Jump to content
LL Medico Diapers and More Bambino Diapers - ABDL Diaper Store

Samantha Smith- Update 16/11/19


Recommended Posts

Preamble

My name now is Samantha Smith; could you think of a less inspired name to give someone living in the suburbs? I mean seriously, what were they thinking? It was not the name I was born with, but it was the name I was given when I came to this country in 1996. Prior to that I was Biserka Kasun. Now, I am Sam. I don’t like to remember my life prior to living here, it makes me sad; and I remember bad things. I choose not to remember as often as I can, but sometimes the memories are like water in a cup, they runneth over and I can’t help but remember, and that makes me sad.

My Mum is very good at helping me with my memories, we have all sorts of techniques to drive them and the ghosts they summon away. We use a method called memory substitution, which means that when I begin to remember the bad times, I actively steer my brain into remembering something else. My doctor says that it is like driving a car; and swerving to avoid a hazard in the road. It works okay, but sometimes I can’t, and I remember. Maybe someday, I will be able to remember with out being sad, but now it is easier to avoid it. What I am about to write today is as much for me as it is for you, I am going to tell you about myself as much as I feel comfortable doing. Hopefully it will tell you about what I am able to do, and what I am able to overcome.

I came to this country in 1996, I was a broken creature, I didn’t speak English, and I was scared.  I was adopted by my Mum, Doreen Smith. She moved Heaven and earth to bring me here, and although I was not grateful then, I am more than grateful now. I was adopted out of a Red Cross orphanage when I was 14 years old. It was 1996 and the war had just ended. It was awful, my world as I had known it was shattered.

I woke up in hospital, I didn’t know what happened to my family, I didn’t know where my village was, I didn’t know where I was. All I did know is that I was lost, and I was alone.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

I awoke to babble, complete and total nonsensical babble, later I was to learn this babble, but for now it was babble. There were people walking around, people shouting, people crying, it looked like utter chaos. After what seemed like an eternity, a woman walked up to my bed and spoke to me in a language I understood.

“Како се осећаш?" How are you feeling?

 

In fairness I hadn’t been giving that any attention, now that I thought about it, I hurt. It was an everything all-over hurt. The kind you get when you combine years of living rough, not enough food, and an explosion. There was kindness in her eyes, but I had seen kind eyes turn to razors before, I did not trust her.

“Добро...” Okay… (For ease of writing I am now going to switch over entirely to English)

She appeared surprised by my calm answer, she pressed on.

“Do you hurt anywhere? You very hurt when you were brought in to us, we had to fight to keep you alive.”

“What…what happened?”

“There was an explosion, you were caught in the blast and you must’ve hit your head, you have been in and out of consciousness for a week, we had to do emergency surgery when you were brought in, you had severe internal injuries, and have several broken bones.”

I remember the explosion, or rather I remember the moment of the explosion, we were celebrating a victory.

“Where am I?” She was speaking, but not like a native, like someone who learned how to speak, as an adult, her phrasing was clumsy, although her words were correct, they were wrong at the same time.

“You are at the Red Cross hospital in Sarajevo”

Sarajevo!? This was the land of the enemy, of the hated Bosnian. I guess I was starting to look agitated, because the woman was telling me to calm down. I decided to obey, I needed to plan my escape back, to continue the fight. I needed to heal, and make good my escape, playing a docile patient seemed like a good way.

“Okay” I said as meek as you please, “I’ll calm down”.

“Good, now I have some questions for you, if you feel up to it.”

I didn’t, but playing along would help me build trust.

“Okay”

She started out simple, name (I lied), place of birth (I lied) age…

“I am 13”

“Your family?”

“They are all gone”

“Oh… everyone?”

“Yes” I turned on the waterworks a bit here to sink the point home.

She stopped her questioning at my tears, and looked at me. I looked back, she was looking at me like she knew something, something about me. We held this standoff until she finally broke the stillness.

“We are well aware of who you are Biserka, we know where you came from, and we know what you have done.”

It was at this point I realised that I must have hit my head harder than I thought, because we were not speaking Serbian my native tounge, we were speaking Bosnian.

I must have had a stunned look on my bruised face, I mean I followed the steps I was trained to follow, I told them the lies I recited, I followed my training exactly! It was not enough. I moved my right arm, and noticed that I was attached to the bed, I was in handcuffs, the game was over.

