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By Bel George · Posted
Chapter 10 The nights settled into a steady rhythm, marked by the stickers on the kitchen door. Each morning Mum would press one into place, and each morning Charlotte and I would stand there together, waiting to see whether it was a golden sun or a blue teardrop. Our fates were joined: her freedom tied to my progress, my progress spurred on by her impatience. It felt strange, after all she had done to make me stumble before, to now have her pushing me forward. But it was a common goal, and for a while at least, that made us feel almost like allies. On the third morning, Mum pressed another golden sun onto the chart. It looked small there, one sticker among the blank squares, but it was mine. Three dry nights in a row. At breakfast Charlotte leaned over her bowl, glancing at the door where the chart hung. “Three already,” she said, almost surprised. “That’s a start.” It wasn’t much, but it was the first time she hadn’t smirked. I felt a flicker of pride. By the time Mum placed the seventh sun on the calendar, the row was beginning to look impressive. Charlotte stood a little straighter that morning, her eyes fixed on the neat line of gold. “Halfway,” she whispered at breakfast, her face brighter than I’d seen it in weeks. That night, when Mum stepped away to answer the phone, Charlotte nudged my foot under the table. “You’ve made it this far. Just keep going. Don’t mess it up now.” I realised then how much she wanted it. Maybe even more than I did. Her freedom was tied to mine, and she was desperate for it. When the tenth sun went up, the chart was filling at last. Two clean lines of gold, proof that I was closer than ever. Charlotte fetched the sticker herself this time. She pressed it onto the chart slowly, carefully, as if it mattered where exactly it sat. “Double digits,” she said, pride and longing mingling in her voice. I should have been thrilled, and I was. Fourteen meant freedom. Fourteen meant the end of plastic pants and thick cloth. But standing there beside her, I felt a knot in my stomach. Charlotte’s eager face didn’t help. She had once smirked when I stumbled, even made sure of it. Now she was almost begging me to succeed. By the twelfth morning, the kitchen felt electric. Mum pressed the sun onto the chart, and Charlotte leaned close to me, whispering like it was a secret. “Two more. Just two.” She hovered all through breakfast, restless, glancing at the chart again and again. That evening, over dinner, she nudged my foot under the table. “You can make it, Oliver,” she said softly. “You just have to want it.” I nodded quickly, forcing a smile. And I did want it. I wanted it badly. But seeing her so desperate, after all she had made me endure before, twisted the feeling inside me. A part of me wondered, did I really want to hand her the freedom she craved? On the thirteenth morning, the kitchen felt charged before anyone spoke. I could feel it in the way Charlotte hovered by the calendar, her arms folded but her eyes fixed on the empty square. Mum peeled the backing from the sticker and pressed a bright golden sun neatly into place. “Thirteen,” she said simply. Charlotte let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. She turned to me, her eyes shining. “One more. Just one more, Oliver.” Her voice was low but urgent, heavy with hope. I nodded, my cheeks burning. Thirteen. It was the furthest I had ever gone, the line of gold stretching nearly across the whole row. I should have felt nothing but pride. And I did. Part of me swelled with it, my chest tight with the thought that maybe I was finally proving myself. But the other part twisted. Charlotte’s smile, her desperate eyes, the way she leaned toward me like my success was her only escape. It made the knot in my stomach grow tighter. I wanted it, I really did. Fourteen nights, freedom, proof I wasn’t hopeless. Yet a whisper inside me asked if I wanted her to be free just as badly. All day her mood was brighter, lighter. She fetched the salt at lunch without snapping, hummed a tune while drying dishes, even nudged me gently when I drifted off at the table. “Just one more,” she reminded me again. “Tonight’s the night.” That night the house was quiet, the hallway lights already off. Charlotte had gone to bed smiling, certain that tomorrow morning would bring her freedom. I lay in my own bed, staring at the ceiling, the thick padding snug under the blanket. Thirteen suns in a row. Just one more. I had told myself I wanted it, that I was aiming for fourteen. But the truth was, I could bear another fourteen nights in diapers. It was embarrassing, yes, but familiar by now. What I couldn’t bear was giving up the one bit of control I had left. The knowledge that Charlotte’s fate was tied to mine. She hated every moment of it, dreaded each bedtime, and counted the suns more desperately than I did. And the only power I had over her, the only way to keep her in the same trap as me, was to let the chart reset. If I made it to fourteen, she would be free. I would have nothing. My bladder ached faintly, the pressure steady and insistent. I could have held it. But I didn’t want to. I turned on my side, clutched the blanket tight, and made the choice. I let go, the warmth flooding into the padding at once, heavy and certain. My heart pounded, but my mind was strangely calm. Tomorrow the suns would be gone, the chart would reset, and Charlotte would still be stuck. The kitchen felt different that morning, tense before anyone spoke. Charlotte hovered close to the calendar, her hair still damp from her shower, eyes fixed on the thirteenth sun as though willing it to become fourteen by itself. Mum checked me first. She tugged at the waistband of my pajama bottoms, felt the sag of the thick cloth beneath, and her verdict was quiet but firm. “Wet.” The word hit like a hammer. Charlotte’s head snapped around. Her face drained of colour. “No…” Mum sighed softly, peeling the thirteenth sun from the chart. She plucked away the whole row one by one, until only the blank squares remained. “Back to zero. Fourteen nights must be in a row. That is the rule.” Charlotte clutched the back of a chair, her knuckles white. “But he had thirteen! Just one more, he was right there!” “The rule is clear,” Mum said, her tone calm as ever. “It has always been clear.” She dropped the stickers into the bin. Charlotte’s eyes shimmered, fury and despair mixing in her face. “You ruined it,” she hissed at me, her voice