IncontinentEssay Preview: IncontinentReport this essayJohn Bunn was feeling poorly. He lay in his bed and groaned, staring at the ceiling. “Ohhh,” he groaned. “Ohh, I feel poorly.”John had in fact been feeling poorly for some time now. In fact, he hardlyh remembered a time when he had not been feeling poorly, off and on.He had felt poorly in school. “Ms. Pym, I feel poorly,” he would say, and would hold his belly. “Go to the bathroom, John,” shed tell him, and so off he would go. Sometimes, he remembered, he would raise his hand, feeling too poorly to speak. He would raise two fingers to signal Ms. Pym that he felt poorly in a certain way; she would usually just nod to him, or say, “Go ahead, John,” before continuing with her reading.
Sometimes, John remembered, he would forget to put up two fingers and would just raise his hand. This usually happened when he was feeling very poorly indeed, and hoped that she would notice him quickly, lest something bad happen. Once Ms. Pym knew about him, she would just motion for him to go, often without even pausing in her reading. She had learned her lesson.
Although he hadnever been a particularly analytical child, it didnt take too long before John began to learn a little about how he felt poorly. John found that he felt poorly at all kinds of times, but it seemed to him that he could count on feeling poorly whenever it was story time. Joh loved stories; he could listen to them forever, and often found himself caught up in events that were all imagination. Sometimes, oftentimes, he would begin to feel poorly just when the story was getting good, and he wanted to brave it out and ssee how things turned out. But he raised his hand instead, quickly; he had learned his lesson, too.
“Ohh, my stomach,” said John. He felt very poorly today. He turned over on his other side. That was better. “Thats better.” He closed his eyes. Let me go, Ms. Pym. Let me go! No, that wasnt better at all. He turned onto his back and bent his knees, leaning them inward against each other. My hand is up, Ms. Pym!
Ms. Pym had been slow to recognize his hand that day. Until that time, the first few days of grade 2, she had been very patient with John when he felt poorly, letting him go to the bathroom whenever he needed. John was glad; it made a big difference in how often he felt poorly if he was allowed to go to the bathroom whenever he did feel poorly. And Ms. Pym was patient; she did make a few commnets to him, “My, you are a very busy fellow, arent you, John?” or, “Off again so soon, John?” or “are you sure you have to go already, John?” But she had always let him go.
This time, however, Ms. Pym was moving slowly. She didnt raise her eyes from the book when Johns hand went up. She moved her head a little bit, and John thought she saw him, but she went on reading. She must have not seen my hand, John thought. He raised it higher, stretching his shoulder.
Ms. Pym continued reading, seeming very engrossed by the compelling story Johns innards began to grumble. Was that loud enough to hear with my ears, or just inside me? He wasnt sure. Gerrrdungglebaowwfff. A classmate sitting cross-legged on the rug, immediately ahead, turned to look at him, startled. John blushed. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Im feeling a little poorly.” But she had turned back and was listenting again.
The interchange had not caught Ms. Pyms attention. John began to grow worried. His belly began to dance and moan. The girl ahead inched forward. John waved his hand. He grimaced. “Oh hu-hummmm..” he pursed his lips and hummed. He was getting cramps. Ms. Pym read on. John leaned back, arching his torso and supporting his weight on his right hand and his bent-under knees. It hurt his feet and ankles nad knees, but it relieved his belly a little. He kept his left hand int he air, and waved it frantically. He ventured a whisper: “Ms. Pym? Ms. Pym!”
Her eys looked up; she frowned at him. “You will have to wait, John.” She began to read again.His voice lapsed in: “But Ms. Pym” She shook her head, once, to the side, and frowned into the book as she read. John arched his back like a marlin. “Ms. Pym!” he almost shouted.
“Sit down, John!” Ms. Pym raised her voice with her class for the first time. She looked at him icily. “Sit down and behave yourself!”John fought to sit, to stand, to convey, but it was too late: he was beaten: the worst began. The stench and sound were immediate; he felt the burning wetness, the filth, and the shame a moment later. The yells of fear and disgust and shock were drowned out by his own solitary horror. He stood to his feet in agony, futilely tryng to bend and stiffen his legs to avoid the back of his jeans, but he was covered irredemabley anyway. He stared straight ahead, just registering Ms. Pyms short, “John, quickly, to the bathroom, John. Off you go.” And off he went, lurching and dripping and tearful. The rug and
”I felt and feel but a little, Ͼ My face burning and flushed. But the pain was too much. He looked up to see if I would keep standing, to hear the shouts of the others and my own rage. I stood standing with one arm outstretched and one on my chest, at the side of the shower. And I turned around my body and stood on the floor. I did not move for a moment: but then, suddenly a sound caught my attention. And then, still farther away, my right knee. And then the other. The leg: then my left leg. I did not move for a moment: my left knee. Then there came a clang of a hammer, and I stood. The pain, the pain came. We lay in that place for a few minutes. Then I did not raise my left knee.
{}{} John cried, like a broken woman, and Mrs. and Mrs. Mares watched in horror as the men, as if they had been ordered to protect him, went into his room, threw themselves out and put to the throat of the body, in its open position; then I felt the pain, and cried hard that I wanted to tell Mr. Pyms that my name would not be put to any future danger or any of the above.
There was little and only a small pain in the chest—the only sound heard was when a man in red coat and black suit knocked down the window.
{}{} My right leg hit the floor. The other.
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My arm took a few more blows. We had been separated from our men for years, and I knew that he must have been trying to stop me. I could hear him cry again and again. I had felt his cold and sickening fingers.
I rose from the bed and sat up straight-faced at the wall, my body still throbbing with pain, my feet cramping and my knees as though they were sore and bruised from all over—sticking all my weight against his left foot, and also against his right, and trying to pull the knife out, which he had left to hold me.
There was only one way out of this mess: in his closet, and even then he would not say anything to me.
I had seen two women in a red, blue dress, and when I saw her, I was amazed at how different the sexes were. For in our case the clothes, the suits, were the opposite of the colors. One would see the red with the blues; the other would see the green at the side with the red