by: Personalias | Complete Story | Last updated Aug 13, 2021

Chapter 2
Part 2

Chapter Description: Part 2


Freshly bathed and no longer reeking of piss, Margaret sat on the floor in a clean set of pajamas; her back against the cushioned couch and a PS4 controller in her hand.  She had a list of things to do to get ready for the work week; grocery shopping, laundry and ironing, budgeting for apartment and car payments, and just sprucing up the place in general.  She was doing none of it. This was the first time that the young woman could remember being hungover since…ever.  The aches, fatigue, slight nausea underlying everything, and embarrassment (let’s not forget the embarrassment) had completely disabled her ability to “adult.”

That’s why she was sitting and lounging in quiet agony in her jammies; she held no illusions about today. Today was an unexpected recovery day.  Besides, she justified to herself, she’d been doing laundry today anyways.  If it had been forever since Margaret had been hungover, it felt like even longer since she’d wet the bed.  Factually inaccurate, but emotionally true.  We are all different people than who we were as children.  Little Margaret Masterson, age two, had wet the bed, and even then, only the once.  She’d been dry during the day for over a month, and it took only one unprotected accident, one Pull-Ups free slumber, for her body to realize what it needed to do. Letting loose while sleeping was a no-go from then on out. Not that she truly remembered that incident, but Mom had always liked to brag on her like that with stories starting with “Even when she was a little girl, Margaret was a quick learner.”

Little Margaret’s fully grown and developed counterpart had never had to deal with a wet bed or soiled sheets, either.  The closest experience had been in middle school when she had her first “time of the month”.  Mom had been kind enough to take care of the bed then when an overwhelmed and panicking Margaret, age twelve woke up with blood soaking her panties.  Once again, it only took the one accident for Margaret to learn to diligently keep track of her cycles and listen to her body’s signs of an oncoming menstrual deluge.  Never again had she been caught unprepared.

While she thumbed through cartoons filled with humor both sophisticated and sophomoric, (she doubted she had the reflexes or wherewithal right now for a good game of Overwatch) the implications and ramifications of last night’s bender unfolded and replayed in her mind. The hums of the washing machine and dryer stayed present in the back of mind.  They were the sounds of her mistakes last night (or this morning, depending on one’s point of view).  She shouldn’t have gone out and gotten that drunk.

She’d paid the price… but was the price really all that steep?  A wet bed?  Big deal.  Within the hour, it’d be so much easily forgotten pixie dust memories along with the rest of her drunken escapades last night. Some things wouldn’t go away, though.  Absentmindedly, she pawed and poked at the tattoo now forever etched into the small of her back.  It hurt, but nothing worse than a mild heat rash or rug burn. There was an underlying throbbing sensation that yet lingered, but only when she thought about it; likely psychosomatic.  A forever reminder of the night when she lost control.

Maybe losing control wasn’t a bad thing, though. Maybe she had needed to lost control.  Margaret had always been a bit of a control freak; everything having to be in its proper place at the anointed time.  Back in high school when she’d taken AP Psychology, Margaret had been drawn towards the section of her textbook about Sigmund Freud and his theories about psychosexual stages.

Freud theorized that people who were toilet trained too early had control issues, in that they were bad at giving up control.  The chapter went on to talk about how, while Freud had been very influential, Freud’s theories were largely disregarded these days as unfalsifiable and ultimately unscientific.  Freud might have missed the mark, but Margaret would have put good money that he was on to something.  Young Miss Masterson couldn’t remember the act of potty training, but her parents’ constant praises of how quickly she had toilet trained and how neat and tidy she was, and how organized and obedient she could be had undoubtedly shaped her into the helpful, mild-tempered, yet deeply neurotic mess that she was today.

Waiting until marriage had been Margaret’s idea.  She’d needed the control.  Jack’s goodbye letter said that she lacked passion and spontaneity. He’d strayed from her because she valued control and order more than she valued human interactions.  Considering the majority of her human interactions consisted of people complaining to her about some gadget they’d bought and then asking to speak to her supervisor, could she really be blamed for that?   All the same, that final, cowardly rebuke from her ex-fiancé stuck with her and continued to sting her far more than some irritated skin just above her ass.

From her position on the floor, Margaret looked over to the open door of her new roommate. The inside was an obvious mess; piles and piles of clothes, clutter, and junk dotted the floor- enough that it would have been impossible to navigate the room without weaving, serpentine, around the different chunks of junk.

It was better than it had been yesterday, at least.  A quick survey from the doorway had shown Margaret a floor that required high and careful steps around the scattered bits of yarn, dried clay, old jars of paint, and unrinsed brushes.  The sound of junk clattering around the room and the plastic rustling of garbage bags being unfurled hinted at what Margaret had secretly hoped for. Molly was cleaning.  How about that?  Apparently she’d taken Margaret’s hint the other day and wasn’t going to be such a slob.