breaking. “One more, Oliver. Just one more.” I stared at my plate, cheeks burning, unable to meet her eyes. My heart pounded with guilt, but beneath it throbbed the quiet truth: this had been my choice. Mum poured herself coffee, unfazed. “Eat your breakfast, both of you. We start again from tonight.” Charlotte sat down heavily, her lips pressed tight, her eyes fixed on the table. She barely touched her toast. The days blurred together, one golden sun after another, until the calendar filled again. A second line of stickers stretched almost to the end, neat and accusing. Thirteen nights, again. Charlotte hovered by the chart that morning, her shoulders rigid, hope etched into every line of her face. “One more,” she whispered, her eyes meeting mine. “This time, Oliver. Please.” That night, after dinner, Mum left us to clear the dishes. Charlotte dried while I stacked plates into the cupboard. The silence was thick with expectation. And then I pulled the chilled bottle from the fridge. A full litre of water. I cracked the cap, raised it to my lips, and drank in long, steady gulps. The sound filled the kitchen, sharp in the quiet. Charlotte froze, dish towel clutched in her hand, staring at me as the level in the bottle sank lower and lower. I drained it, wiped my mouth, and set the empty bottle on the counter. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She didn’t speak. But her eyes said everything. Lights were out, the house quiet. I lay in bed, the padding snug around me, when her whisper cut through the darkness from across the hall. “You’re doing it on purpose.” My stomach clenched. “You don’t even care if you make it to fourteen. You want me stuck in these stupid things as long as you are. That’s why you drank all that water.” Her voice wavered between anger and hurt. “Tell me I’m wrong.” I swallowed, my throat dry. “I… don’t know what you’re talking about.” Silence stretched. Long, heavy, suffocating. Then her voice again, smaller this time, almost breaking. “You don’t even have to say it. I can see it. You want me trapped.” I squeezed my eyes shut, the warmth already spreading into the diaper as my body gave way. My silence said more than any words could. The kitchen was silent that morning. Mum tugged at the waistband of my pajama bottoms, felt the sodden cloth, and gave her calm verdict. “Wet.” I swallowed, staring at the tiles. Mum peeled away the line of thirteen suns, one by one. By the time she finished, the row was empty again. “Back to zero. Fourteen in a row is the rule.” Charlotte’s lip trembled. “But he’s doing it on purpose, Mum, I know he is! He doesn’t want me free, that’s why this keeps happening.” Mum set her cup down, her voice calm but final. “You’re imagining things. Oliver is learning, just more slowly than we’d like. Until he proves otherwise, the diapers continue for you both. End of discussion.” Mum shook her head, her voice even. “This only proves why the trial period is not too long. If you can wet yourself after ten, twelve, thirteen dry nights, then fourteen is not excessive. It is necessary. In fact, if this keeps happening, if you manage ten nights dry and then relapse, I may have to increase the trial period to a full month. That would be more realistic.” “Oliver,” Mum said, her tone steady, “you must learn to hold it through the night. Until then, the diapers continue. For both of you.” Charlotte flinched at that last part, her fists tightening. She sat heavily at the table, shoving her plate away untouched. Her despair was raw and heavy beside me. I lowered myself into my own chair, the wet padding squelching underneath me. But I had chosen it. -
By ValentinesStuff · Posted
There was a Chinese Emperor who was elderly and had no heir. He adopted one of his Generals as heir. His court treated the adoptee as a baby for the ceremony. -
I consider myself a medium quality writer, and I'm over here taking notes! Cipher is doing amazing work with this story. Different cultures, a robotic tiger, the mafia, complicated rituals that would have me like "Y'all are nuts", the robotic tiger again. (I like animals, I can list it twice if I want) the works I've gotta up my game. -
By Star dreamer · Posted
I’ve said it before but my goodness your ability to paint a scene that becomes alive in your mind is incredible…with tears in my eyes I could feel Paul’s pain with the uncertainty of what life will bring next and then with the emotions of both Bryan and Lily in trying to figure how best to help him. What path is the right path and how do they choose. So many uncertainties… the last scene though with him curled up in the rocking chair and remembering his mother…I could just picture Lily walking up the stairs after hearing a noise and finding Paul there. In my minds eye I can see it…moonlight shining through a window and shining on Paul in a soft glow. How long did Lily stand there watching him and seeing the same thing that Bryan…with Paul being younger and trying to find solace in the memory of his mommy. Between the rocking chair and his heavily soaked trainer and his body tight with stress and vulnerability. In that moment it was probably the easiest decision so far in trying to figure out what type of mom that Paul needed. She saw a child hurting and trying to find comfort and she stopped thinking and just let her heart decide for her. Al that mattered in that moment was love and guidance and being there. This is officially my most favorite story on this site…❤️💕❤️ Thank you for pushing this next chapter out so fast. -
"Well Kayla first we are going to talk and you will listen. You know I'm more than fair as is Sandy but you've crossed a big line. Sneaking out i could almost just give you a warning, but add in the attitude, the accidents and the drinking last night. Absolutely not! This is unacceptable and will not be put up with! You dont wanna be talked to like a "little kid" but so far in just the last 12 hours you've proven to be trusted about as much so. So here's the deal Kayla so listen up. You will be going to a councilor every other day starting today. You will be in bed by 8pm. And you will listen and respect Sandy as your step mother and Me. Neither of us will tolerate you being childish or you'll be treated as such. Understand?" Dad says with authority that Kayla only saw in her dear daddy's eyes when she was in deep trouble. Sandy sat there quiet but impressed by Dave stepping up and laying down the law with his daughter.
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