Amélia Strange Life

This story will consist of short, slow-burn chapters with a high level of descriptive detail.

All characters depicted here are over 18 years old.

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The morning light began creeping into my chamber, gently caressing my eyelashes until, reluctantly, I opened my eyes. It was the first day of the new year--the final year of my schooling.

I should have already graduated, were it not for my despair.

Were it not for my isolation. Yet solitude was often my only refuge. They cannot know what I am, I'd tell myself. They must never see what lies beneath. These thoughts haunted me relentlessly, sometimes for months.

As with every dawn, I began to pray. Despite my gloom, I gave thanks for what little solace I possessed--a family who taught me never to be ungrateful. But along with gratitude came the pleas, whispered fervently to whoever might be watching from the heavens:

"Let this burden pass. Let me be just a normal girl, a normal woman. May I awaken someday without fear that I've stained my blankets, my body, my bed. That one morning, I shall rise without shame, untainted by the foul fluid leaking from within me. That I may no longer need to rush past those I love, desperately scrubbing away this vile substance that humiliates me. That is all I ask."

Yet today was not the day my prayers would be answered.

I did not want to move, did not want to confirm what my body already betrayed. For three long years, this had been my reality. Every two or three mornings, it awaited me upon waking. I no longer wore clothing to bed, knowing it too would be fouled. The repulsive sensation of dampness--of viscous fluid spreading once more--returned again, and again, and again.

From just beneath my breasts, down my abdomen, and onto my legs, the shameful liquid dripped, soaking blankets and seeping into the mattress beneath. I knew what it was. I knew its vile nature, thick and viscous, making it near impossible to wash clean. I wished only to ignore it, neither to touch nor see nor feel it. But it mocked me relentlessly.

The blankets clung tightly to my skin, fused by the fluids to my body. Raising my head slightly amidst the chaos, I saw the curves of my form--a woman's body, exaggerated and indecent, stripped of all modesty. My pale feet and ankles extended beyond the bed's edge. Perhaps being different in this way alone--merely too tall, overly womanly--would have been tolerable. Such differences might not have entirely robbed me of femininity. But then... then I saw that other thing, resting limp upon my left thigh, wrapped around it obscenely.

I turned my gaze toward the ceiling. I didn't want to touch it, see it, or feel it. It should not have belonged to me. If only it were smaller--if only it were like the others, normal--perhaps life might have been simpler, less humiliating.

Year by year, I had watched it grow, grotesque and unchecked, preventing me from ever being ordinary. When would it cease? When would it finally stop growing?

I had no choice but to rise. This year, I had duties to fulfill, obligations to complete, before I could retreat again to solitude.

I slowly peeled the blanket from my body, rolling it up as the sickly fluid smeared my skin once more. Sitting up carefully, I placed the sullied bedding beside me. That thing now lay between my legs, resting not only on them but upon something else I should never have possessed. Sometimes I laughed bitterly at the sight. There they were, moving on their own accord--two shapes, each the size of ripe tangerines. Almost amusing. At least they bore no hair, soft and faintly pink; a cruel consolation, as they proved nearly impossible to conceal.

It was a pitiful scene--me, soaked in my own disgrace, laughing to stave off tears.

Using another blanket, I wiped away the worst of the fluid covering me, adding it to the pile. Standing, I regarded my reflection. Pale skin, black hair, brittle and unkempt. My face, shoulders, and breasts lay hidden from the mirror until I leaned forward. Yet there it was, dangling grotesquely, accompanied by the swollen, pink fruits.

I put on what was, shamefully, a diaper--necessary to contain the persistent leaking throughout the day. The fluid now thinner, yet still unavoidable.

I secured that cursed appendage to my thigh with a strip of cloth, binding it alongside the swollen fruits. Over this humiliating ensemble, I dressed myself in layers--a long skirt reaching my ankles, a loose shirt, and an oversized sweater designed to conceal everything below. It hid also my shamefully exaggerated breasts.

With time, I had learned to stoop as I walked, even if it made me appear hunched, diminishing my unnatural height and obscuring the shame I carried.

Putting on my glasses and tying back my hair, I prepared to face the simple task that was never simple--to cross the hallway unseen, enter the bathing chamber, cleanse myself of this degradation, and dress once again in fresh garments.

All of this, merely to begin another wretched day.