Neither Margaret nor Molly were well versed in what could be labeled “Classic TV”, but had they ever seen an episode of The Odd Couple they would have seen grumpy old man versions of themselves: a freewheeling little slob and an anal retentive old maid in training.  Margaret was certain that the so-called artist would drive her crazy within the week, but so far this was the honeymoon period…heck, the very idea that she was experiencing a honeymoon period with this woman who was so unlike her was marvelous to begin with.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.  Maybe Margaret needed someone like Molly in her life; a little shoulder devil to get her to let loose every now and then and Molly needed Margaret as a shoulder angel to get focused and organized.  Maybe…just maybe…they’d balance each other out and pick up one another’s good habits while phasing out their bad.

Margaret hurt like hell, but the price of self-knowledge and improvement (as well as fun) was worth a little discomfort after the fact.  (Hadn’t the Greeks had a philosophy like that?  It sounded Greek anyways.) A dopey grin, so similar to the mellow drunken smile that Holly had plastered on most of last night, came to Margaret as she once again rubbed the spot where the new tattoo was. Getting it had been a mistake (one that she couldn’t remember making), but just like old saying said, “No Regrets.”  The little squiggly lines on her back were now a bookmark for a new chapter in her life.

So screw it: It was time for Margaret to have a little “me time”.  Groceries and laundry and dusting could wait for another day.  Today, she determined, would be just her lounging around in her jammies and watching cartoons; a literal Netflix and chill.  Grocery wise, there was some hamburger helper still left in the pantry, and she could make do with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch tomorrow.  She could go grocery shopping tomorrow after work.  A PB&J sounded SO GOOD right about now, come to think of it.

Did she have peanut butter and jelly, though?  “Molly,” Margaret called out, “do we have any peanut butter and jelly left?”

Molly popped her head out of her increasingly less cluttered bedroom.  “Lemme check.”

As door hinges creaked and doors slid open and shut, Margaret continued rifling through her usual Netflix shows. “Seen it, seen it, not in the mood, bored, why is this still on here?” she muttered to herself.  Maybe it was the dehydration, or she was still fuming about her accident this morning, but nothing was appealing to her.

As if by magic a plate with peanut butter and jelly sandwich- crust cut off and cut into little squares- and a glass of milk appeared; Molly’s arms at the end of them.  “Here ya go,” Molly said.

Margaret took the plate and glass and began greedily gulping down milk and biting into the sweet brown and purple sandwich as Molly looked on.  Oh God, did she need this!  “Fankyou,” Margaret said gratefully, her mouth still full.

“Welcome,” Molly chirped and turned to walk back to her bedroom.

Margaret swallowed and called out, “Hey!”  Her roommate, fully dressed in comfortable but serviceable spring cleaning clothes, turned around and looked back down at her.  “Why’d you make me the sandwich?  I thought you were just going to check.”

“Why didn’t you go and check for yourself?” Molly replied.  There was nothing mean spirited or snotty about it.  Only genuine- if mild-curiosity was contained in her words.  The taller woman blanched ashamedly all the same.  She hadn’t even thought to get up and check herself.  It was like there was a little voice whispering in the back of her head, telling her to be a little lazy and call out for help.

“I…I…” Margaret stuttered, “I didn’t think to.”  With no other words available to her, the customer service rep just shrugged.

A sharp bark of laughter drummed itself up from Molly’s chest.  This didn’t make Margaret feel any better.  “Damn…” she said, then quickly covered her mouth, remembering Margaret’s protestations about “language.“ “I mean, ‘dang’,” she corrected herself, “you really are hungover, aren’t you?”

“Kinda,” Margaret admitted, looking away.  “Why aren’t you hungover?” she asked.

Molly gave what was becoming her signature shrug and easygoing smile.  “I am.  I’m just dealing with it better than you are. I’m getting some cleaning done.”

Margaret tried (and failed) to hide the astonished tone in her voice. “I can see that.”

“I’m used to it,” Molly explained.  “You?  Not so much.”  Then she added.  “I mean the drinking…not the cleaning.”  Margaret was tactful enough not to openly agree.  “Let me take care of you today.”

Margaret’s hair flapped in her face, she shook her head so hard.  “I’ll be fine,” the young woman insisted.

Molly favored her with a condescending head pat.  “I know you are.  But it’s my fault that you’re hungover this time. You came and played with me, and we played a little too hard.  Let me make it up to you by taking care of you.  Cook, clean, that kind of stuff.  You just chill.”

The offer was music to the taller woman’s ears. It was exactly what she had wanted…no, needed to hear. Alas, some lingering amount of stubborn pride yet remained. “I peed the bed.”

“So just don’t drink tonight.” Molly countered.  “You’ll be fine. In the meantime, make yourself comfy.  We went out last night, so let’s be a couple of homebodies today.”

