Rigid

She stood, with her hands together behind her back, her feet together side–by side, her back straight, her face forward. Standing to attention. Wincing against the intense feeling in her bladder, as though it would burst at any moment. In front of her, the giggling continued. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ she whispered, ‘but this isn’t funny.’ The giggling grew a little louder. She frowned, and wished she could duck down, or bend her knees, or do anything to stop this feeling that churned inside her, but she could not. Her name was Jodie Knight, and she had been on her way to work. She was only nineteen and had recently started a job working as a cashier at a local bank. It was fairly standard, all she ever had to do was count out money for people, write checks, accept checks, stamp things, sign things. She was all right at it. Today, the first day back after a two–week bank holiday to celebrate one hundred years of service, she was dressed in the uniform, which was in itself quite ordinary, a short black skirt reaching to somewhere just above her knees, a blue blouse with a name tag. Her blonde hair fell about her shoulders, but would be tied into a bun when she reached the bank. Why, then, could she no longer move? It had happened in an instant, she had stopped moving, and her body had taken on a life of its own. She had not commanded herself to stand up straight, put her feet together, put her hands behind her back, eyes up, back straight, chest out, but here she was, and now she couldn’t move. ‘It’s not funny,’ she repeated to the invisible pranksters, ‘where are you?’ She had been standing here now for what seemed like an age. She wasn’t able to look at her watch, since her hands were locked behind her back, but she guessed, from the changes in traffic on the roads nearby and the occasional mentions of the time from passers by to one another, that at least an hour and a half had passed. She was standing on a corner, near a cross–roads, somewhere on the outer rings of the center of town. Cars went by, people went by, and nobody really noticed she was there. She was just a girl, standing up. Desperate for the toilet. ‘I can’t stand here much longer,’ she warned. Why couldn’t she see whoever it was? She could quite clearly hear their voices sniggering in front of her, but there was nobody there. The feeling was coming on stronger now. She had been holding on since before she left the house. She had already been late and thought it would be okay, she could go for a wee as soon as she had reached the bank and apologized for her lateness. But she had decided to make herself wait until she got there. It would make her get there faster. Now, she longed to wrap her legs together, grind her thighs, even grab on with a hand, anything, to make it easier to hold on. What was she going to do? If she was here much longer she would wet herself in full view of the public. But how could she move? She was completely stuck, none of her limbs would do what she said. It was as though a spell had been cast over her. The feeling washed through her again. She closed her eyes and held on with as many muscles as she could. She didn’t know how she was going to get through this. ‘Who are you?’ she asked again, looking around her. The giggling jabbered louder, then died down a little, turning into excited breathing. ‘Do you need the toilet?’ asked a small voice in front of her, straining against the urge to laugh. The voice sounded as though it belonged to a boy of about twelve. She chose not to reply. There was a pause, and a further whispered snigger. A second boy’s voice chirped next: ‘Do you need a wee?’ They both laughed. ‘Look, I don’t know where you are, and I’m very impressed. Well done. Now can we finish it please?’ As soon as she had spoken, she regretted it. Now they knew they were getting to her. She waited. There was no reply. Finally there was a burst of saliva–drenched air at about waist–height to her. It sounded as though one of them had been holding their breath, trying not to laugh, and had finally given up. Who were these kids? Where were they hiding and how had they managed to throw their voices like that? Suddenly she felt a strong twinge from her bladder which forced her eyes shut. She wanted to screw her hands into fists to help her hold on, but she simply couldn’t move. Her arms, her legs, her hands and feet, her neck, her back – they were all frozen stiff, as though iron clamps had been locked around them. The feeling was intense. She had never thought about it before, but the body must do so many things automatically to soften the feeling of a full bladder, and now she could do none of them she was suddenly aware of each one. She longed for them. A slight bend at the waist would do the trick, a quick squeeze with one hand perhaps, or smaller things like wringing her hands, folding her arms, bending one knee, biting her nails, flexing her fingers, anything. But, she was totally helpless to these kids. She couldn’t feel anything around her arms, binding them. She suspected that must be because she hadn’t moved them for a long time, so any pressure on them from the handcuffs, or whatever they were, had stopped feeling like pressure at all. Or perhaps it was because it paled in comparison to the pressure she was feeling elsewhere. She made sure she definitely couldn’t move. It was true. Here she was, standing up straight, on a street corner. People were walking by, looking at her, and two invisible schoolboys were laughing in front of her. This was insane. Another wave swept through her with force. She gritted her teeth and did all she could to hold on. It was very difficult. She felt like she was going to burst any second. The boys began to laugh again. ‘You need the toilet don’t you?’ one of them sniggered. ‘Have you weed your pants yet?’ asked the other. This was horrible. ‘There’s a toilet over there if you need one,’ said the first voice, sympathetically. She turned her eyes to look, and saw that yes, there was in fact a toilet block about two minutes away, down the road. She grimaced. ‘Why don’t you go, if you need it?’ ‘Yeah, why don’t you go and have a wee? You can go there now look, it’s just there. You can just let it all go.’ ‘Let it all just flow out of you,’ said the other, fighting back laughter. Jodie was frantic. She bore her teeth involuntarily. Her eyes were wide with concentration. She was sure she couldn’t hold on for much longer, and letting go simply wasn’t an option, though she longed to. She was on a public street, everyone would see her, she might be arrested, and she would certainly lose her job. ‘Why won’t you let me go?’ she asked desperately, wishing she could see who was doing this to her, or understand how. ‘What do you mean?’ one of the boys replied, in the worst display of fake innocence she had ever heard. ‘You can go, right now, go on, just run over to the toilet, pull down your pants and let it all shoot out of you like a waterfall. I’ll help you with the pants if you need me to.’ She was livid. How dare they treat her like this? Who were they? ‘Or you could stay standing here, but all that’ll happen then is you’ll wet yourself.’ Their voices were tinged with gleeful malice now. ‘He’s right. It’ll happen soon.’ They were right. ‘Very soon,’ the boy continued. ‘You’ll feel it running down your legs any minute. You might as well just let go now. It’ll go running down your legs into a big puddle on the floor…’ Jodie wanted to scream. Every word they said made her imagine it, made her closer to letting go. Her body was telling her to listen to them, to let it just drop out of her, to end that horrible feeling. She looked over to the left. Who could she call to for help? There was an old man, sitting at a bus stop, reading today’s paper. But he had a hearing aid, and even as she watched him he tapped at it, to try and get it to work. He would be no use. ‘Maybe she can’t?’ one of the boys’ voices suggested. ‘Yeah, maybe she’s too embarrassed.’ ‘She shouldn’t be. Maybe we can help her?’ ‘Yeah, perhaps we should help her take off her pants?’ Jodie looked around her. There had to be someone else. Then she felt those hateful fingers worm their way up inside her skirt. They closed around her pants, and began to pull. Her eyes widened. She could do nothing. She tried to lash out, to stop him, but she was frozen stiff. Her panic set her bladder ablaze. She could barely hold on. ‘Don’t you dare!’ There was a brief moment, and then the boy let go, leaving them in place. He had only been teasing her, he wasn’t going to pull them down anyway. Then it wouldn’t have looked like her fault. ‘Well then,’ said the boy, ‘if she doesn’t like that…’ ‘Perhaps we can help her in another way?’ the other boy joined in, latching on to what the first was getting at. Jodie’s eyebrows arched. A cold string of panic rippled down her, thumping into her bladder, teasing out a tiny droplet. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to hold on, but her insides felt as though they were a hundred times too big, as though the skin on her bladder was stretched to its limit, stretching and hurting and itching. She could feel the pressure of the liquid inside her pressing down hard. Soon it would break through. There was too much of it already. ‘Perhaps… we could tickle it out of her?’ ‘That’s a good idea…’ ‘No!’ Her outburst sent a small jet into her underpants, which felt immediately heavy. She breathed out a rapid sigh, her eyes wide, her expression frantic. She had to move, had to reach the public toilet before it was too late. Another squirt, and another. And then it broke free, flooding out of her in a vast torrent. She felt it cascade down her legs, around her skirt, across her ankles and onto the floor in a rapidly growing puddle. The boys cheered, and laughed. Suddenly she was free. She floundered, flopping this way and that, tying to walk and hold on at the same time, but she couldn’t stop it, and now half of her didn’t want to, it felt beautiful, the way it was gushing out, relief filling her senses. She tried for the direction of the toilet, but was too weak, and fell into a lamp post which she had to hold on to for support. There she stood, leaning against the lamp post, with a river flowing out of her. Her shoulders heaved. She didn’t know if she was laughing or crying. It felt so good. Minutes passed. She was still leaning on the lamp. She suddenly snapped back into the world, as though she had been drifting off to sleep. Nobody was around. She looked down and saw that her skirt was drenched. If she went home now it wouldn’t be too late to call in sick, or to change and just be late. But she needed something to cover herself up with, before anyone saw. The voices of the boys could no longer be heard. She wondered whether she had dreamt the whole thing. She noticed that the old man had gone, leaving his newspaper behind. Stumbling over to the bench at the bus stop, she reached down to grab the paper. She could hold it in front of her and nobody would notice her accident. As she went for it, something attracted her attention on the front page. She bent down and read it more closely.
‘TWO SCHOOLBOYS DIE IN BANK TOILET – Parents Grieve Schoolboys Ryan Arnold and Jason Frink died early this morning after being locked inside a bank toilet for more than two weeks. The boys had come into the bank armed with marker pens, aiming to deface the walls wherever they could. Locating the staff toilet, they sneaked inside. Unfortunately, the bank was just about to be locked up for the night. With all staff accounted for, the cleaners had no reason to check in case anyone was in there. Celebrating one hundred years in business, the bank closed for a period of two weeks, with all water facilities turned off. During that time, the boys died of thirst. When the bodies were recovered, police reported a disturbing scene: a single word had been written all over the walls: “REVENGE”.’
Jodie looked up slowly. Now she knew.
Piccolo