 

My name is Biserka Kasun, I am 13 years old and I am a war criminal.

 

Prior to this, I was a successful soldier, my doe eyes, small figure, and skills with language made me a skilled infiltrator. I spoke Bosnian, I spoke Croation, and of course I spoke Serbian. I would walk around, and look at stuff. Sometime I would leave them a grenade. It depended on the day. That was when I was a child. Now that I am older, I am given more responsibility. I was given training on how to shoot, and shoot I did. But not the UN men at first, first it was just the dirty Bosnians. They were not people, they were less. I had been taught this, and I was a very good student. So, I shoot. Men mostly, sometimes women, sometimes children. It doesn’t matter, what does matter is that I am doing a good job, and that my Papa is proud of me. Then it all changed.

 

 

The UN men were advancing, the Bosians were advancing, we Serbs, we proud Serbs were retreating. We made them pay for the ground with blood. They payed us back, with mortars. Sometime during our long retreat I became famous, my name was known and spoken of with equal parts fear and disgust. I was able to stay, stay behind and hold ground to cover the retreat of my Papa and his men. I fired upon the column of UN men. Their blue hats sure are easy to spot. Some of them fall by my hand. Then warmth a warmth blossomed in front of me and blackness surrounds. I awoke to babble.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

After a positive identity had been made of me, things started to move rather quickly. I was going to be in recovery for some time. The extent of my internal damage was not yet totally known. They knew that they had stopped the haemorrhaging, but they were unsure of any long-term prognosis. What was known for certain, is that I was going to remain in custody. I was wanted by the Hague, and they are not an organization that hold or releases people on a whim. It takes some serious doing to get any traction with them.

 

So, that is that. I am in custody, and I am still recovering. The Red Cross doctors and nurses, will have my undying gratitude. Yes, I was a war criminal, but to their credit, I was like any of the scores of wounded people around me. Just a person needing care.

 

I am not going to bore you with the details of my care under the Red Cross. Suffice to say, that they took care of me and helped me heal. What I will talk about is what happened after I was discharged from hospital and taken for questioning. Once again the U.N. forces are to be commended on my treatment, I was not abused, even though as a de-facto terrorist, I had no legitimate legal standing under the Geneva convention. I was well treated, my ongoing medical needs were met promptly, I had access to facilities to bathe, I had (for the first time in many, many years) a bed. It was like Heaven. I am not trying to make it sound like it was all sunshine and rainbows, I was still a detainee after all. I was handcuffed for transports, I was supervised at all times, but it was a very comfy detainment.

 

During this time, I was healing, I was being (as I would later learn) deprogrammed from the doctrine of hate. Hate that had been drilled into me by my Father and all his cronies. I learned that I was the monster, I was the subhuman, not because of my race or my religion, but because of my actions. It was a terrifying conclusion to reach about myself. It was the true beginning of my mental healing.

 

Several months after being wounded, I am left with several grim reminders of the war and the explosion that ended my war. I have some scarring on my ribs from shrapnel, a milky weal of a burn on my upper arm, some lash marks between my shoulder blades (my Father gave me those), and a bullet scar under my right collar bone (I don’t know where that came from, but it is there). Not to mention the scars from the surgeries -which are extensive- but not as fun to talk about. The only lingering side-effects from being blown up are all minor, all save one. I have post concussion disorder, means I get wicked bad headaches from time to time. They can be triggered by bright lights, or sustained high Hz noises. I have some minor nerve damage which causes me to have a pronounced limp. The big one, the one that is not at all a gentle minor reminder of my dance with an exothermic reaction is that I am incontinent.

 

For those of you who are not aware of that incontinence is let me explain. Incontinence is the inability of one to control the flow of urine or faeces. Put in the crudest terms I can think of: I piss and shit myself on the regular. It sucks. I mean, I am not missing a limb (which is more debilitating in my mind), but needing to wear diapers again carries with it a stigma, a shame. I am unable to feel myself urinating, it just happens. The only hint I get that I have peed is I feel the blossoming of warmth in my diaper. Messing is a bit different, I can’t control it, but I at least know that it is coming. It is unpleasant, but it is a reality that I have learned to cope with.

 

But back to the story: I was a detainee, it sucked learning about my conditions, and the limitations that they imposed on me, but I was alive. I was questioned, frequently, over and over, again and again. One day the interviewer said something that will forever stick in my mind.

