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AARDVARK, PLATYPUS, AND TWINKLETOES: ATTORNEYS AT LAW, SCENE 36: HUNTING DOWN THE FRAT BOYS 1 2 3 4 18
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By Diapered Identity · Posted
Chapter 48: The Sentencing Nobody spoke. The wood stove ticked. A log collapsed inside it with a soft, ashy sound, and the embers flared briefly behind the glass. The standing lamp hummed. The clock on the wall counted seconds that nobody wanted. Liam sat on the towel and stared at his own hands. They were folded in his lap, covering what they could, the fingers laced together so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. The thermal top ended at his navel. Below that — skin, towel, chair. The scrubbed patches on his inner thighs burned against the rough cotton. He could smell himself — faint, ammoniac, stubborn — and he knew Sophie could too, half a metre to his left, her hands flat on the table, her eyes fixed on a knot in the wood. Grace sat at the head of the table. She smelled of tobacco and cold air. The cigarette had done something to her — taken the volcanic heat from her voice and replaced it with something worse. Something patient. She folded her hands on the table. Looked at him. "Right," she said. "Now we talk." Liam didn't lift his eyes. "Look at me, Liam." He looked. Her face was still flushed, but the wildness from the bathroom was gone. In its place was something controlled and administrative — the face of a woman who had stepped outside, breathed, smoked a cigarette she didn't know how to smoke, and come back in with a list. "What possessed you," she said quietly, "to tell that girl you're a drug addict?" Silence. "I'm asking you a question. What went through your head? You're standing there with a nappy full of piss, and the best thing you can come up with is cocaine?" "I didn't know what else to—" "You didn't know?" Her voice rose a fraction, then came back down. Controlled. Precise. "You couldn't think of anything — anything at all — other than telling her your mother is some paranoid lunatic chasing her innocent son for drugs?" She shook her head slowly. "You made me the villain, Liam. You took everything I do for you — every single night, every single morning — and you turned it into a story where I'm the problem." "I was trying to—" "You were trying to look cool." The words landed flat and hard. "You were trying to be the bad boy with the tragic past. The misunderstood rebel. And all you had to do was make your mother look insane, and suddenly the nappies disappear and the wet beds disappear and the zinc cream disappears, and you're just a boy with a glamorous secret." She let the silence build. Then she leaned forward. "Let me remind you what the unglamorous truth looks like, Liam. Since you seem to have forgotten." No. Please. "When's the last time you had a dry night?" She waited. He said nothing. "Go on. Tell me. Tell the table. When was the last time you woke up in a dry pull-up?" His mouth opened. Nothing came out. Because there was no answer. There had never been a dry morning. Not once. Not a single time in four months. "That's right," said Grace. "Never. Every single night, without fail, I take a soaking wet nappy off you and clean you and cream you and put a fresh one on. Every morning. Like clockwork. Like a baby." She wasn't performing for the room. She was talking to him — to Liam, directly, her eyes on his face, her voice cutting through the silence with the methodical precision of someone ticking items off a list. But Sophie was there. Sophie was hearing every word, half a metre away, staring at the knot in the table with the rigid concentration of someone trying to turn themselves to stone. "And it's not just the nights any more, is it?" Grace continued. "You've started wetting yourself during the day. Twice this week. In your clothes. Standing up, walking around, surrounded by people — and you can't hold it." She knows about today. She knows about the bar. "And then there's the state of your pull-ups when I change you." Grace's voice dropped. Not with drama — with disgust. The quiet, exhausted disgust of a woman who has been cleaning up after someone for months and has run out of ways to find it acceptable. "The other day — I took your nappy off for the evening change, and do you know what I found? Poo. Dried into the padding. Because you'd been to the toilet that morning and you couldn't even be bothered to wipe yourself properly. Three swipes and a flush — that's what you gave it. And then you sat in it for twelve hours." Liam closed his eyes. He could feel the heat climbing his neck, his ears, his scalp — a total, consuming burn that had nothing to do with the stove. His fingers twitched in his lap. "I spent five minutes cleaning you, Liam. Five minutes, with wipes, on my knees, because you can't manage your own backside. Like a toddler. Like a little boy who hasn't learned to reach." The words fell into the room like stones into still water. Each one sent a ripple outward — through the air, through the table, through the half-metre of silence between Liam and Sophie. She said it. Poo. Wiping. On her knees. Sophie heard all of it. "So please," said Grace, and her voice was cold now, stripped of everything except a bone-deep fatigue, "don't sit there and tell me you were trying to protect yourself. You were lying. You lied to Sophie, you lied to me, and the only person you were protecting was the version of yourself that doesn't exist." The silence that followed was so complete that Liam could hear the snow shifting on the roof outside. A small, soft sound, like the cabin breathing. James cleared his throat. It was a small sound — uncertain, almost apologetic — the sound of a man who rarely spoke in these moments and wasn't sure his voice would hold. He had his hands around a glass of water. He wasn't drinking from it. He was holding it the way a man holds something to keep his hands from shaking. "Right," he said. He looked at Grace, then at the table, then — briefly, painfully — at Liam. "I think... I think that covers it, Grace." He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. "Liam." His voice was quiet. The disappointment in it was worse than anything Grace had said, because James almost never did this. James deferred. James checked out. James read Grace's lines badly and escaped to the window. But right now, James was present, and the weight of that presence was immense. "You owe Sophie an apology. A proper one. Not to us. To her." He paused. "Tell her why you behave like this. In your own words. So