School Creative Writing Entry (WARNING: hard hitting)

Its a vamped up version of a post you guys have already read..only far better written.

“Saturday”

Every day had its bad points. Even the best of days would involve an incident that left him wondering; “why me?” This day, though, was a day that will remain in his memory like salt in the oceans. It is cemented in, deep, haunting him, stalking him. To kill the memory would be to kill himself; the memory, the, becoming his murderer.

“It was a Saturday. Mother and I were shopping in Kingston. We stopped off at the food court for lunch before heading home. The trip had been successful; I’d found my new jeans and mother her jacket. She went up to get our food and asked me to stay with the bags to ensure that they weren’t stolen. For anyone else: no problem. However, as she was queuing and I was watching the bags, an urge hit. The nearest toilet was at least a two-minute walk away. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave the bags but I couldn’t stand in the middle of a crowded room and soil myself.

I panicked.

I walked as fast as I could through the crowded room, clenching tighter with every step. My efforts were futile. I kept a brave face on and pretended like it hadn’t happened. I calmly walked to the door of the men’s toilets and, with my head held high, entered.

I don’t know why I chose to not wear a diaper that day, but the demon of regret sat there laughing at me as I lost another pair of boxers to Ulcerative Colitis. I waited to hear that the sink area of the toilet was empty before rushing out of my cubicle, putting the dirty underwear in the bin and escaping without being seen. I returned to our table at the food court before mother had realised I’d even left. I didn’t bother mentioning what had just happened; I just ate my lunch and smiled; smiled like everything was alright. The same smile I would force each and every day since being diagnosed with this awful disease. She bought it, just like everyone always did.

The experience in the food court was, as much as it pains me to say it, normal by this point. On numerous occasions, I would have accidents without people realising and quietly sort myself out. It is what happened next that haunts me in my sleep-the Freddy Krueger of my dreams.

At approximately 16:35, we got in the car and began the hour drive home. I was at the wheel, as I wanted the practice for my imminent driving test that I was so desperate to pass. The sun was shining, the radio was blasting and the food court memory was slowly fading away.

We were approaching Worcester Park, so home was still another 30 minutes away, when my tummy rumbled. A shot of pain in my lower abdomen queued the urge.

It was bad.

I saw a pub to stop at and go, but it was too late. Three seconds after the urge had hit, three seconds, disaster struck for the second time that day. The food court incident was a mere paper cut compared to the coma in which I had now fallen. It had not occurred to me until a few moments later that not only was I not wearing a diaper, but I was no longer wearing underwear due to the prior mess. The new jeans that I had bought only that afternoon were ruined. The leather seat of my car-to-be was ruined. My confidence, pride and self-esteem were officially ruined.

The noise and, of course, the smell, made it impossible to hide from mother. She offered support but I immediately cut her off. “Please, don’t say anything”.

I opened the windows and we sat in silence for the remainder of the journey. I held back the tears and focussed on the road, trying to ignore the fact that my legs and buttocks were covered in my Colitis ridden, warm, bloody stool.

We pulled into the driveway to the sight of my father standing in the porch with a towel and a black bin bag. He wrapped the bag around me, like a giant diaper, and I slowly waddled into the porch, up the stairs and into the bathroom.

The floor of the shower turned from a crisp white to a mixture of red and brown. I had asked my parents to leave the room, so that I could clean myself in an attempt to regain some sense of self-worth. I didn’t need them. Having them help by this point would have been too late. The damage was well and truly done.

I dried myself off, put on new clothes and walked downstairs. No one said a word. The day just carried on, just like all the others. We sat eating dinner pretending like what had happened was normal. In a sense, though, the months of rectal bleeding, popping 30 pills a day and multiple accidents had created a sense of normality to the events that Saturday. A sense of normality far from normal.