 

“What are you doing still playing defence for your Father, if he truly cared about you and your well-being, he would never had subjected you to such rigorous indoctrination. Your Father is a monster, he took his daughter, and created a weapon in her place.”

 

 

 

 

Maybe I was worn down after all the interviews, maybe I was being manipulated yet again, what ever it was his statement struck a chord in me. He was right, after all of the deprogramming, I had to come to grips with the fact that I was alone, and I was a prisoner. He had left me there, left me there to hold the line so he could make good his escape. It was at that moment I decided to tell all. No more stonewalling, no more deflecting, no more bullshit. I told.

 

The results from my tell-all were revolutionary to the interviewer. I told them everything, from tactics (which they knew anyway), to weapons caches, to what I new of future plans. Suffice to say it was earth shattering for the intelligence people to have such knowledge come from a broken damaged little girl.

 

When the time for my tribunal was upon me, I was nervous. Here I am, a 13 year-old girl in diapers, on trial for war crimes. My defence counsel was on my side the whole way, I cooperated with authorities, and the information I had given up led to seizures, arrests and a reduction in harm to all concerned parties. A deal was struck, and I was released. Now released is a bit of a misnomer in this case, I was still a minor, what to do with me? There was talk of repatriation, but that was swiftly shut down. I had informed. If my Father or any of his ilk were to gain knowledge of my whereabouts, I was dead. It was decided that I would be adopted out to a Western family. That was a hard sell, I am damaged goods, plus I wanted to stay. My opinion was to let me go and be done with me, but as a minor my words on my future were given very little weight.

 

Then my rescuer appeared, she was a Red Cross nurse who had worked in the refugee camps. She spoke my language, and she spoke English. A story was concocted that I was an orphan from said camps, and the she took pity on me and decided to take me home with her. Blah blah, emotional tripe. Summed up, she adopted me and brought me with her back to Canada. A country I had no heard of before, to a town I had not heard of, speaking a language I did not know. At the time I hated her, I wanted to go home. Many years later, I now feel gratitude and appreciation for what she did.  

 

 

Chapter 3

 

I arrived in what was to be my new country feeling a feeling that I had long thought lost to me; fear. I was not alone, my new mother Doreen was with me. In the orphanage, I had turned 14. Although I was now a teenager good and proper, I felt like a scared little girl. The flight was my first experience on a plane, my first airport, my first time going anywhere outside of my country (at least while conscious).

 

I had been practicing my English, and although I was not fluent, I was able to make my needs known. Thankfully Doreen spoke Serbian, and we mainly conversed in my mother tongue. Deplaning, we made our way out into the concourse, while walking Doreen asked me in English.

“How are you doing?”

 

I, misunderstanding her question answered in a flurry of Serbian.

“How should I be doing?? I have been taken from my home into a country that is not my own, with a person who is no kin to me, authored by an organization that I do not trust? Really you dare ask me that!?”

 

Her eyes got sad, and she answered in English.

“That is not what I was talking about.” Switching to Serbian “I was trying to be discreet, but how is your diaper? Do you need to change?” 

 

I am sure I blushed a million shades of red at that point. Truth be known, I was not sure how my diaper was, being unaware of when I go does not make me a good arbiter of the state of my diapers. I gave my crotch a cup, in a very unladylike fashion I must say.

 

“I am pretty wet, I think. I should change.” The method I used to check my diaper was not at all subtle and had people been looking at me I am sure would have caused a scene. But Doreen to her credit did not chide me for my obvious diaper check, she just nodded and led me by the hand to the lady’s washroom.

 

“Do you need a hand, or do you think you can manage it on your own?” The words slipped from her mouth, and I am very glad that they were not said in English, all the same I am sure I blushed beetroot.

 

“I can manage it, I think.”

 

I walked into the open stall and closed the door behind me. Lowering my pants, I assessed the extent of the damage. My diaper was swollen, and after unsnapping the onesie I wore, it sagged pretty much down to my knees. I looked at my diaper, and I was saddened that this had become my life. But, this was no time to reflect on my situation, I got down to the business of changing.

 

There are certain noises that wearing and changing a diaper makes, rustling, etc. The worst sound, the sound that announces to the entire world what I am doing is the sound of tapes being removed, and replaced. Any women who has changed a diaper can recognize that sound from a mile off.

