school again, but she knew it would be an improvement over yesterday. She changed into pajamas and went to the bathroom.
She got ready the best she could. She refused to guess on the toothbrush, but there was a spare in the cupboard so she opened and used it. She made sure she peed before going to bed and left to her room.
The bed, clean of the backpack contents was actually comfortable. It was a big improvement over a prison cot. She covered up and soon was asleep.
The truck drove on through the early morning light. All eighteen wheels gleamed. The silver tank held its 9000 gallons. Each stop was written in red marker on her map. She knew which roads to take. The hijacker came again like every other night and the dead children invited her to relive her failure to save them again.
Tonight was different. There was another dead child. She waved out the door of the elementary school, as the truck skidded into the middle school. “You’ll kill me to save yourself,” she accused.
The dream usually ended when the truck crashed but tonight, it continued into death row. Tonight Angela Murphy lay on the gurney. She screamed and screamed as the needle entered her arm. “You killed me to save yourself.”
Bridget sat upright in the bed. It was just a dream. She felt at the sweaty sheets, but they were wetter than usual. She lifted up the blankets and turned on the lamp. She had wet the bed.
How many accidents was she going to have? First in the kitchen and now in bed. She didn’t count the one in the bathroom because technically that was Angela’s accident, not hers. She had nightmares almost every night for twelve years, and this was the first time it made her wet the bed. She hoped Angela didn’t have a weak bladder or anything.