Long Story #4: Mummy Madness (2. Dummy Mummy )

II. Dummy Mummy (Content Tags: Supernatural, brain damage, age regression, messing, diapers, humiliation, bullying, witchcraft) "Maybe you'll get a little more into the spirit of the holiday this way; one could hope, right?" The last few weeks had been...Troublesome, for Tristan. In fact, the last few weeks had hosted a cruel variety of problems that had completely upended his life as he knew it. Troublesome was far too soft a word. Those problems could all be linked to the bandaging that was wrapped around his forehead, because it was the most obvious representation of what had ailed him. One look was enough to tell people that he had a head injury at best, and a brain injury at worst. It was at worst for him. There was external damage that had to be covered, but most of the destruction had been internal, and there wasn't a bandage for that. What made matters worse, was how he was dressed and what wing of the hospital he had been staying in: pediatric for his housing, and a colorfully printed hospital gown that did a piss-poor job of covering the medical diaper that his ass had been stuck in this whole time. Tristan wasn't a kid though, and he hadn't been in diapers since infancy. This is where things got a little more complicated. Starting from the beginning, Tristan was nineteen and thriving. He'd been taking a gap year after high school and learning about what it was like to be an independent adult, at least for the most part. He'd been crashing at his Aunt Maggie's house for the last few months, because it was close to the school he'd been touring in consideration of enrollment. His aunt was polite, sometimes overly so, and he'd certainly taken advantage of that kindness during his stay. He ate her cooking, he performed no chores, and he had the gall to still ask constantly to borrow spending money. She had never lost a smile from any of it, but she had always been encouraging him to think before he acted. "If you want to be an adult, then act like an adult. If you want to be a kid, then act like a kid. You can't live in the middle forever." Aside from her, the only other occupants of the house were his cousins: Morgan who was fourteen, and Milo who had recently turned nine. Both of them were a pain in the ass in different ways, and he admittedly hadn't been the best house guest to them either. Three weeks ago, after getting into a mild argument with his aunt about whether or not it was appropriate for him to go to a Halloween party with older college students, he'd stormed off to bike to the corner store for smokes. He had a license, but no car yet, and while his aunt let him borrow hers, he couldn't exactly ask after getting into that tiff. As was usual for him, he wore no helmet, because that didn't seem like a guideline that was meant for adults taking a casual ride a few blocks down; besides, helmets were dorky and were basically pussy-repellent, right? Therein lied the most egregious of his mistakes. On his way back to the house, his phone went off, and he reached into his pocket to get it; distracted from the road, he missed that there was a toy in the street, and he went right into it. In an instant, the young man was flung off his bike and went headfirst into the curb. It was fortunately right in front of his destination, but that was where his good luck had ended. He'd blacked out almost instantly, so he only had secondhand information to fill in the blanks that came after. An important note to make, perhaps the most important note, was the nature of what his aunt was. She was a witch. An honest to god, modern day caster of spells. In fact, everyone from his mother's side of the family had a longstanding relationship with the arcane. It was a secret to the outside world, but to Tristan, it was something he'd known since he was still a tiny tot. His own magical abilities had never really manifested, which he somewhat resented, but he'd also never taken the time to try to develop them. His own mother only used hers to help with petty chores around the house, so he wasn't completely sold on their overall utility. His aunt used them more frequently, and she'd brought up her kids to do the same, but it still was never anything too impressive to him. His aunt still worked as a nurse, so obviously those powers had a hard limit on how much success they could even bring someone. Getting back to the point though, he had woken up in the hospital, with a splitting headache and something puffy around his rump. When his eyes had fluttered open, it'd been to see an unfamiliar woman in scrubs, who proceeded to talk down to him in a condescending tone. It was the cutesy crap that you were supposed to only play with kids, and when he opened his mouth to complain... "Stop talkin' at me like mmm' tupid." High pitched voice, somewhat slurred words, diminished vocabulary. And what came right after? Two fingers in the legband of the diaper he'd just discovered he was wearing, and a clicked tongue about being wet. All from a very pretty young woman, the same who might be in