 

I removed my sodden diaper, grateful that it was only wet. That will change soon enough I guess, but as it is a public change, I am just glad that I didn’t stink. Having done that I wiped myself down, and got my new underwear ready to go. A few well-placed Serbian curses later, I was changed, and feeling dry. I balled up the old diaper, and replaced my pants. Exiting the stall, I saw a woman about the same age as Doreen give me a funny look. I just looked back at her, hard. It is none of her business what I was doing, and she should not concern herself with it. It is an attitude I cultivated in the orphanage, and it is the attitude I practice to this day. Yes, I was changing my diaper, and no I am not ashamed by that. It keeps me as positive as I can be about the whole situation.

 

Leaving the bathroom, I spot Doreen and I rejoin her, we make our way out of the terminal, and get into a taxi. Soon we are on our way to Doreen’s (and now my) house. Arriving at a rural road crossing we get out of the cab at Doreen’s suggestion to walk the rest of the way. I acquiesce, after all this sitting it will be nice to stretch my legs.  

 

  • Like 7
Link to comment
  • 3 weeks later...

I really enjoyed the beginning of this story. Although it’s so sad. It’s breaking my heart to hear what that young girl went through. In reading this, it seems as though you have a pretty good understanding of what was happening there. Is there any personal experience there? I was very happy to give this a like and I am looking forward to reading more. 

Link to comment
  • 6 months later...

Chapter 4

We talked as we walked up the long drive to the house that is to be my new home, Doreen having read the dossier assembled by the Hague about me knew most all there was to know about the fighter that was I. She did not know about the person. I educated her at her request. 

We arrived at her house, it was nothing special by Western standards (what I now consider typical). By the standard I was accustomed to it was a palace. Roof, check. Walls, check. Plumbing, check. Electricity, check. It met all the criteria for being a palace. She unlocked the door and I walked into my new life. 

Getting used to country life was pretty simple, Doreen put in the work, and so did I. Maintaining a 45 acre property is no mean feat, even with few animals to tend it is still quite the job. We worked, we talked, we ate. We were two people living together, two people trying to form a  family. I could not bring myself to call her Mother, we settled on Reena. Two years passed, and the summer was waning. I was about to start school, thankfully I am rather clever, and had been able to bring myself up to a reasonable grade level in accordance with my age. 

My diapers were a source of both friction and affection between me and Doreen. She wanted to change me more often than I was willing to allow, and was always hurt by my refusal. Most of the time I managed to change myself. On occasion I let her take control, she thought of it as bonding moments, and change me when I needed it (generally I was messy when I let her do it, I hate changing my own messy diapers). In diapers at 17 and going to a public school are challenges that I am going to face head on. I can (and have) killed men; I think that I am mentally equipped to deal with the verbal barbs from soft Western teenagers. 

On the first day of school I was very nervous. Not nervous in the sense that I cannot accomplish the mission, but nervous in the sense of would I belong? Blending in was always my modus operandi: get in, get out, don’t arouse suspicion, use your skills and rely on your training. But now I am the new foreign girl, with a strong accent, in a small mountain town, trying to mesh with people who can almost all call each other cousin. Yay… 
Doreen parked her car in the lot, and we got out. I did a quick survey of the area, looking for obvious areas of cover, areas of exposure. I realised that this was a fruitless exercise, a remnant from my past self and tried my best to stop, I couldn’t. Everywhere I looked all I saw were areas of potential for ambush, for defence. This really wasn’t getting me anywhere. Doreen looked at me, and we took off walking towards the squat concrete building that dominated the immediate area. I clocked the insane number of windows in the school, what a useless building. It was totally exposed. The solid concrete and cinderblock construction belied the inherent weakness. With this much glass there was no way anybody could defend this building from any serious attacking force. 

Doreen opened the door, and we walked through. There were people milling about everywhere it seemed. It was like an ant hill, at first glance utter and complete chaos, but upon closer inspection every move, of every person, had a purpose. I could appreciate that at least. We moved on, for the first time in years I was surrounded by people my own age. People my own age! I felt immediately more self conscious about the scars on my legs, arms, back, and chest, and crinkly (to me) diaper. What would they think? We kept walking and arrived at the head office. Doreen started speaking to a secretary; saying this and that, and arranged this, and no records that, and ministry of education this. Stuff I really didn’t care about. 

