Quiltwork

Arriving home in just the nick of time, I dropped my backpack and rushed to the bathroom. I'm gonna make it! I've gotta make it! Reaching for the doorknob, twisting or violently only for it not to budge. "I'm in here!" Molly nearly screeched, following up with "If the light's in, you're not!" It should be "on" instead of "in," I thought and nearly said. Another push reminded me why I needed to be "in," and I rushed over to the master bathroom, feet throbbing again. Dad's at work, and my Step-Mom's usually gardening right around now. This should work.

It did not.

Checking the bathroom light and seeing that it was off nearly made me preemptively "go to the bathroom." Grasping the door handle, I confidently jerked it only to find that it was similarly stuck.

"Sorry honey, but the bulb gave out halfway through my...trip," my stepmother stated apologetically. "But you know, your father fixed that old outhouse in the yard -- and restocked it!" Raising her voice as she no doubt heard my footsteps as I rushed towards the backdoor, sprinting out of my parents' room and dashing through the hallway to the living room, flinging open the backdoor and jogging (I was running out of breath) the rest of the 20 yards to the "toolshed." The door had no lock, so I twisted the handle and closed the door the next moment, my search finally complete.

Sighing in relief, I emptied as much of my bladder and bowels as I could. Looking up, the remnants of the outhouse's former occupation still showed in the odd tool or half-finished project on the workbench. One in particular had always caught my eye...

An old, nearly-bisected oil lantern had been there since before my father had moved in, or so he claimed. The metallic surface reflected the little sunlight to that could slip through the gaps in the wooden walls, seemingly lighting up the entire room. Which should've been impossible, but I had other priorities. Namely, the lack of room in a rubbish bin.

My Chairman SuperSoft was ready to be tossed out, and the only place available was the toilet. Hoping that the small bowl would have the strength to dispose of it, I dropped the toilet paper into it, and flushed.

whooooooooooo-

angry toilet sounds

"Uh oh." Water quickly flowed out of the bowl, with the approaching tide quickly cornering and stranding me atop the only fixture above the ground: the work table. Accidentally knocking over some knickknacks, I backed up further on the table as though the distance between the toilet and I would somehow fix the situation. A fine layer of fresh sewage covered every inch of the floor, but that wasn't the worst part: I had (recently) new white shoes on. And my favorite pair of socks on. Another stab of pain through my heels reminded me that the "small" cut I had gotten earlier had reopened. Not wanting to ruin my socks (again), I had to stash them right next to the strange light fixture, accidentally bumping it with the finesse of a bull. Sliding for an inordinate amount before teetering on the ledge, my left hand shot out before I could think. Almost immediately, I could feel how cold it was, and retracted my arm whilst witnessing something impossible: the lantern was mending itself. And it happened to be glued to my hand. All the while, it felt like I dunked my hand in an ice bath. I frantically tried to shake it to "unstick" it, but the oil-burner stayed squarely in my palm, even after banging it on the work table for good measure. Backpedaling as though that would give me some distance from the frigid, highly-reflective glass-and-metal light source, I soon had to freeze when I nearly fell into the pool of bodily emissions, reminding myself that I was still stuck in an outhouse.

Why am I still stuck here?! Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I started typing instructions to my sister and mother (I had a group chat with both of them) that would help me to unclog the toilet, clean up the mess, and leave it smelling like lavenders (or whatever new scent Fabulicious had released in January). Right before I could hit "send," the table started wobbling. That wasn't quite right though. The origin of the tremors was the seemingly-permanent addition to my right hand, and it culminated with the major damage being relegated to one minor crack with an accompanying pulse resonating through my arm.

That, plus the realization that I could see my breath.

Radiating from the lantern's last remaining crack, a wave of chilling air blasted out, blowing away the still-accumulating rancid water on the floor and clearing out a small radius. Tentatively placing a foot on the floor, it seemed that the now slowly-heating oil lantern had finally been useful in my daring escape from the Water Closet (which is what the WC stands for on some bathroom signs). Tiptoeing past the toilet's contents while ensuring it stayed back by holding the (now warm) kerosene-guzzler close to the ground, I agonizingly reached the door and turned the handle.

And then everything went wrong.

First, my heels had been screaming at my continued use of them for the extremely short trip, and decided to protest by twitching, jolting my legs and annihilating my balance. As I fell onto the door and opened it a crack, the lantern (now dubbed "Greg") also joined in the rebellion by shutting off its airflow, sending the putrid solution of human waste creeping to regain its lost territory. Jumping to avoid this sludge, I tumbled out of the former workshop and sprawled onto the backyard, free, but wounded in pride and body.

I rolled onto my stomach, and slowly got back onto my feet, wincing but knowing I had to retrieve my footwear. Shoving the door open, I made sure the water wouldn't overflow before reaching for the workbench. Just out of reach, I sighed then trudged back through the yard to go back to my room. Nearly door-checking Molly, I apologized, then pushed past her to climb the stairs, rushing towards the end as my room was in sight. Finally, I was home.