Mission (Aftermath #1)

8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Will

I ’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The days have become a blur. Has it been ten or eleven days since I left the hospital? I try to work out how long it’s been, when it hits me—a sudden, urgent cramp low in my stomach that makes me freeze. The pressure builds so fast it leaves me breathless. It’s not subtle. It’s not something I can ignore.

Shit. Literally.

The new medication. The doctor mentioned side effects, but I hadn’t expected this. My body tenses, and I grip the edge of the mattress, willing the feeling to pass. It doesn’t. If anything, it gets worse.

I should call for Katie. I know I should. But the thought of her seeing me like this makes my stomach churn even more. No. I can handle this.

With a groan, I grab my crutches from where they’re propped against the bed and begin the slow, agonising process of getting up. Pain lances through my pelvis and leg, sharp and unrelenting, but I grit my teeth, clench my buttock and push forward. The bathroom isn’t far. I can make it .

Each step is a battle, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I hobble toward the door. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my heart pounds like a jackhammer. The urgency is unbearable now, a wave of pressure that threatens to overwhelm me.

I’m almost there, just a few more steps to the bathroom door, when it happens.

My body betrays me.

Hot, wet stickiness floods through me as I lose control. I freeze, tears stinging my eyes as the humiliating reality hits me. My tracksuit bottoms are soaked, the sickening smell confirming what I already know.

No. No, no, no.

I force myself forward, each movement a new humiliation. By the time I reach the toilet and collapse onto the seat, it’s too late. My stomach cramps again, and I empty what’s left of my bowels into the toilet, my body trembling with the effort.

The smell is overwhelming, and the backs of my legs feel sticky and damp. I glance down and see the damage—my trousers, my legs, even the floor where I’d stood. All covered in shit.

Tears blur my vision, and I press my hands to my face, swallowing back a sob. I’ve never felt so powerless, so utterly humiliated. I don’t know what to do. My body hurts, my pride is in tatters, and the mess is everywhere.

I can’t clean this up. I can’t even stand properly without the crutches.

But what choice do I have? Katie and Phoebe are just down the hall. I can’t let them see me like this. I can’t let Katie see me like this .

I sit there, trembling and overwhelmed, the weight of my situation pressing down on me. For the first time since the accident, I don’t know how to move forward.

I don’t know what to do.

A sharp knock on the bathroom door jolts me from my spiral of shame and panic. Katie’s voice follows, soft but insistent. “Will? Are you okay in there?”

I freeze. No, no, I can’t let her come in. Not like this.

“I’m fine!” I call out, but my voice cracks, betraying me.

“Daddy, what’s that smell?” Phoebe’s voice pipes up from somewhere down the hall. I hear her little footsteps getting closer, and my stomach cramps with a fresh wave of humiliation.

“Phoebe,” Katie says firmly, her voice steady but calm, “go and wait in the living room, please. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“But—”

“Now, Phoebe.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of retreating footsteps. Katie’s voice comes again, quieter this time but no less resolute. “Will, I’m coming in.”

“No!” I snap, panic flaring. “Katie, don’t—just don’t.”

But the door opens anyway, and she slips inside, closing it firmly behind her. She turns to me, her eyes widening briefly as she takes in the scene—me sitting on the toilet, my trousers and legs covered in the mess, my face burning with shame .

“Katie, get out,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice shaking with anger and embarrassment. “Please, just go.”

Her gaze locks onto mine, steady and unwavering. “Don’t move,” she says simply.

I clench my fists, my body trembling with the effort to keep my composure. “Katie, I’m serious—”

“Don’t move,” she repeats, her tone leaving no room for argument. Not that I could move if I wanted to. I can’t escape this. Katie steps out of the bathroom, leaving me alone with the mess and the shame. I let out a shuddering breath, closing my eyes and wishing I could disappear.

Then I hear the doorbell ring and Phoebe shouting, “Bye, Mummy! Bye, Daddy!” She is being picked up for her sleepover. Her little voice is full of cheer, blissfully unaware of the chaos happening behind the bathroom door. The sound fades, and the house falls quiet.

When Katie returns, she’s carrying a black bin bag, a fresh set of clothes, and a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. She sets the bag on the floor, pulls on the gloves, and grabs some kitchen towel. Without a word, she kneels down and starts cleaning the floor, wiping away the little puddles of shit with methodical precision.

“Katie, stop,” I manage, my voice thick. “You don’t have to—”

“Will,” she says, not looking up, “I told you not to move. So don’t.”

I bite back a reply, my throat tight as I watch her work. The sight of her crouched on the floor, mopping up my mess without hesitation or complaint, twists something deep inside me. I feel vulnerable, humiliated, but also... cared for .

When she’s finished with the floor, she stands and sets the soiled paper into the bin bag. Then she turns to me, her voice gentle but firm. “We need to get these off.”

My hands tighten around the edge of the toilet seat. “Katie, please. Just... leave me to sort this out.”

“You can’t,” she says softly. “Not like this. Let me help you.”

She kneels again, carefully peeling my soiled tracksuit bottoms down my legs. I feel hot tears sting my eyes as I look away, my jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. She places the trousers into the bin bag, ties it off, and sets it aside.

“Take off your shirt,” she says, standing and crossing her arms.

“Why?” I ask, defensive.

“Because,” she says, her tone patient, “I’m going to have to shower you down.”

I’m mortified, but deep down I know she’s right. I nod stiffly, reaching to pull the shirt over my head. My movements are clumsy and slow, and by the time I manage it, I’m out of breath.

Katie takes the shirt and places it in the laundry basket. Then, to my surprise, she peels of her own shirt. “What are you doing?” I ask, alarmed.

She raises an eyebrow, her voice matter-of-fact. “I can’t help you in the shower if I’m fully dressed. Don’t worry, Will—it’s not like you haven't seen it before. This is just practical.”

She strips down to her underwear, her movements brisk and purposeful. There’s nothing sensual or awkward about it, just a quiet efficiency that makes my chest ache for reasons I can’t quite name .

She turns on the shower, adjusting the water until it’s warm. Then she moves to my side, slipping an arm around me. “Ready?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Not really,” I admit, but I let her help me up. The pain is sharp and unrelenting as I hobble toward the shower, but Katie supports me without hesitation.

Inside the shower, the warm water cascades over me, washing away the worst of the excrement. Katie leans me against the wall, steadying me as I struggle to stay upright. She grabs a bottle of body wash and begins lathering it in her hands, her touch gentle as she carefully cleans my back and legs.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, as if sensing the tension in my shoulders.

I want to tell her again that I’m fine, that I can do it myself, but the words stick because it would be a lie.

She kneels to rinse the suds from my legs, her touch firm but careful, like I might break apart if she presses too hard. Embarrassment burns in my chest, but underneath it, something else lingers—something softer.

Care.

I can’t remember the last time someone looked after me like this. Not out of duty, not because they had to, but because they wanted to.

Katie’s fingers brush over my arm, drawing my gaze. “Almost done,” she says, her voice gentle. I nod, forcing myself to breathe through the tangled mess of emotions in my chest.

“Do you want to handle...?” she asks, gesturing vaguely toward my crotch .

“Yeah,” I say quickly, my face burning. She squeezes some soap in my palm and steadies me as I do the rest myself.

I should feel humiliated. And I do. But I also feel…safe. Like maybe, just for a moment, I don’t have to hold everything together on my own.