 I felt my diaper warm some, as my bladder released without my consent. I cursed it internally. I have gotten used to the clammy, warm, and wet feeling between my legs. It is a constant reminder of my injury. I don’t like it, but I am used to it. Unlike when I mess myself, at least when I wet it is reasonably discreet. When I mess, I stink, it is hard not to. At least I seem to be reasonably consistent. I mess sometime early in the morning (it happens in my sleep) so I am not totally sure of the time, and right about and hour after dinner. Like wetting, messing myself and smelling gross is something else I have gotten used to. I like it even less. As much as I hate having to wear a diaper, I am at least pragmatic enough to appreciate the job that they do. I have accidents, and my diapers keep those accidents discreetly contained (to a greater or lesser degree, depending on the accident) safely and securely in my pants, so only I know what has happened, unless I mess. I still fucking hate it though. 

Finishing up her conversation Doreen turned and looked at me.
“Well, everything is arranged. The school is going to test you, to see where you fall in the grade spectrum. If you do as well as I am supposing you will do, you will be with people like you in no time.” I looked at her, and replied in a cannibalized mix of Serbian and English.

“I truly hope you mean people my age, and not people like me with regards to my condition.”
She looked aghast, as if I was wrong for suggesting such a thing

“OF COURSE I meant people your age, your condition has not effected your mind, despite some of the decisions you have made (That is another story for another time).”
Her efforts to inject some levity into a matter that was causing me angst worked. I smiled in spite of myself. 

“Thanks Reena, really helpful.”

“You are welcome Biserka.” Yes, I still go by Biskera. Offically? My name is Samantha, I just never took to it. I didn’t choose it; it was chosen for me. “If you have any problems, call me at work, I don’t care how small it may seem, call if you need to okay?”

“Okay” She left. 

After that lightning conversation of Serbian, the secretary was looking at me with no small degree of confusion on her face. 
“Ready to go sweetie?” 

She spoke slowly. My English had improved significantly over the proceeding two years. I still had a very thick accent, but my comprehension and written skills were on par with the best of them. I gave her a not unfriendly nod to proceed. 
She led me in relative silence to a non-descript office door. Knocking she entered, and I followed. Entering the space, I was assaulted by colours. It was like someone had detonated a landmine; instead of red viscera and gore, it was a mash up of colours that gave me a headache.
The secretary spoke again, “This is the office of Ms. Baker, the counselor. She will help you to decide what classes you want, and she will also be invigilating the exam to determine your placement. She just stepped out for a moment, wait here.”

I nodded my understanding, and she left. I felt myself release yet again into my diaper. My diaper was wet, not dangerously so, but wet enough to let me know that I had at best 2 hours of safety left. I waited. Although most of my training has not place here, I have found ways to make use of some parts of it. Stillness, is a very hard lesson to learn, trust me I bear the marks to prove it. I learned it, and applied it here, being still and waiting whilst maintaining your situational awareness. I heard a footstep scuff the floor outside of the door. 

The door opened to reveal a lady dressed in a formless earth-tone dress, and a burgundy shawl, paired with glasses that went out of style in the 80’s. 

“Oh! You’re here, I didn’t expect you so soon.”

 I looked up at the clock, and back to her. School had been in session for 45 minuets already. When did she think I was going to appear?

I decide to make the introductions, “Hello, my name is Sam, but please, call me Serka”. I spoke slowly and with as much precision as I could, my English isn’t horrible, but put me in an unfamiliar environment surrounded by people, I do tend to get nervous, and my diction suffers.

“It is nice to meet you Serka, I am Ms. Baker.”

“Happy meet to you Ms. Baker.” I reply, thinking about it again, I correct myself. “Pleased to meet you Ms. Baker.”

She made a motion for me to sit down, and we got to talking. The first thing she did was mention my incontinence, and how I was to manage during school hours. There was a special change room that I was to have a key to, where I could manage my issue. Also, where I would be allowed to change for P.T. class. I suggested that instead of shorts, I be allowed to wear pants during the class, to keep anything from being seen. She agreed, and made a note of it. 

With that elephant excised from the room, I took a seat at her desk and she gave me a rather informal exam. The questions ranged from World history, to Canadian history, to algebra, to English, to Biology. I answered them all, and felt that I did okay. She marked the test, and looked at me over the rims of her glasses.