Margaret inhaled through her nose, the sweet scent of baby powder dancing out from her room.  She held her breath for a moment, and then sighed out the lavender aroma. So relaxing.  So comfy.  So…right.  “Okay,” she agreed.  “But is there anything I can do for you?”

The Asian girl looked over to the Netflix cue, nothing yet selected.  “Put on a cartoon, or something,” she suggested. “Like a Disney flick.  Something with music.  It’ll help me clean.  Maybe Moana or something.”

Margaret hemmed and hawed for a hot half second.  She’d been twelve when she saw her last Disney flick.  It really wasn’t her thing.  “Or,” Molly interrupted her train of thought. “I could always put on my Best of Tool record.”

“Moana it is.”  Margaret began looking through the “Family Friendly” movie lists.

Molly smiled, this time more of a shit eating grin. “You’re welcome.”


“You’ll get it later”

And so the rest of the day went.  Disney movies and cartoons all day long.  Even though Molly had finished organizing her stuff by the end of the second movie, the hits kept coming.  Margaret found herself entranced, stopping only for dinner…the first one she hadn’t had to prepare for herself in who knows how long.  Then it was more cartoons, then sleep.  Good thing she was already in her jammies.


  Dawn came early that morning.  That’s the sentiment that crept into Margaret’s head as she stirred from her otherwise peaceful slumber.   Little dust motes glided and danced in the early morning light, as Margaret stretched her arms for the first time since waking.  Such strange dreams, she’d had.  Even as she blinked away the sleep while shuddering away the cold (Why was it so cold? Had the temperature dropped during the night?), the details in the dream were fading away into the ether of her subconscious, only the broadest strokes surviving into consciousness.

What she most vividly remembered was feeling small, and trapped; helpless. Normally that’d be the framework for a nightmare, but something about it hadn’t bothered Margaret as she slept.  This was a good kind of helplessness, she instinctively knew.

A good kind of helplessness?  Dream logic.  Go figure.

The tattoo, symbol of her first (and possibly last) attempt at really cutting loose, had made it in there, too.  It too, had been a good thing in the dream, though; instead of some mark of shame or lapse in self-control, it was comforting.  Just thinking about the flickers of dream-memory sent a pleasant glow up her spine, starting at the strange squiggly marks that Molly assured her were inked onto her.

Dream-memory: the thought danced around in Margaret’s still groggy head.  Perhaps she had just dreamed some sort of memory. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been alarmed in the dream.  Maybe it had been a long-suppressed memory, a pleasant memory at that.  Helpless, and small, and…- caged?-…not quite but it was close to what she remembered; how could any of that be considered pleasant?  What would Freud say about that?

The young woman reached for her glasses on the nightstand. Her bladder ached slightly.  She had to pee.  That’s what had woken her up.  She doubted she had much more time before she had to get up, but maybe there was a slight chance she could go to the bathroom, and then back to bed for another solid fifteen minutes of sleep.  The glasses on, fully restoring her sense of self and vision, Margaret’s brain began to fully awaken and piece the data her senses were feeding her together, assigning meaning to the sensations.

The first thing that came to her senses, as the last vestiges of sleep were shed like a useless lizard skin, was the time.  Margaret’s heart was racing even as her eyes darted to the nearby alarm clock.  The orange-red letters blinked the time like a quietly sanctimonious old church lady; always judging, never saying anything. Early dawn, indeed.

“I’m late!” Margaret whispered in shock.  “Very late!”  She’d forgotten to set her alarm for work.  How?  She never forgot to set her alarm for work.  It just didn’t happen.  The alarm stayed on and set; always.  Margaret even kept it on during weekends.  It was inconceivable.

Margaret kicked off her sheets in a frenzy, scrambling out of bed like a rabbit when the fox has already gotten a head start.  The sheets felt heavier than usual; colder too; but Margaret paid them no mind.  First a shower, then get dressed, and drive as fast as possible to work, apologizing the whole way.  She’d just have to make her bed later; a blasphemous thought normally, but it was a concession that Margaret would have to make.

As the customer service rep reached her bedroom door, a chill breeze rushed across her bare legs.  “Gotta start wearing jammies to bed,” she muttered to herself, bitterly. “Getting’ cold.”  Only her legs weren’t bare, she realized, looking down.  She was in the same black and hot pink pajamas that she’d worn all day Sunday.  The reason her legs were so cold was that the bottom half of her pajamas were completely soaked. A double take to her normally white sheets confirmed all that she had feared.

She’d wet the bed…again; this time without the aid of Jaeger and an exhaustively late night.  What did she do?  Why had this happened? How did she fix this?  There was so much that she had to do now, no time to do it, and it was all her fault. The panic swelled like zit ready to pop.  What to do? A little voice in the back of her mind gave her the answer she needed to hear: Margaret took a deep breath…then wailed in panic and despair.