attendance at the party he was anticipating so badly. Tristan would find out the truth a little while later, whenever his aunt came into the room with a 'get well' card in her hands. He demanded answers, and she had no issue in giving them. "You did a lot of damage, Tristan. You're lucky you didn't end up in a wheelchair. It would've been permanent, the injuries to your brain, if I hadn't taken these measures." Her words were calculated, almost robotic, with minimal sympathy to coat them. She'd always had a stiff manner of speech, but this was a tone that lacked the usual warmth behind her words. There wasn't pity either, just casually detached facts about the situation. "A child's brain has a lot more plasticity to it, so this way, you'll actually be able to recover. Maybe not completely, but you'll be much better than if I'd left you an adult." And that was the gist of his whole situation right now; he'd stupidly cracked his head open, he had brain damage, and his aunt turned him into a child to help mitigate most of the permanent effects. He should have been thankful, shouldn't he? A chance at normalcy again, being doted on by the hospital staff, and avoiding the humiliation of anyone knowing who he really was... It was as good as the scenario could permit! But he wasn't thankful. He was still a pissy little brat that hated being held accountable for his own mistakes; he resented that he’d been turned into a little kid, whenever he’d just become able to explore his adulthood, and he was mortified at the fact that he was so reduced in other areas, regardless of whether or not he was recognized. That shame had really solidified the first time that he had messed his pants in the hospital bed; he’d been trying to convince his nurse to change the channel on the TV to something a little more mature than cartoons, and during his mush-mouthed tirade, he’d suddenly felt a full-body shudder. Spittle sputtering past his lips and coating his chin in a thin sheet of drool, he leaned forward on the bed and got a twisted look on his face; the actions were completely out of his control, as if his body was on auto-pilot for this sort of thing, and that meant some total reversion into the primal throes of infancy. A booger dangled from his nostril, like a bat from the mouth of a cave, and his squinting eyes rolled back. It started with a nasty sounding fart, or rather a shart, since he could immediately feel the slight squish of something hot on his bottom, but it quickly progressed into something significantly worse. “Oh, honey...Are you making poopies for Nurse Jenny?” The woman gently cooed, treating Tristan as though he had little more cognition than the average toddler; if his charts were to be taken to heart, she might not be too far off. “Nnnghh...N-noo...mmmph...P-pooo-poo…” He huffed between grunts, the front of his hospital gown becoming damp as he kept involuntarily pushing; each spasm of his bowels leading him closer to the inevitability he saw before him. It came out slowly, but surely. It felt like warm clay, or maybe softer, like play-doh, and it molded itself to his backside like it was; the aroma that followed was earthy, fruity, and foul. Without missing a beat, or waiting for the stinky boy to explain himself, the nurse had already gently pushed him onto his back, and she was lifting his legs by his scrawny ankles, so she could slide a fresh diaper underneath the bulging lumps of his poopy one. The rest of his stay at the hospital wasn’t much different from that. He couldn’t talk properly, couldn’t walk properly, couldn’t think very fast, and he kept wetting and soiling himself without any real control. By the time the urge to go hit, his body was already activating an evacuation protocol, without any permission necessary from his brain. After what had felt like forever, he would be discharged from the hospital, just a few days short of Halloween. His aunt would get him settled back into her home, with his room now having a few adjustments to better fit the secret identity he’d been forced to take on; his previous wardrobe had been completely altered too, since none of it would fit the boy he’d been forced to become. Tristan didn’t mask his unhappiness, but his sulk was less than effective at getting him anything he wanted, and the dynamic that he’d had with his cousins suddenly went through a large reversal. His aunt started to treat him more like a kid, and her children did the same, which culminated in the next step of his humiliation conga. Halloween. Obviously he couldn’t show up to that college party like this, not now that he was a drooling mudbutt. It was a disappointment, but he figured that meant he would just stay home and watch something. Apparently that wouldn’t be the case for him though, not when Milo was still at the age to trick-or-treat, with his older sister planning to take him out; his aunt was quite insistent that Tristan should go with them, since this ‘opportunity’ to enjoy being a kid again, was a rare one to be given. Tristan obviously tried everything to get out of it, but the woman