TestAccountPleaseIgnore

Hi, I'm new to writing and would like to improve. Please let me know any mistakes I made or if you have any suggestions. Thanks! The story contains depictions of mental illness, self harm, eating disorders, and suicide. Completely understand if you are not interested. Chapter One. “And a little’s hot chocolate too. My little sweetie loves her hot chocolate. Isn’t that right”. The woman glances down at a little too ashamed to meet her gaze. “Five thirty five ma'am.” I’ve been told numerous times I need to smile. I’ll probably need to add one to that counter after today. I don’t get why. When I’ve been shopping I don’t care if the poor soul on the other side of the counter fakes a smile or not. I would be more concerned if they smiled for real. Pressing the button for little hot chocolate, I reach to grab the already made milk shake commonly called a Frappuccino, handing it over. Scratching my thigh with my other hand. I’ll deal with it on my break. Another down, far too many to go. Seven minutes till I can take my fifteen. “Excuse me!” an amazon with angry eyes bluster at me. Rudely interrupting my day dreaming. “Yes ma'am?” From experience I can already tell this is a lost cause. A small sigh escapes me before I return eye contact. “I CLEARLY ordered a DOUBLE shot and this is a SINGLE!” Shouting less than a foot from my face. “I’m so sorry ma'am, let me make you another”. The customer never cared that the sincerity was fake. They just wanted to be right and for me to feel bad. Opening up the order history on the machine (I’m sure it has some more marketable term, but I’ve never cared to learn it). Yep. Coffee, cream, strawberry syrup, and a double shot of espresso. I change it to a triple and add the order to the queue. “That will be out shortly ma'am. I’m sorry for the mix up” This time I do smile, although more accurately it would be called baring my teeth. My name is Amy, I’m a 24 year old college drop out and currently a human punching bag. My name tag says barista and my skill set says I’ve at least mastered object permanence, but make no mistake, a punching bag is who I am. A tablet and a phone app could handle everything I do and better, but it’s not as satisfying yelling at your phone. You can’t make a tablet cry, or at least make an attempt to. As anyone who has held a similar position for more than a day is far too jaded to do something as degrading and dehumanizing as to show an emotion in front of a customer. My pet theory is someone at corporate ran the numbers and for the low low cost they call wages, it’s more profitable to staff all the stores with people who couldn’t find anything else and who are still stubbornly wanting to eat food, than just have customers order off an app and deal with the blow back and lost sales from customers being required to manage their own emotional states. Thus punching bag Amy is born. Sure there is some more PR friendly term for it, but that doesn’t change what it is. I hand Karen her coffee while avoiding eye contact. Her name probably isn’t Karen, but somethings from the little’s dimension do carry over. Don’t ask me to name the nations or major events, but the small touches stick. Mostly from the unfortunate littles who get stuck here. Out of all the slang and cultural references, Karan is by far my favorite. I’m astonished we didn’t come up with it first. Five more customers handled with little fanfare except for one screaming little and soon to be spanked bottom. Two minutes till my fifteen. I grab the counter top, bit dizzier than expected. Fuck it. “Charley, I'm taking my fifteen.” I turn and leave, not bothering to look at the indignant wastes of space lined up on the other side. What gall I must have to dare take a break when they need their fix. I carefully make my way back to the oasis known as the break room. Sure it smells a bit off, and there is some mold in that one corner, but it just adds character. The far wall has a white board covered in poorly hung health and safety notices, there is a couch that is permanently stained with something. I can never quite describe the smell right, like a pair of gym socks that have ascended to nirvana mixed with an old book that was stored in a sewage plant. The dilapidated employee cubbies that we dare never to touch to the left, and lastly the holy grail to the right. The most sacred of all spots. The door to a single occupancy bathroom stall with a mostly working latch. My heart skips a beat at the sight of it. Grabbing my bag off the floor I push the door and sit on the porcelain throne in one smooth motion. Opening up the diet app on my phone I try to convince myself that I don’t need anything till I get home. Besides I had that cookie with lunch yesterday and that put me over, I’ll just be under today by the same amount. That’s what we call logic. Thoughts of food aside, it’s time to deal with my other maladaptive coping skill. You know if they really don’t want kids to try this they should spend more time talking about how badly it itches and that bandages and ointments are expensive, and less on the dangers or pain. Kids always think they are invincible, but broke and itchy, those are things to fear. Undoing the wrap on my thigh I look at how this morning’s job is holding up. Barely a trace, just a pencil line. Damn. I don’t want to sound vain, but for how much that hurt, it could at least look a bit more intimidating and bleed for more than 5 minutes. Dismissing the need to do more, I put on more ointment and reapply the warp. Still itches. Opening a zero calorie sport drink I pop in my ear buds and spend the rest of my break fantasizing about tonight. We all have secrets we plan on taking to the grave. For some it’s the time they were unfaithful, for others it’s just how much they lost gambling, for me it’s diapers. For a society so obsessed with maturity (and weird way of showing it), wearing diapers is seen as worse than a drug habit. Drugs cost money and are for grown ups. Diapers, well they still cost money, but the thought is that someone else would be buying them, and the target demo is a bit younger than the average coke fiend. So this particular secret is kept to my fantasies and Friday nights. My roommate Alex goes out on Friday to the latest movie with her friends and stays out after. My one guaranteed time of solitude. My one time for relaxing and enjoying diapers. Well protective garments from that section of the grocery store. Getting real diapers in my size has always seemed too risky. So I’m stuck with the least diaper-like diaper that is still possibly a diaper. I’m a bit jealous of littles sometimes, although only for a bit. I hate dealing with customers during the day, the idea of going home with one of them is enough for my stomach to drop below my feet. Like all good things, my break too has come to an end. I walk back to the counter with the gait of one ascending the steps of the gallows. The rest of my shift was agony. The customers weren’t any worse than normal (That would be an accomplishment at this point), it was just the waiting that sucked. I guess it’s better to be impatient with anticipation than just inpatient. As I turn the keys in the lock I shut off all thoughts of work. For the next day and a half (fucking schedule) it’s completely up to me. As for the evening, I already have plans I’ve gone over a hundred times today in my head. I finally got a bottle. It’s too small and was made for a little, but it’s mine, and I can’t express how happy I am about it.