    Molly checked online for more job postings.  She had to find more work.  She’d been up since about an hour before dawn, had found an amazing burst of energy and put the finishing touches on her latest project before sending the final product electronically to her client, and was now busy updating her portfolio and looking for new clientele.  The money that would be forthcoming upon completion of the project would easily pay for at least a month or so of rent and food, maybe two months if she didn’t party too hard, but something inside Molly knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Briefly, she considered finishing some of her more inspired (but less commercial) projects, maybe hit the Fine Arts Festival that was coming through in a few weeks, get herself a booth and sell her work to the old folks looking for “culture” for their living room walls and coffee tables.  She’d probably do it, too; a weekend at one of those things was an easy way to make around a thousand bucks, give or take.  Still, Molly wanted…no, needed something more substantial.

The “why” of this sudden need to be productive, rather than her usual loosey goosey self, couldn’t be properly explained.  The artist had a feeling that it had something to do with the dreams she’d had the night before.  Only fleeting impressions and flashes of images remained from the previous night’s slumber, but Molly felt herself deeply affected nonetheless.

Images of her being big and powerful lingered in her conscious mind.  Big, and powerful, yet gentle, and loving.  It was a bit like what Molly imagined being a goddess might feel like.  In her dream she had had the power to create and destroy at a whim, and the only thing binding her was her chosen responsibility to her charge.

Charge?  That was an unusual designation for a worshiper.  Then again, what were worshippers to their gods other than helpless little dependents who desperately needed divine intervention on their behalf?  It made sense in the dream, and so it made sense in the waking world, and Molly Huang was channeling that feeling of benevolent power into something productive.

A gentle, almost electric tingle traveled through her body, but it wasn’t a disturbing feeling.  It was more like a personal massager working its way all along her arms and legs and up and down her back and neck.  So relaxing.  And it started on the underside of her right wrist.

Remembering the good times that led up to getting her one and only tattoo (or maybe it was her first of many, time would tell) and the quiet and more intimate moments that followed the next day, Molly stopped searching for ad companies looking for artists and examined the ink permanently etched into her flesh.

What did those little squiggly lines mean, anyways? Were they Korean, for “Blessed Friend?” or just Japanese for “Pickle Fucker”?  Molly didn’t know.  Even if they had been in Vietnamese, she likely wouldn’t have had a clue beyond the few sight words that her grandma hat taught her when she was a little girl.

Molly squinted at the ink that had mysteriously showed up yesterday morning, as if narrowing her field of vision might somehow give her some insight into the meaning of the text.  A hot pulse on her skin, matched a sudden flash of red on the symbols: there and then gone again. Had her tattoo just glowed a bit (was it made from some expensive and fancy ink that changed color?) or had that been just a trick of the light?

The young artist might have taken more time to examine this had her ears not pricked up at the sound of high pitched, nearly hysterical wailing. She was halfway into the living room before she was fully aware that her feet were moving.  The sound was coming from Margaret’s room, and Molly found herself ready to break down the door to get inside.

The readiness was merely symbolic, however; a simple turn of the knob did the trick, and Molly walked in to find her roommate standing in the corner of her own room screaming as hot wet tears ran down her cheeks.

Molly was about to ask her roommate what was wrong, but she was forced back a step as the smell of stale urine almost overwhelmed her nose.  The lavender smell of baby powder was still present, but the ratio of powder smell to piss smell had definitely shifted in the latter’s favor.  The yellow stain on Margaret’s bed, as well as how the inside legs of her pajama bottoms were much darker than the outside confirmed to Molly’s eyes what her nose had already told her. Still, she asked, “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorrrrrry!” Margaret moaned, her apology coming out in one big elongated sob.

“You wet the bed!” More than a hint of shock and even accusation was in Molly’s voice.  Was this why the little neat freak had trouble getting a roommate?

“I overslept!”

“And you wet the bed!”

“I’m sorrrrry!”

“Did you drink again, last night?’

Margaret sniffled. “No….”

“Is this normally a problem?”

“If it was,” Margaret replied, tears dripping onto the floor and snot beginning to pool onto her upper lip, “don’t you think I’d be used to it by now…and not…and not…?” There was an awkward pause, followed by another round of “I’m sorrrry!”

Molly wanted to scream at Margaret, to slap her and tell her to grow a pair and deal with it.  She’d had some shit luck with her love life, and a bad hangover yesterday, but that was no excuse for this kind of freakout.  Instead, Molly found herself marching up to the taller woman, grabbing her squarely by the shoulders with both hands, and very gently saying.  “Margaret, sweetie, tell me what happened.”

The tears slowed as Margaret began to speak, Molly’s words enveloping her in a kind of calm as she explained in gasping sobs what had happened.  “I woke up late, aaaaand, I forgot to set my alarm clock. Whichisreallyweirdbecausethat’sneverhappenedbefore,” the tumbled out of Margaret’s mouth all at once.  “And now I’m wet, and my bed is wet, and I’m laaaaaate but I gottagotowork!”