“Serka, with marks like these, I think that you don’t belong in the 11th grade. But rather you belong in the 12th. One the advice of you mother (Doreen), we made the test up with mostly questions from higher level classes, and first year university courses. You didn’t get a perfect score, but you came pretty close. Professionally, I suggest that you ask to be placed in the 12th grade.”

I looked at her surprised. I am just happy that I passes at all. Damn Reena, she had me hitting the books way harder than I needed to. Ms. Baker continued speaking,

“However, personally, despite these marks I suggest that you ask to be placed with kids your own age. You may be a little bored in the classroom, but it gives you one less handicap to making friends. As the new girl, you have a steep mountain to climb. Being the new super smart girl, just makes it all the steeper.”

“I need to thought on it, I mean think on it. Can you please close the lights, I am get headache.”

She got up, and turned off the slights, immediately I felt better, the extremely bright colours, mixed with the harsh fluorescent lighting was playing merry hell with my head. I came to a decision. 

  • Like 3
Link to comment
On 3/2/2019 at 7:26 AM, CDfm said:

I really enjoyed the beginning of this story. Although it’s so sad. It’s breaking my heart to hear what that young girl went through. In reading this, it seems as though you have a pretty good understanding of what was happening there. Is there any personal experience there? I was very happy to give this a like and I am looking forward to reading more. 

A bit later than I anticipated, but I did finally get around to writing another chapter.

Link to comment
6 minutes ago, Shotgun Diplomat said:

Thanks, it has been sometime since I last updated, but better late than never.

Yup sometimes stuff happens, yups *fires open the portal into the dimension of poutine and  huge giant leakproof living dapers that stalk the worlds looking for undiapered people to fuse with forevers and evers and offers a vacation *

Link to comment

It was a good new addition. Seems like more of a transition chapter. School could get very interesting. I do think that if I had her choice to make, I would go with 12th grade. That way she only has the one year of school if things don’t go so good with her diapers. I was happy to give this a like. 

Link to comment
On 9/7/2019 at 11:39 PM, Shotgun Diplomat said:

The door opened to reveal a lady dressed in a formless earth-tone dress, and a burgundy shawl, paired with glasses that went out of style in the 80’s. 

I really like this piece and I'm happy to see this update. I wonder, though, how she could possibly know what was in fashion in the West in the 80s. ?

Link to comment
3 hours ago, kerry said:

I really like this piece and I'm happy to see this update. I wonder, though, how she could possibly know what was in fashion in the West in the 80s. ?

Well the way I am trying to write it, is sort of past tense, sort of present. Insomuch as the story is Samantha (Biserka) telling us the story, so even if she was not aware at the time, she would be aware in the present, and therefore able to speak as such. I hope that this makes sense. 

Link to comment

This opens with a good hook that grabs the reader's interest right away, and has a strong character voice; it handles 1st person pov very well.  I like the unique premise; I haven't seen a story with this before, and I also like how you gave her some other injuries besides jumping straight into incontinence and diapers.

Link to comment
  • 1 month later...

I have to thank you for a good story, nowdays I'm pretty picky for which stories I read. I want to have something out of the ordinary to amuse myself. I read the first three chapters on DeviantArt and was shore this was a plot with potential. (I want to thank you for "Diaper and Me, a love story" too, also a wonderful odd story).

  Oh, back to the critic. I feel it's a very NATO orientated view of the world that is seen here. Not so much about the jehadists in Bosnia.

  If Biserka "joined the army" in 94', got arrested in 96', and started school in 99', she must have missed five years of school. To learn a new language and recover five years of school in just two years isn't that extraordinary, or is the Canadian schools that simple.   

Link to comment
5 hours ago, igel said:

If Biserka "joined the army" in 94', got arrested in 96', and started school in 99', she must have missed five years of school. To learn a new language and recover five years of school in just two years isn't that extraordinary, or is the Canadian schools that simple.   

Well, I will put it to you this way. I passed through the Canadian school system, and I am no genius. Plus, I like to think that she is something of an outlier; with regards to raw intelligence. 

Link to comment
  • 4 weeks later...

Chapter 5

 

My own choice she says? My own choice. The decision I come to was not what she recommended, but like I have said before, some of my training does come in handy. If I were to ever become accepted here; I would need time. Time enough to blend in. Time enough to allow people to get to know the me that I show them.