she doesn't have to hear it from your mother." Why you behave like this. Liam turned his head. Slowly. The movement felt mechanical — a hinge that needed oil, a neck that had been welded into position and was being forced to move. Sophie was looking at him. She had lifted her eyes from the knot. Her face was flat and grey and absolutely still — the face of someone who had already passed through shock, through confusion, through the desperate recalibration of every conversation they'd ever had, and had arrived on the other side at something worse. Something empty. She was waiting. He opened his mouth. His tongue was enormous. His throat was dry. "I..." The syllable cracked and died. He tried again. "I'm sorry." "For what?" said James. Not harsh. Just insistent. "Say it, Liam." Say it. Just say the words. Open your mouth and let them out. "I wet the bed." The sentence sat in the air between them. Four words. He heard them as though someone else had spoken them — a small boy at a school medical, a child tugging at his teacher's sleeve on a camp trip, a voice from a world he was supposed to have left behind years ago. Not from a seventeen-year-old, naked, at a dinner table, facing a girl whose hand he'd wanted between his legs forty minutes ago. “Good, and what does your mother have to do to help you?” His father continued. Liam took a deep breath but the air couldn’t fill his lungs. He felt like he was choking. "Mum puts me in..." He stopped. The word was physically stuck — a hard, angular shape in his throat that wouldn't pass. He swallowed. Forced it. "...diapers. Pull-ups. Because I can't..." His voice broke. A clean, audible snap, like a twig. "...stay dry, I guess." He was breathing hard. Short, ragged gulps that he could hear echoing in the silence. "That's what the checks are. The toilet stops. The photos. Not cocaine." He looked at Sophie's collarbone because he couldn't look at her eyes. "I lied. Because I didn't want you to..." The sentence dissolved. He couldn't finish it. Because I didn't want you to know. But she knew now. She had known since the bathroom. And the words he'd just spoken — I wet the bed, nappies, I can't stay dry — had cemented it into language, made it permanent, turned it from something she'd seen into something she'd heard him say about himself. His own voice, admitting it. A confession that could never be taken back. Sophie looked at him for three more seconds. He counted them. "Okay," she said. One word. It wasn't angry. It wasn't sympathetic. It was the sound of a door being pulled shut — quietly, firmly, with the small click of a latch falling into place. She had received the information. She had filed it. She was done. She turned to Claire. "Can I go to bed?" Claire nodded without waiting for Grace to intervene. Sophie pushed her chair back and stood up. She didn't look at him — not a final glance or a parting assessment, nothing. She walked to the stairs and went up. Her footsteps creaked on the third step, the fifth, the seventh. The loft door opened and closed. The room rearranged itself around her absence. Claire straightened in her chair. She placed both palms on the table — a small, practical gesture, the gesture of a woman about to wrap things up. "I think we're all absolutely knackered," she said. Her voice was careful and warm and exactly right for the situation — the voice of someone who had managed difficult rooms before and knew that the most important thing, right now, was to stop. "Let's deal with the practical questions in the morning, shall we? When everyone's had some sleep." Grace stared at the table. Her hands were gripping the edge, the tendons standing out in her wrists. "Fine," she said. The word was clipped. "But I want one thing understood. He doesn't make decisions about himself from now on. Not what he wears or when he eats. Especially not when he goes or DOESN’T to the toilet. That's finished." She looked at Liam. The question didn't need asking, but she asked it anyway. "Is that clear?" "Yes," he whispered. Claire stood. She touched Rob's arm — a brief, steering pressure — and they moved towards the stairs. Rob had not spoken a single word since Grace began. He walked past Liam without looking at him, and Liam was grateful for it. Rob's silence was the only mercy left in the room. James stood last. He paused. He put a hand on Grace's shoulder — not on Liam's — and murmured something too low to hear. Grace shook her head. James withdrew his hand and walked to the bedroom. The door closed. Grace remained. She stood at the head of the table and looked at her son — looked at the thermal top and the bare thighs and the towel and the hands folded over his lap — and her expression was not angry anymore. It was something older and more tired than anger. She looked like a woman standing at the end of a very long road, realizing that the road continued. "Don't move," she said. "I need to sort out your bed." She walked to the bedroom. The door closed behind her. Liam sat at the table. He was alone. The stove had burned down to a deep, pulsing red. The lamp hummed. The clock ticked. Outside, the wind moved through the trees and the snow fell without sound. He sat on the towel, naked from the waist down, his hands in his lap, his head bowed. The tears had stopped, but his face was still wet, and the air from the stove dried the tracks on his cheeks in thin, tight lines that he could feel when he moved his jaw. He had said the words. He had said I wet the bed and diapers and I can't stay dry, and they had gone into Sophie and become a permanent part of her. She would carry those words home. She would carry them to school, to university, to the rest of her life. And somewhere, years from now, someone would ask if she'd ever had a weird holiday, and a memory would surface — a boy at a table, naked, crying, saying I can't stay dry — and she would change the subject or she wouldn't, but the memory would be there. Fixed. Irreversible. His voice, saying those words, for as long as she lived. He sat and waited. -
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Oh wow. I just started an identical post and totally missed yours. -
I figured id start a discussion on capcon coming up. This being my first time attending, I have questions and some of you might as well that maybe seasoned attendees could answer. Ill start! There seems to be something for everyone at the con, does anyone know if there are any Diaper Lover focused events usually? Whats a good way to connect with someone to find a compatible roomate?
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