Despite herself, Molly couldn’t help but feel her heart melt at the pathetic display.  Her roommate was like a puppy that was rubbing her own nose in her mess and scolding herself, poor thing.  “Okay,” Molly shushed the taller girl.  “It’s okay.  It’s gonna be alright.” The gears were already turning in Molly’s brain.  How to make this right without destroying the pour girl?  “You take a hot shower and relax.  I’ll clean up here.  Then, when you’re out, you call work and tell them you’re taking a sick day.”

“But I never miss work,” Margaret whined.  The idea of missing work seemed to cause the more tightly wound woman even more distress than waking up in a wet bed two mornings in a row.

Some never-before-felt impulse told Molly to give the girl a hug, piss stained pajama bottoms or not.  Instead she took a step back, finding with it a sense of objectivity, tempered by her compassion.  “If you never miss work, then they’ll understand that you really need the day.”

The girl in the aforementioned wet pajamas sniffed. “That makes sense….but…my boss…I’m already not there…and he…he…”  Margaret looked like she was about to break down crying again.  Molly couldn’t have that.

“Do you want me to call your job for you?” The offer hadn’t been thought through, it just came out of its own volition.  “Make up an excuse for you?”  Margaret nodded. “Fine.  Give me your phone, I’ll make the all while you’re showering up.”

A hint of a smile started showing itself on Margaret’s face. “Thanks Molly,” she whispered, “You’re a good friend.”  Still in wet pants, she went over to the nightstand, unplugged her phone, and handed it back to Molly.  “My passcode is one-zero-one-seven.”  Then, with surprising alacrity, the brown-haired woman dropped her soaking wet clothes down to the floor and stepped out of them on her way out the door to the bathroom.

The sudden and complete lack of modesty surprised Margaret.  She had gone beet red just the other day when Molly had stumbled in on her quietly crying and scrubbing the mattress.  Now she was wailing at an earsplitting volume, crying openly, and dropping her panties right in front of Molly, and they’d only known each other a few days. Molly wouldn’t have been bothered by such openness under most circumstances, but the speed at which the other girl was opening up to her was shocking.  The things stress can do to a person.   “Don’t think I’m doing this for free,” Molly called out to her roommate.  “When you’re all cleaned up, you totally owe me a shopping trip.  We don’t have any breakfast and I’m not wolfing down PB & J or Hamburger Helper first thing in the morning.”

“Okay.” Margaret’s muffled voice came in from the other side of the wall where the bathroom lay.  The sound of pressurized water hitting tiled floor filled the apartment, and both women, in their own way, went to work.

The call to Margaret’s job had been easy enough.  She had “Work” saved in her contact list, and the man on the other end of the line was surprisingly understanding and cordial.  He asked a message for a speedy recovery to be passed along, and wished Molly a good day.  Before hanging up, he’d asked. “By the way, who is this?”

“For all intents and purposes,” Molly said, “her mother.”  She hung up and laughed at her own joke, feeling pretty smug.

The sheets, and pajama bottoms were quickly bunded up, and put in the washing machine, this time spread out evenly so that unbalanced, thrum-thrumming, lopsided shuffle from the day before didn’t happen.  Easy as pie; piece of cake.

The stain on the mattress was something else entirely.  Haphazardly, Molly filled a bucket with soap and water, grabbed a dry towel from the linen closet and tried in vain to scrub away the smell and the spot.  The spot hadn’t completely disappeared from the first wetting.  The second one was cementing the marking on the mattress as surely as Molly’s new tattoo marked her skin.    Girl needed some spot remover or something.

If Margaret was to be believed, she didn’t normally have spots, so it stood to reason she had no spot remover.  Make that another item to add to Margaret’s after shower shopping list besides milk and Cocoa-Krispies.   “Would that be too much?” Molly asked Margaret’s room, still reeking of piss.  “Would that be holding her responsible, or just kicking her when she’s down?”  Hard to tell.

What the young artist could tell was that she needed help cutting the smell.  It didn’t take long for her to get the baby powder, and once again sprinkle it over the suds-dampened mattress.  At least the powder would dry out the bed a bit, and hopefully keep mildew from forming.  Molly gave the air a sniff: better, but not quite right.  It needed something more.

The shower was still going strong by the sound of the water, Molly heard.  Bottle of powder in her hand, Molly cast a glance at Margaret’s dresser drawer and was struck with an idea.  Carefully, very carefully, as if she were cracking a safe, Molly opened the dresser drawers until she found where her bedwetting roommate kept her unmentionables.

“Figures,” Molly said as she picked through the perfectly folded panties. “Not one thong.”  Molly had no idea why she was doing this, adding baby powder to Margaret’s clothes wouldn’t do much for the smell of the girl’s room, and it wasn’t as if Margaret smelled bad (current circumstances not withstanding), but Molly had long ago learned to trust her impulses and hairbrained ideas as part of following her own personal muse.

