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I have sinned                                                                      By Les Lea

The shower was warm but my body felt cold. The supposedly gentle healing spray could do nothing to stop the physical and mental truth – I had sinned.

Lying on the bathroom floor was proof of the defilement I’d visited on my own body. The evidence of my weak will, my compulsion, my sick, disgusting and pathetic need.

I cried out for forgiveness, though the water gurgled in my mouth and made the words a mockery. Would the Almighty believe I was sincere in my avowed intention of never doing it again? Would he let me confess to my wrongdoing and permit me a free and unblemished conscience? Would he look to the times I’d begged for forgiveness in the past yet see me return repeatedly to wallow in my sinful ways?

I fell to my knees, the rejuvenating spray bouncing off my body, as I pleaded for another chance.

The water ran cold... I’d been given His reply.

#

In the back garden I burned the very things I’d promised to destroy and undertook all the necessary requirements to prove I was truly repentant and it would never happen again. My lovely special clothes, the slippery, glossy protection, my padded delights by the package load I threw onto those all-engulfing flames. Would that be enough to satisfy Him of my desire to be perfect once more?

It wasn’t easy. I waivered more than once, tears of regret but determination coursing down my smoky cheeks. This was the correct thing to do – I was enthralled in the sin I’d had for such a long time. The one where I could, for just a little while escape from the busy and demanding world. Finding solace in the embrace of a simple piece of clothing that not only protected me but became a friend, but alas had abused that comfort once to many times?

But I was wrong. Sin is sin if we don’t follow the Heaven sent rules that Pastor De Auro proclaimed on his LOVE, PEACE AND BROTHERHOOD Channel. Sin! I’d never regarded anything I’d done as a sin but over recent days it had become clear, thanks to the good Pastor, I’d been fooling myself.

Ever since grandma had found this channel on her TV, one I bought to replace her aging and useless tiny set, it had been the only thing she watched. She knew she didn’t have long left; a terrible cough, aching bones and a bent back, together with the crippling cancer that was eating away at her, she’d found solace in the words of the Pastor.

“Listen to his truth,” she often directed me to sit with her and listen. She was an old eighty years old. Some people of her age are sprightly and can do anything, not grandma, she sat and sewed and watched TV but only that particular channel.

#

Grandma had taken me in when I was twelve and mummy had passed away. She occasionally called me Marty but that isn’t my name, that was the name of my twin brother who died when we were three. I’m Alan and we’d both conquered potty training and celebrated the lack of nappies to the joy of our close family when a sudden bout of pneumonia swept the country and affected Marty worse. He was bedridden, weak and returned to protection. Unfortunately, inside two weeks he was gone.

Dad couldn’t cope with mum’s depression, nor the fact that it was Marty who’d died and not me. I don’t know how dad had a favourite but it became clear that it certainly wasn’t me. I was delivered twenty seven minutes after Marty but I just never matched up to dad’s idea of his first born son. He hated me and mum after my brother’s death and by the time I was seven he’d made our lives a misery and eventually and suddenly disappeared. We had no warning, or suspected a thing, except one morning he was there, the next he wasn’t. It was a relief.

Over the years mum’s depression got worse and when I was twelve she took her own life. I was left on my own but that didn’t matter to anyone except Grandma, she took me in and despite the deprivations an old woman had to contend with, brought me up the best she could. By then I was a wreck myself, wet mornings were nothing new but after mum went I wet the bed almost permanently and there was a gloom about me that didn’t garner any friends and very little sympathy.

When I arrived at grans house she had a room ready for me but, and she made no bones about this, it was adapted to my needs. That meant I wore nappies and plastic pants; the bed had a protective rubber sheet and a chart on the bedroom door kept track of my wet mornings and daytime accidents. She said she wasn’t being cruel but wanted me to be aware of my problem and hoped I’d try harder to ‘snap out of it.’

+

There was very little spare money for disposables but gran, a professional seamstress all her life, had a ready supply of material that she quickly turned into fabric nappies for my use. Since I’d be living in her house she also supervised their removal and any changes – as she said, to keep an eye out for any infection. I wasn’t in any position to complain and Gran had been a constant in my life and held her in loving high regard.

Because of her skill with fabric and a sewing machine she’d always made clothes for me and Marty when we were toddlers. Mum and dad were always proud of their sons walking down the street dressed in unique but matching outfits.