was too damn stubborn. Still having bandages around his head, she came up with the bright idea to lean into that, and thus Tristan became a shoddily prepared mummy. In a bizarre coincidence, it was quite fitting, as Morgan was dressing as Cleopatra, and Milo as some kind of pharaoh; it couldn’t have been something done to match Tristan, since he’d heard of the collaboration before this whole incident had happened. It was just a matter of being unlucky for the young man. So Tristan would spend the evening toddling around, with his diapered ass crinkling the whole time, instead of drinking at a cool party and possibly getting some ass. At one point, he finally got sick of being cooed at by adults handing out candy, and he outright told his cousins that he was going back home. Morgan tried to warn him against it, but Tristan wasn’t having any of it from the girl, and she didn’t make too much of an effort to stop him; Milo was still having fun in getting candy, so the siblings would continue their course, leaving Tristan to make the trek back to the house alone. As his misfortune would have it, once again, he would get stopped by a couple of ‘bigger’ kids on his way down the street. In his old form, these brats would have looked no more threatening than Milo, but in his current state, it was like staring down the barrel of a gaggle of thugs. “Where’s your mommy, mummy?” One of them cackled. “Yeah, did she wrap you up in toilet paper, or did you do that yourself?” Another grinned. “Lemme ‘lone.” Tristan replied, seemingly oblivious to their bullying intent, and thinking that they would just move out of his way as he toddled forward. While stepping past them though, one of his bandages from his leg was loose and dragging on the ground behind him. The only boy yet to speak stomped his foot down on top of it, and that suddenly sent the little boy sprawling onto the street, with his candy scattering across the pavement. “Oops! Looks like you had some come undone.” “Hehe, or maybe he just can’t walk yet.” Tristan snarled, a rage building quickly within him. “Shuddup! I’m gonna...Gonna…” Frrrrrrrrrrt...BLART! Cruelly topping off his threat was a bodily mishap that sent the hyenas into hysterics; just as the mummy had been trying to get back on his feet, his uncontrollable flatulence had punctuated exactly why he was such an easy target for bullies now. “Watch out guys, I think we scared him too much. Sounds like he’s gonna crap his pants!” “Is that it? You about to fudge yourself, little guy?” “N-no! I-I not make FUDGIE!” Tristan tried to retort, the words getting mashed up before they left his mouth. That only made the trio laugh harder, “Dude, I think he might be retarded or something.” “Nuh-uh! Not tardee!” Tristan huffed, trying again to leave, since he had a pretty good idea of what would follow that gas. No such luck for him though; right as he took another step forward, one of the boys grabbed a hold of the bandaging around his midsection to hold him in place, but instead accidentally unraveled him a little further. “Oh, you’re not? You sure about that? You kinda talk like one.” Tristan didn’t get a chance for another retort, because this time his tooting was directly evolving into its final form. With pursed lips and a furrowed brow, his knees buckled just enough to give him a better posture, and he felt himself starting to pinch jumbo-sized tootsie rolls in his costume. One, two, three, four… All mid-sized and firm, like little logs to build a cabin, and his medical diaper gladly took each one into it. One look at his rosy cheeks and strained expression, and the ring-leader was gawking. “Oh...Dude, he’s totally crapping his pants. Just look at him!” The lumpy topography of the diaper was still hidden by the wrapping, but the diaper had already given his midsection a very bulky look to begin with. Now with a seat full of steamers, in the cold air, some literal steam was wafting up from the smoldering pile in his oversized Pampers. “Pants? He’s a retard, dude. He’s probably crapping in his diaper.” One of the other boys snickered. “Oh, man… I bet you’re right. How about it, mummy? You got a big mummy diaper under those band-aids? All full of dookie now, smells like.” His strained expression didn’t leave his face until he’d already pinched off the fifth and final turd, the last one being the largest, and therefore making the biggest of the knobby lumps on the backside of the garment. Even with the wrapping covering it, the lump was now large enough to be pronounced on the outside. “What should we do with him?” “We were gonna TP a house, weren’t we? This will save some time.” And that was how he spent the rest of his Halloween as a decoration: he hung from a tree in someone’s yard, hoisted into a messy diaper wedgie by his own bandages, left to dangle with his poopy diaper showing quite a bit. It’d be another hour before his cousins came back around to see him, and he was sure they would be tittering too. Instead of taking shots and getting numbers, he was spending the holiday as a dirty-diapered dummy. A dummy-mummy.