Designing Destiny – Ch. 05 (Tier 2+) (Patreon)

What a nightmare!

Fern blinked resentfully at the ruin of her bed, her head pounding and her nearsighted eyes clouded with unwilling tears. She was stark naked: fresh from the shower, still too dazed with sleep and hangover to much care. Down at bed she stared, the rumpled blanket and visibly soaked sheets a mute reminder of exactly what a disgraceful act she'd done during the night.

Disgraceful. Night.

A shiver rippled over her bare skin, and she clutched at herself in a silent, desperate hug. It was as if she was caught once more: not in one nightmare alone, but two. The literal nightmare of last night, of course. And the more distant specter of a troubled past that refused to leave her in peace.

Gulp. Oh, the nightmare of last night! How she could see them still: those crimson eyes, boring deep into her very soul. How she could feel that infinite powerlessness – the way her very body has spasmed and jolted to obey those mystic words, regardless of her own will. God, and that sensation! That stuff- that thing she'd been gulping. Over and over, without thought or pause…

"No-o…" A low moan of disgust welled up from her lips, and she shivered once more, desperately blinking back the anxiety that threatened to envelop her. It was just a bad dream. Just a silly, scary dream, and the idea that the terrifying thing had sounded like Destiny was pure fantasy. It was thanks to all that alcohol last night, surely. Yeah, of course. No wonder she had been having such weird nightmares! After all, if she'd been so drunk as to piss herself in her sleep-

Quit lying to yourself, an cruel inner voice whispered. You know damn well it wasn't just the alcohol.

The nightmare of old memories rose up like a miasma to choke her, and she stiffened. Now she could hear it all: the shrill voice of her mother, echoing down the dusty halls of her mind. "What a dirty, lazy- Ugh, I've had enough of you!" "What, you really think you can just lie there in bed and pee your pants? You're not a baby anymore, you know!" "I know you can, Fern! You clearly just don't want to. And I honestly don't have the time or patience to deal with a girl who refuses to use the bathroom when she needs to…"

The haunting eyes from her nightmare were gone now, replaced by the mortifying memory of her little childhood bed, just as tousled and soaked as the one before her now. Next came the image of the stack of incriminating Pampers in her dresser drawer – and once she'd outgrown them, the ratty towel she'd had to stuff into her pajamas at bedtime. And oh, the image of herself in the bathroom mirror – that awful, bulgy butt! How her seven-year-old self had secretly longed to go to those sleepovers with friends, and how she'd never dared – not so long as she would have had to let people see what a dumb diaper baby she really was…

If only she could have been as lucky as her cousin.

She bent down and tugged furiously at the bed-sheets, ripping them free and heaping them together in a soggy pile. Sure, she could dwell on the past. She could think about that one unforgettable time she'd been at her aunt's, and how she'd been shocked to find her cousin Margie trotting off to bed with some kind of strange, thick white panties underneath her Barbie nightgown. She could flush at the memory of her aunt kindly offering that she, Fern, could try them for the night too. And she could even recall how weirdly nice it had felt to crawl into the bed beside Margie wearing one of those soft things called Goodnites, and how she'd woken the next morning with the strangest sense of relief upon finding them soaked but her pajamas dry… for once.

Yet obsessing about all that was stupid, right? Useless. All it did was remind her that it wasn't really the alcohol to blame for this wet bed. It was her – Fern – and her stupid bladder. Fern, the shy, glasses-wearing, diminutive bedwetter. Fern, the girl who had only really escaped diapers at the age of ten – and who was apparently even now in danger of slipping right back into them.

She trudged to the laundry room, arms heaped with the soiled laundry. Into the washer she dumped the disordered mass. No sense in sorting them. Just clean 'em all up together. In went the detergent, then the softener. And… start.

But as the nude young woman plodded wearily back into her room and reached for her glasses, her eyes fell on her phone lying abandoned on the floor. She reached down – picked it up. And then, on a sudden impulse, she swiped open the browser. Opened a new private tab. And with shaking fingers, typed a single word:

Goodnites.

Wait, they actually still had them. They- they weren't a figment of her imagination. There they were – but so much different that she'd remembered? The one from her memory was still vivid enough: a thick white thing, plain and rectangular and unassuming. Hadn't they been like that? But now these were… colorful. Some for boys, some for girls. And wait… what was that weight range? 95-140 pounds? Hold on – but even now in her twenties, she was only-

What was she even thinking? Stupid, stupid, she reprimanded herself, tossing her phone fiercely onto the exposed mattress pad and turning to her closet for her pajamas. Why the hell would she even consider such a thing? It was just her stupid insecurity talking again – and maybe her pounding headache. Surely one wet night wasn't enough to make her into the sort of dirty, lazy bedwetter her mother despised. It was just a fluke – a one-off. No need getting into a fret about it…

***

Speak of the devil, as they say.

"Hey, Mom… Yeah, I'm okay. So, umm… everything okay there?" She was shuffling in place at the kitchen counter, clutching her cup of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. It had been so tempting to let it go to voicemail. But then it would have just rung again… and again… and again…

Might as well get it over with, right?

"Oh, sure. Yeah, no, I'm great! Yeah, work is… fine. Yeah. Totally." Which it almost was – thanks in large part to Destiny and the way she was helping Fern through this Woodridge project. But next came another wave of shrilly prying questions, and hence her own stomach-jolting plunge into half-truths, white lies, and flat-out falsehoods. Just like she always ended up doing.

"No, actually- No, I mean it! And yeah, I- I'm seeing someone. Yeah, he's a super nice guy – like, pretty cool. Not sure if it will work out yet, but…" Of course it was a flat-out lie, but it didn't really matter. Next came the round of passive-aggressive comments, and her own feeble efforts to deflect them. "No, the apartment's fine, really! Mom, of course not- Of course I'd like to live with you if I could! No, the rent hasn't gone up-"

And on and on and on. From her relationships to her job, anything and everything that her mom didn't like about her life had to be defended and excused and explained away. Which meant that after only thirty minutes in, she could feel her already fragile mental state teetering on the brink of a hysterical breakdown.

Maybe it wasn't an actual breakdown. But when she finally was free – when she finally dropped her phone to the counter and let out a broken sigh of exhausted relief – it wasn't a minute later until she was curled up on her unmade bed, burrowing her face into the warm tangle of freshly dried sheets as the tears began to flow.

It was all she wanted right now: to curl up here in the safe, warm refuge of her room. To hug her stuffed fox Suzie closer. Maybe even to tuck her thumb into her mouth once more, trying desperately to push away the dark clouds of thoughts that once again threatened to overtake her.

God, what a loser she was! A grown woman, not even dressed or with her makeup done. Whining and crying into her stupid unmade bed – unmade because she'd literally peed in it the night before, and because she was too disorganized to even get her laundry done in a timely manner. Here she lay, unable to make her own mom happy, after all – and what kind of loser actually put up with being a disappointment? What kind of pathetic daughter had to lie to her own mom to cover up her horrific failure of a life?

Well, maybe she was a loser. Maybe she really didn't have a shot at anything better than this. Might as well huddle here at home and cry, right? Or better yet, shuffle out to the kitchen and find that vodka tonight. So what if she got drunk and ended up pissing the bed again? Sure, it would remind her again of what a pathetic, lazy-ass loser she was. But it wasn't super likely to happen anyway. And even if so, not like anyone but her would know, right?

Maybe getting drunk again would actually be worth it. Even if it did give her a nightmare or two.

(To be continued!)