Even when there was just me and mum (and money was at a premium) she’d come round baring a new set of clothes she’d put together, She not only had an eclectic array of materials, she also had quite an eccentric taste. Even if we weren’t that keen on it mum always said that as she’d gone to such trouble to create something special we had to wear it, which we did. She was never happier than when she saw her latest offering being worn as we went about our daily lives.

Gran was a constant and a woman I loved. She was always a person who tried to cheer me up and was one of the few who, after dad had left us, could make me smile. Her collection of the weird and wonderful creations didn’t stop and I’d find myself happily wearing some bizarre clothes. She even made me special underwear because she thought I might like to try something different to my usual cotton nappy. Silks, satins, nylon, she’d encourage me to be daring and different and when she made me laugh it never occurred to say “no.” With granny I was a happy boy

So, when we lived together, and despite our frugal existence (the only money coming in seemed to be from a small pension she had), we got on remarkably well. She made almost all my clothes and, although some might say they weren’t quite aimed at a boy my age, they sufficed. Over my night time nappy she’d made several sets of cute pyjamas using all the bits and pieces of fabric she’d collected over the years. So, one day I could be going to bed in a flannelette night shirt, another night a pair of frilly satin or silky shorts, and then on other occasions large cotton onesies. That was her passion, even at her advanced age, whilst her eyesight stayed and her fingers kept nimble, she’d work on all manner of odds and sods for me to wear. Some of the more fancy stuff, with frills and bows for instance, I never wore out but was quite happy to keep gran happy by wearing them about the house. She loved to see me in one of her creations, no matter how bizarre or inappropriate it might have seemed to anyone else.

There was never any argument, well, not much but as she decided what I’d wear once the usual soggy nappy was changed, I had very little say in what followed. I didn’t complain because most of the time it was just me and her and if she was happy, so was I. I loved my grandma and she loved and understood me.

#

My school days were always with extra padding under my uniform but gran insisted that I made sure the smell of pee was only in my room and made me take regular showers and keep “...that area down there” clean and tidy.

Despite everything, Gran brought me up pretty well and I responded to her constant encouragement and support. She helped where she could with my homework and I became quite an academic student. I left school with a handful of certificates that got me a very good job almost straight away and I was able to at last begin to pay my way and give Gran a slightly better standard of living than she’d so far endured.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t take too much advantage of this fact as her health began to deteriorate. Grandma had my mother rather late and we twins were fairly late when we eventually arrived. It was as if, now I could fend for myself (and oddly enough, as soon as my exams and school was over, I stopped wetting the bed), the fight went out of her and her decline was a daily thing we had to consider.

Just a quick note of how gran’s sewing skills proved successful – on my first job interview I’d decided to wear my only suit, a rather dowdy brown one with a shirt and tie. Gran decided that I looked like I couldn’t care less and spent the night creating something to ‘jazz it up’. The following morning she produced a brightly coloured, satin paisley waistcoat (and matching tie) to wear. I was dubious but she insisted it would make me stand out from the crowd of other applicants. I thought perhaps for the wrong reasons but, as it turned out, she was correct and I got the job. In fact, the boss who was interviewing me made a point of asking about it and I had to confess to Gran’s involvement. He was very impressed with her work and that I was looking after my granny and I got the job. The vibrant waistcoats became my trademark and were surprisingly much admired.

+

Thankfully, because I was doing quite well financially we kept the rent paid up to date, the utilities were never behind and I was able to drive her for the occasional day trip to the sea side. That was about as far as we could go or that she wanted to go, she always preferred her own bed and insisted that if she got worse, she wanted to die at home and not a hospital. I was made to promise I’d make sure that happened.

With Gran going to bed earlier and earlier each night I found myself craving for the affection I remembered when I wore nappies. Gran never stopped loving me, but I could hardly ask her, now I was in my early twenties, to start nappying me again so, I decided I do it myself.

It was amazing, the stress of looking after her and keeping ahead of the game at work was relieved by binding myself in at night, pulling up a pair of plastic pants, and letting my body enjoy the comfort and security a nappy offered.

Many of the things she’d made for me I got to alter slightly so they fit and I gained a whole new set of accessories that played into my secret fantasy. I was sure Gran didn’t know what I was up to but she might have... still if she did she didn’t say anything.

My work life and my fantasy life were working well together, that was until the pandemic which, like for a lot of companies, saw the one I worked for fold and I was out of a job.