Slowly, but smoothly, as if she were disarming a series of bombs, Molly unfolded her new friend’s underwear, and one by one sprinkled some of the sweet smelling powder inside, and then carefully folded them back up and placed them inside the panty drawer.  They were organized and placed even more neatly than when Molly had found them, if she said so herself, Molly had placed them in neat little stacks of three or four. No routing around for a pair, just pick one up from the top, unfold, and put it on.  Molly inhaled deeply before closing the top drawer, and smiled in self-satisfaction before purring a bit in contentment.

“This is how a little girl’s room should smell.”   The thought was uttered and forgotten before Molly even had time to examine what she had said.


Margaret had gone from cold and wet to hot and wet.  Amazing what a difference in temperature can do to a person’s temperament.  Speaking of temperament, Margaret couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with hers.  “What is wrong with me?” she whispered into pulsing showerhead.  She hadn’t cried like that since she was in pre-school, and even then, it had been to her mother or a trusted adult, not a peer…not a friend…not a roommate.

Worse than the crying was her accident.  The first time, she could forgive herself for being in over her head and drowning her higher brain functions in booze.  But today?  What was her excuse for that?  Normally, Margaret Masterson was in perfectly control of her body and emotions; that was both her greatest strength and defining weakness.  That’s why she’d lost her fiancé, or so he’d written.

Ever since she’d let loose in an act of invisible rebellion- a hello toast to her new roommate and a goodbye middle finger to her ex- she’d felt like she’d lost that steady spark of herself; that filter that kept Margaret organized, and clean, and productive.

Margaret craved release and to be irresponsible and just kick back, like any human being.  She had just learned to discipline herself into enjoying herself in little spurts (perhaps a poor choice of words considering her nocturnal enuresis).  She’d do all the work she could, make things neat and tidy and nice to look at, and then she’d relax a bit with a mixture of simulated violence from her videogames or animated fart jokes.  Now, though, it was as if that tiny part of her that was always whispering for her to run rampant with her desires, her id, had grown larger and was still growing.  In the white noise and steam created by the hot shower, Margaret reflected upon her circumstances, such as they were.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t relieved when Molly offered to call work for her.  The responsibility had been lifted from her shoulders, and she needed that, she felt. But what of the other things that Molly had done, like help clean up her wet sheets for her? Was she taking advantage of Molly? Was she really that helpless?

“Of course I’m not,” Margaret spoke softly to herself, though which question she was answering was unknown, even to her.  As if in response, be it contradiction or agreement, the irritated patch of skin on the small of Margaret’s back pulsed with heat.   It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, Margaret thought, but it didn’t feel exactly natural, either.

Why was she being such a crybaby lately? Margaret couldn’t begin to guess why her emotions had been so topsy turvy.  Was she really that not over Jack?  If she hadn’t known any better, she might think she was pregnant, even though the biggest prerequisite for being pregnant had yet to be met.  A dark thought creeped across Margaret’s mind: maybe it had been.  She’d been drunk enough to get a tattoo, maybe she’d been drunk enough to hook up with a complete stranger.  “Naaaaah,” Margaret waved away the thought was she reached for the knob.

The shower ended just as the hot water was beginning to run out. Getting out of a tepid shower was still more pleasant than exiting an icy one.  Groping around in the steam cloaked bathroom, Margaret searched in vain for a towel to dry off with.  She hadn’t brought one into the shared bathroom, she realized. Too late.  Necessity being the mother of invention, the young woman reached for the hand towels by the bathroom sink.

Positioning them as best as she could, Margaret was a bit more covered than Adam and Eve had been but slightly less covered than Tarzan and Jane.  A quiet peek into the main living area showed no roommate in sight.  Margaret took the opening and crab shimmied from the bathroom to her bedroom, her face a mask of absolute panic and embarrassment.   Had Molly been there to witness, she would have no doubt laughed herself into fits while rolling on the floor; anyone with a brain would have.

Her pride now bruised, Margaret wasted no time in drying herself off with hand towels and getting dressed into something more grown-up than soiled jammies.  As before, her room was practically drowning in the scent of baby powder.  She had no chance of noticing that there was an extra concentration of the smell coming from her underwear drawer.  So rushed was she, that Margaret didn’t even look to see the film of white powder lining the inside of her panties as she stepped into them, nor did she notice thin puff of white dust that spilled outward and upward as she pulled them up her legs as fast as she could.  Her body burned too hot from shame to properly notice the cooling effect of baby powder on her bottom.
A bra, a blouse, a skirt, and a quick but thorough hair brushing later, Margaret felt ready to face the world for the first time since last Friday.  The best part was that she didn’t even have work to go to now.  Slipping on a pair of comfortable but functional sandals, Margaret walked out into the living room and picked up her car keys off the little hook on the walls.  The washing machine was humming merrily as it erased the evidence of her juvenile indiscretion.

