This story will likely have a second or a third part, it depends on how I’m feeling tomorrow or the day after. I’m probably going to start an actual novel either tonight or tomorrow, and so many other ideas have been pushed out of my head, but I think you guys will enjoy this, thus, I’m writing it. As always, comments requested.
The Goddess awoke, as she did every morning, at exactly 8:17 a.m. Her eyes would snap awake to the sound of softly playing Bach or Beethoven or Mozart floating into her room as if on a spring breeze. Like always, her ivory arms and pale as snow hands and feet would be splayed out in four directions, forming in addition to her head, a perfect five pointed star on her circular bed. Slowly, ever so slowly, one of her attendents, today it was Mark, would reach over and heighten the shade, letting the warm spring L.A. sunshine into the demure room. Her ice blue eyes would stare at the ceiling for four or five minutes while she mentally came to grips with the fact that she was in a way, mistress of all that she could touch, for one more day.
It was not in her nature to look too far into the future; she’d tried that before, and it had ended her the way she was now. A very great many people would wonder what was wrong with that.
Her silken nightgown, so light it was almost not there, would lie upon her lithe, pure body without moving until the Changelings, Martha and Sue came in, and began to remove her clothing. She’d been embarrassed by this, at first, until one day she decided that they’d probably already seen more of her than this before they started working for her. So she stood there docilely while they changed her clothes, put on her makeup, made her look beautiful.
The Goddess liked to think that there was a regularity to her day, a sort of pattern that could not be changed, no matter what she or anyone else did. It was preordained by the heavens, is how she reassured herself.
Then, she’d head down to breakfast and ate, always the same Honey Bunches of Oats, freshly poured just moments before she arrived, and sprinkled with fresh raspberries. She would dine, being careful to never finish more than half, and she would head off to her schedule of events, which started daily at no less than 9:21.
She believed in this rhythm, this pattern, for not other reason than that she couldn’t face up to the simple fact: she was not at all in control of anything she did.
The voices would come to her, about then, telling her what she would be doing that day. She liked the days when she was actually working the best, the days when she was creating something beautiful, something that millions of people would love. And love they did, as they showed with their money, and with their praise. The Goddess could walk anywhere and be recognized, and be loved.
But she never did, because she was too afraid.
Afraid of the public, afraid of herself. The Goddess believed, really believed that what had happened was her fault, that she could have done something different. That was why should cried herself to sleep every night.
That day was mostly uneventful. The Goddess visited her agent, and discussed plans for upcoming public appearances. She had to play to her public, he always said, had to keep them happy. Never mind that he got fifteen percent of everything.
Later on, she lunched with the Mayor, because the Mayor knew that it would help a reelection campaign in this city to be seen eating, or even talking with, The Goddess. After that, they said, the afternoon was hers.
Which, in other words, meant she read.
Finally, after a dinner that seemed pointless, The Goddess drifted off to bed, early, because they told her that she had a big day tomorrow, like they always said, and that she needed her rest.
And then, the movie-star face that killed a million marriages and broke ten million more hearts, wept. Wept into her pillow, and wept with tears falling down her cheeks and into her ears. She wept not because she didn’t believe in this or because she was unhappy, or because she was lonely.
No, she wept because she had a secret that no one else knew, that no one else could know.
She, for every second of her life in the last three months, wore diapers.
The Goddess awoke at exactly 8:17 AM, and went through the motions of her normal morning routine. However, this morning was different. This morning she knew what she was going to do.
Diapers had come into her life three months ago in what was ultimately a freak accident. She’d been staning in line at Starbucks, of all places, and was in a particularly nice mood. Her hair looked nicer than normal, the sun was shining, and she’d only been hit up by three or four autorgraph seekers so far today. In short, things were looking good.
She never did see the strange looking man enter the store that day, never saw him get in line two spots behind her.
As stated, she was feeling rather nice that morning, and because she had a large order to place (3 mocchas and a frappachino) she decided to let the woman behind her, who was trying to corral three rowdy kids at the same time, go first. Everything went smoothly, until only four seconds after she turned around with her order. For one brief moment, she was face to face with the strange looking man in that restaraunt that day, and their glances locked. Then, he went berserk. He shoved The Goddess out of the way, and began yelling in a hoarse scream that no one should move, and that he’d stab anyone who did and that he wanted all the money. The Goddess turned and tried to move out of the way as he shoved her, and with a crazed look in his eye that could only be borne out of a desperation for Cocaine, the man sunk an ice pick into her abdomen.
The doctors told her, just like they told ever stabbing victim, that she was lucky to be alive. The pick had missed her liver and spleen and sunk straight into the muscles of her bladder. They told her that with the sphincteral muscles damaged as they were, there’d be little chance of her every regaining more than token bladder control.
So, she’d had to live with the fact that she’d piss herself night and day for the rest of her life.
She’d tried to recluse herself, tried to become less visible. Even as she did so, however, the public became more enamored, more willing to go to greater and greater lengths to witness her magic. Everything she did was loved.
She simply couldn’t escape, which leads us back to today.
Finally, the day was once again over. It had been another exhausting ordeal, maintaining face in the public eye. But, above all, she was an actress, and her job demanded her best face at all times.
So it was with downtrodden eyes that she trugded her way to the bathroom that night with finality in her steps. The bottle of pills in her hand would be enough, she thought, enough to end it all.
And she was right.