 

“Ms. Baker” I began, after a not overly long period of thought. “I am think that I will choose to be place in the 11th grade.” I look at her, expecting a rebuke. Or a rebuttal, or something. Instead, what I am rewarded with is a smile.

 

“I had a feeling that you were going to say that. In fact, your mother, said the very same thing. She said that no matter how highly you placed on the impromptu test, that you would take the hardest road possible. I am not going to pretend to understand it, but I will make sure that your choice is actioned as per your request. Now, we have some work to do with regards to your class schedule.”

 

She laid out all of the classes I would have to take. English being the most prominent in her view. Math I was exempted from, and because of my high scores, she was able to credit me with many of the more upper level academic courses, leaving me free to pick at my leisure. In the end I chose Physical Education, Home Economics, Art, History, and Biology for the first semester. For the second I opted for Woodworking, Metal shop, Chemistry, and the English class I was being forced into taking.

 

I reasoned that by leaving the required English class until the second semester, I would be able to get a firmer grasp on the subject through osmosis with my peers. Ms. Baker seemed satisfied with my choices, and said as much.

 

 

 

“Well then Serka, seeing as we have got all of that buttoned up, it seems all we need to do is get you your books, and you will be on your way. The Library, is only four doors down from mine. I will let Mrs. Burl know that you are coming, and to have all of your requisites ready for you. Is there anything else you need from me?”

 

I looked at her, and I nodded my head.

 

“Well what is it?” She enquired.

 

“I need key we spoke of.”

 

I was referring to the key that would allow me to change my diapers in peace, without the risk of interruption. The words leaving my mouth, she got a little red in the face, as if embarrassed that I was referring to my diapers. I felt her gaze on my drift down towards my crotch. Being honest here, I was pretty wet, and although not in dire need of a change, I wanted to anyways.

 

“Of course, the key!”

 

She opened her desk drawer and produced it. Handing it over to me, she looked at my extended arm. My sleeve had risen up, and some of my shrapnel scarring was visible. I was very aware of her gaze, and choosing to ignore it, took the key, and placed it in my pocket. I stood up, and felt my diaper sag somewhat. I was much wetter than I had previously assumed, and was indeed in dire need of a change. Taking my leave of Ms. Baker, I walked as steadily as I could out into the hallway, and made my way to the changing room.

 

Locking the door, I lowered my pants to get a better perspective on how much damage I had done to my diaper. I was thoroughly wet throughout. Not sopping wet, but wet enough that I could feel that I was wet, indicating that I needed to change. I undid the tapes, and my diaper fell with a sodden thump to the floor. Retrieving my necessaries, I cleaned myself up; and I put on a fresh diaper. Feeling fresher and dryer I disposed of the used garment into the trash. I washed my hands, and exited the room. Intent on making my way to the library, so I could get books and actually go to classes. 

 

I retrieved the books, with little to no issue. Getting everything sorted, I proceeded to my newly assigned locker, and deposited many of the tomes within. Keeping only what was needed on my person, I proceeded to walk the halls, becoming familiar with the layout of the school. Taking notice, I observed that there were few areas of the school that would be able to mount a credible defense in case of attack. Checking the thought, I realized that this place was not built for such a purpose, and I attempted to dispose of the thought. I failed, and I continued to make note.

 

Looking at my schedule, my next class was to be home economics. I began a leisurely walk in that direction. As I arrived at the classroom, there was a pleasant smell emanating from the room, the smell was of cloves and cinnamon. Intrigued, I loitered, savouring it. As I stood enraptured by the smell, I felt myself release. My diaper swelling in response. I once again cursed my broken body. Silently thanking the anonymous inventor of the objects that were forever to be fastened around my waist.

 

A bell rung, it was a very sharp and aggressive sound; for a moment I was transported back to the war. I felt the panic rise in me. I saw not clean hallways, but filthy alleyways, choked not with students, but with bodies and rubble. Flies crawling through gaping sores. The smell of decay lingering as heavy as a layer of cinnamon and cloves. I came back to myself, realising that I was not there, but here. That I was safe.

  • Like 2
Link to comment
  • 2 months later...

Well, I am giving up the ghost on this one. I found myself with no end in sight, spiraling down into the chasm of never ending story-hood. Needless to say, I am disappointed in myself for abandoning this. But the drive has left me.   

Link to comment

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now
×
×
  • Create New...