I found myself at home and watching TV with gran and her only channel was with Pastor De Auro and his many friends; The Golden Mission they called it. They showed films about that mission and how it worked. The foreign churches and schools they’d built, the water project now enjoyed by smiling brown faces and who had never seen running water before. There was also no doubt that the Pastor was one hell of a salesman. I of course was sceptical but Gran was transfixed and I even saw her whispering a prayer every now and then, something I’d never seen her do before.

We had very little spare cash but Gran wanted us to send all we had to his ‘mission’ but I only pretended to. She said it would help “oil the wheels” for when her time came. Besides, the Pastor was doing such a wonderful job with those kiddies overseas in his outreach programme, all the while doing a great job of spreading the words of the Almighty.

Up until she’d found the LP&B Channel I’d never thought of Gran being that religious. I mean, she was never irreligious but church and Sunday observances were never high on her agenda. I suppose, when you feel your time is about to end, you want to make sure that if there is another place, you go to the one that has the better Public Relations

+

It was a strange moment when I found out I was a sinner. Gran had fallen asleep in the chair but the Pastor was still preaching. At one point, and I swear this is true, he looked straight down the camera at me and said that - if I was finding pleasure in things and not people, if I was content to pleasure only myself, if I was more interested in the love of self over the love of the Holy Spirit... I was a sinner.

The obvious personal attack, and the fact that losing my job had left me at a very low ebb, hit me hard. Every single word he was saying was like a slur on my life and lifestyle and, if I didn’t want to end up some poor useless and ungodly creature, I had to immediately change my ways. There was no doubt that Pastor De Auro was a charismatic, born again crusader whose declared intention was to save those in desperate need of Salvation.

His sermon was direct, unequivocal and denouncing. Each word and nuance hit me like a bullet, he was definitely talking about me, me, ME. I swallowed hard but the diatribe continued but I didn’t feel I could switch it off I was held spellbound and in the grip of THE TRUTH. I needed to change my ways.

As I sat and took in his words I found myself guiltily soaking the token of pleasure wrapped around my groin and though not for the first time felt the shame of my obsession. His words had not only pricked my conscience they had pierced me over and over again. Once or twice in the past I have had these knee jerk reactions to my own thoughts or some comment from others but this time... looking directly down the camera, I knew I was the sinner he was talking about. What’s more I knew his accusatory way was directly as a result of my love of wearing nappies.

So, hoping to rid myself of sin and shame... I had to purge... I burned the lot.

+

For the next week I mooched around feeling vulnerable and depressed. The Pastor had gotten into my head and I found it difficult to shake off his, what I thought, personal route to Salvation. I tried telling myself he was wrong but his words simply echoed around my head, reinforcing the condemnation and making me feel like the true sinner I was.

Grandma asked what was wrong. I found it hard to put into words what I was that made me a sinner and just how much the Pastor’s sermon had affected me. I’d always been able to lift Gran if she were feeling the effects of her illness but now I thought how could I, a sinner, relieve anyone else’s pain. I felt a fraud, a charlatan, an outlaw who’d enjoyed his obsession, his passion, his escape... his sin... without a thought for the true damage I was doing to myself and in so doing, possibly others. I just hadn’t thought about it in those terms until Pastor De Auro had called me out.

Gran was fading fast and I felt useless to help. The social services and doctor who visited had quietly told me to prepare myself for the worst but, what was I going to do without her? I’d been so wrapped up in my pleasure I’d not given much, if any, thought to what might happen when that time came. The Pastor was correct, I was a self-centred sinner.

Eventually, one night gran and I were sat next to each other on the sofa watching the TV, well, the Pastor’s channel and she whispered that she knew I hadn’t sent the money off.

“Yer sorry gran, I thought they were just a con but...”

“No, no, sweetheart, you were right, the whole bloody thing’s a scam and I nearly fell for it.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

“Has the Pastor’s words affected you?” She held my hand, hers was frail and cold but despite that there was a strength in her misty eyes. I nodded.

“Is that why you’re moping around the house like it’s you that’s dying and not me?” She forced a half-smile. I nodded again but her hand seemed to warm in mine and he voice found further strength. “Then sweetheart take no notice. I was a fool to think a man on TV could make a difference, to stop time, to give a second chance but, try as I might, if he makes my lovely, thoughtful, loving, grandson unhappy, then it’s him whose the devil and not you.”

I was embarrassed to tell her why his words had had such an effect.

“Alan,” she didn’t call me Marty, “you have been my constant companion since you were born. You may not have known it but both your mother and I relied on you after your dad, erm, walked out.” A shiver ran down my spine.