“I’m out of the shower,” Margaret said, knocking loudly on the door.  “What can I get you for breakfast?”

The click-clacking sounds of fingers dancing on a keyboard stopped and there was a pause.  “Cereal,” Molly called back through her door. “Something chocolatey.”  The clacking resumed, and Margaret was about to head for her car when Molly added, “Oh and you might want to get something for that stain on your mattress.”

Saying nothing, Margaret bit her tongue to suppress the sob that threatened to erupt from her.  “Let’s just get this over with,” the girl told herself, her mood now completely soured.  She exited her apartment and made her way out into her complex’s parking lot, finding…nothing.

Her car wasn’t in its appointed place.  She checked the nearby visitor parking space.  Nothing.  For the better part of ten minutes, she scanned the painted concrete, looking for any vehicle that even remotely resembled her little blue Honda Fit, finding nothing.  Who had taken her car?  Should she call the police?  Who would want to steal her car in the first place?  Then the terrible, sobering reality of her situation dawned on her.

“MOLLY!” Margaret’s voice came in panicked and whining.

The door to Molly’s room flung open, and Molly poked her head out, her face the very picture of genuine concern.  “What is it?” Molly asked.  “What’s wrong?”

“We left our car at the bar,” Margaret said, her lips quivering.  “We took a cab out of there.  We must’ve taken a cab home too.”

Molly seemed to think about it.  “That sucks,” she said.  “Good thing you took the day off anyways.  Go get it.”

“How?!” Margaret howled, her face contorting against her will, and tears dripping down her cheeks anew.  “I don’t have a car to get to my car!  You don’t have a car!  What are we gonna do?”

Molly sighed.  “You’re really sheltered, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh”, Margaret spoke through her fingers, her hands already traveling up to her face to hide her shame.

“Alright,” Molly said, “don’t worry about it.  Just give me your keys and the cash. I’ve got your back.  It’s my fault anyways.”  Margaret didn’t even think twice before relieving herself of the burden.

“I’ll be back with breakfast,” her roommate said, opening the door and going outside.  “We’ll go from there.”

“Okay,” Margaret’s voice said meekly as Molly walked out. “I’ll just stay here, then.”  Her head turned to the soiled mattress she could see through her doorframe as if it were an old enemy. “Maybe make my bed while you’re gone.”


Molly came home in a little less than an hour, holding two large paper bags full of groceries.  The bus dropped her less than a block from a nearby Publix, and the ride home had been relatively swift as well.  “Breakfast,” she called out, unnecessarily.  It took her setting down the bags on the kitchenette counter to notice that Margaret was back on the floor, watching cartoons.

“Oh…hi!” Margaret called up from her spot on the floor, as if waking up from a trance.  “Was just taking a break.”

Molly started unpacking the groceries she’d bought with (mostly) Margaret’s money.  Lunch meats, cheese and condiments went in the fridge, milk would join them shortly; pasta went in the cupboard, and cereal would go in the pantry when it wasn’t being eaten.  It wasn’t exquisite by any definition, but it would keep their bellies full for a few days.  “A break from what?” It wasn’t accusatory in the least, but Molly couldn’t help but hide her own feelings of befuddlement. Molly could see that her roommate’s bed remained unmade, and a quick check of the washing machine revealed that Margaret hadn’t even thought to switch her wet sheets over to the dryer.  Maybe Margaret’s ex did all the housework…

“Oh,” Margaret stammered “I mean…um..y’see…I guess…” she stopped. “I kinda got distracted.”

“Doing what?” Molly reiterated.  In looking down at Margaret, she noticed that the little Russian nesting dolls that she’d seen the other day had been opened, unpacked, and placed carefully around the floor so as to appear they were all watching Netflix with their owner.  At least that was proof that Margaret had been in her room since Molly had left.

The taller woman, now not so tall from her spot on the floor, pointed to the T.V.  A flash-animated tiger in a red hoodie took up the majority of the screen.  It was talking and singing tunelessly about how taking turns makes it so that everybody can play.  “It’s called Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood,” Margaret enthusiastically explained.  “It’s like Mr. Rogers, but it’s animated.  The setting is that land of make believe place from the old show, and the characters are all kids of the puppets that Mr. Rogers used to use.  It’s really cool.  And it doesn’t teach ABC stuff as much as social skills and how to deal with your feelings and stuff.”

It was a clever concept, Molly agreed, one that could definitely convince parents to let their kids watch: Older parents would be drawn in by nostalgia, hoping that their kid could watch something similar to what they did, and even millennials who’d never seen an episode knew that Mr. Rogers was more wholesome and family friendly than anyone’s actual family.  So, why not let the next generation of toddler watch?  That still didn’t explain why a twenty-something with no kids was lecturing her about its merits.