“But” I pointed at the screen with the Pastor in full flow, “he said I was a sinner for liking, erm, well...erm...” I stalled. I didn’t want to say the word nappies but that’s exactly what I meant.

“Ahh,” she grasped my reluctance, “your love of nappies?” Again I guiltily nodded. “Well love, I’ve been supplying you with those things since you were a baby and, as you got older saw just what they meant, sorry, mean to you.”

The warmth in her hand was now radiating through me as she appeared to strengthen in spirit. “It hasn’t been a secret in this household because it was one to be encouraged not hidden away.” I was speechless as she continued. “Of course, you may have wanted to keep it all private and under-wraps,” she chortled at her own joke, “but those nappies and your childish attitude has been more positive than negative. I’ve loved every minute of inspiring you, sewing new items, providing stuff to make you feel how you wanted to...” she coughed, this was becoming a strain. She took a deep breath but had to settle back and wait for her second wind.

“Sorry Gran,” I murmured, “I burned everything because he said I had sinned. So I have nothing left even though it hurts not to be me. I’m sorry if I’ve let you down.”

I don’t know if I was making any sense, or even if she heard me, but saw that her eyes were closed and she appeared to be asleep or resting. Her breathing eased and she looked at peace so I wondered if I should help her up to bed like I had done many times. As I shook her she appeared to get a second breath.

“Alan love, you have nothing to be sorry for.” She pulled me in closer to hear her frail voice, “Under my bed there are many, many things I’ve made for you for when I’m gone... go and get them and wear them with pride... because I am and always will be proud of the sweetest boy who ever lived. You have nothing to feel guilty about and that Pastor...” she pointed at the screen that was still on, “can go to hell” and switched it off with a flourish.

+

Gran’s words were amazing. She’d lifted me from the depths of despair and given me something no one else could ever do. I was elated at her wonderful understanding words and the final act of shutting down the Pastor was the gift that made everything all right.

I helped her up to bed and she made me take the two suitcases of things from under her bed and put them in my room.

“You’ll find all you need for the immediate future in them my love and I hope you enjoy...” again she seemed tired as, over the past few minutes, it had been taxing for her to pull all her energy together.

“Thank you Gran,” I stroked her face as she settled under her wool blankets, “you know me better than anyone so I should have known you knew about my ‘secret’ ways.”

She smiled a weak smile, “Sweetheart, you’ve always been an open and honest book to me... I love everything about you...” her voice trailed off.

“I’ll let you sleep Gran; I love you too...” I kissed her cheek and heard her murmur she loved me too. I turned off her light, her small frame covered by her favourite blanket – she was in the place she wanted to be. It was a moment, a shiver and a strange pain hit my heart as I closed the door and made my way back to my own room.

“Night-night gran.” I somehow knew it would be the last time I’d ever say those words.

+

It’s now two weeks since Gran died and I’ve just buried her in the grave next to grandad as per instructions. The two cases did indeed carry all the things she said for my immediate comfort. Amongst a whole array of clothing she’d made some incredible fleecy nappies which I never wanted to take off. There were also a bundle of fantastic items that were both childish, outrageous but comfortable, just as she said there would be. She also left details for her funeral (and who not to invite – Mrs Trembor for a start, she couldn’t stand that interfering woman). It was a small list but her choice of funeral music was exceptional and, not what I’d expect an old lady of eighty plus to want - “Going Underground” by the Jam.

There was yet another thing that was especially important and that was her will. Everything was left to me, which I presumed was nothing because she had nothing, I was wrong. Gran was sitting on a huge inheritance from her husband and family, which she never used. Except, she had used quite a lot, one thing she confessed in her last will and testament was that she paid off dad to go. He was making mum and me unhappy so she paid him £100k to disappear, which he happily did.

Meanwhile there was more. Apparently, my mum had fallen out with her father, my grandad over the marriage. She wanted nothing to do with his money and refused point-blank to accept any of it. Gran was able, at times of trouble, to filter the odd amount into our coffers to help out. Mum didn’t know about that either. Now, as the solicitor has just informed me, there’s a considerable sum of money coming my way. When he told me the amount I have to confess that I wet my thick granny-inspired fleecy nappy in excitement.

Gran, I love you and the life you’ve always given me and continue to do so.

I shall wear my soggy nappies with pride and in memory of the woman who understood me more than I understood myself.

I raised a glass.

“To my loving, knowing and perceptive best friend... Gran.”

#### the end ###

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