A little part of her brain told her to read the room, and that maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring that up.  “Well, let’s get some breakfast.”

“Cool,” Margaret chirped.  “Would you mind bringing it down here?” She patted a spot next to her on the carpet.

“Actually,” Molly replied, “I’d like it better if we sat at the table together.  There’s some stuff I need to talk to you about…as roommates.”

Margaret looked at the tiny dining table by the kitchenette as though it were a mile away. “But I’m comfortable,” she whined.

Molly put her foot down. “And I’m serious.  There’s some things we need to discuss if we’re going to keep being roommates.”  Molly watched as those words “if we’re going to keep being roommates”, sunk in.  Margaret sat up a little straighter. “Now…”

Margaret practically leapt from her spot on the floor and scampered to the table, while Molly laid out bowls and spoons.  “I’ve got Reese’s Puffs Cereal and Special K.” Molly said, holding the two boxes up.

“Reese’s, please.” Margaret replied in a very polite and very contrite tone, clearly not wanting to anger her new friend.  Margaret opened the box and handed it over to Molly, who began pouring the dark and light brown corn balls into her own bowl, almost filling it to the brim.  Meanwhile, she opened the other box and began pouring the much more adult oriented cereal into her own bowl.

“I thought you wanted chocolate, too.” Margaret said, reaching for the milk that Molly had laid out.  Molly snatched it away and quickly poured the milk, first into the chocolate cereal then into her own before putting it away in the refrigerator.

If either girl felt the behavior was uncalled for, they didn’t say anything.  “I thought so too,” Molly said, coming back to her bowl of cereal.  “But something struck me when I went shopping, and so I went for this instead.”

“I’d normally eat something like that,” Margaret admitted, “but when I saw the Reese’s, I just had to go for it.”

“Yeah,” Molly agreed, “I had a feeling about that, too.  Figured I might be in the mood for some later.  Good thing I got both, huh?”  Margaret nodded, and the two munched away at their breakfast, neither woman speaking until both were finished, only the crunches coming from their mouths and the clinking of their spoons made any sound.
When they were done, Molly cleared the dishes away and put them in the sink.  “So…got some bad news,” Molly started.

“Is it about my car?” Margaret asked, a dribble of milk still clinging to her lower and sliding down her chin.

It took everything Molly had within her to not lean over and wipe the spittle off of the other woman’s face.  “Yeah, I made some calls.” Molly admitted.  “Your car is impounded.”  Margaret was thankfully silent, her eyes becoming wide as saucers.  “We accidentally left it there for longer than twenty-four hours.  It’s been towed.”

“How much to get it out?”  Margaret asked.

There was no easy way to put this.  “Rent day is coming up, isn’t it?”


“I don’t think you have enough for both.”

Margaret was literally shaking.  “How am I going to get to work then?”

Molly allowed herself her typical, lazy smile. Time to look more in control than she felt. “I’ve got some money coming in a few days.  As soon as I have it, I can bail your car out.  You can pay me back when you can.  We can work out a bus route to get you to work until then.”  Somehow she knew she’d need more money before all of this was said and done.  Go intuition.  Go instinct.


Molly swallowed hard.  The easy part was over.  Now for the difficult part.  “About that,” she said.  “There is something I think you need to do.”  She went over to the paper shopping bag and pulled out…

“Diapers?!” Margaret all but shrieked.

“They’re not diapers,” Molly replied (okay, they kind of were, but that wasn’t helping.) “they’re for people who wet the bed.”

“They’re for little kids!”

“Look,” Molly insisted.  “It was either this, or adult diapers.  I thought we’d try this and see how they hold up.”

Margaret whined. “I don’t need those!”

The young artist nodded.  “I agree,” she said.  “You probably don’t.  But this is just in case.”


“Look,” Molly said, changing her tone.  “Put these on tonight.  If you’re dry, then it’s a false alarm, this was a freak accident.  If not, then I won’t have to wash your filthy sheets again.”  Margaret shrunk back, stunned.  Time to go for the kill.  “And also…you just said you owe me.”

“Fine,” Margaret huffed, taking the package of dia…of bedtime bedwetting underwear and turning it over in her hands.  “At least the decorations are kind of cute.”  They were, Molly thought.  Maybe that’s why she picked them out instead of one of the plainer adult pull-ups.  Though Molly couldn’t begin to explain why she’d decided to get any kind of protection for her roommate to begin with.  As usual, she just followed her instinct, and didn’t mind so much when her hand shot out and grabbed a pack off a nearby shelf.


As Margaret slept that night, wearing her bed wetting pants like a good girl, a shadowy form loomed over her alarm clock, deftly switching it from “on”, to “off.”  If Margaret noticed this, then her only response was to pop her thumb into her mouth and suck on it.



End Chapter 2


by: Personalias | Complete Story | Last updated Aug 13, 2021


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