The confessional: short story on pooping
When I sit myself down, bum naked on the plastic seat, I listen to the sounds around me. If they drown out my own breath, then I let myself go. I relax my mind, my body, and yes — my anus. I allow myself to poo. But if I think someone might hear, I stop. I bottle it all up, clenching as if my life depends on it, waiting until I’m sure no one will hear the betrayal of my carefully maintained facade. Because if they did, it would shatter the illusion — that I am pure. When in truth, we are all full of shit.
Like stifling tears in public, I do everything in my power to avoid pooping in public toilets. I don’t want strangers to hear the telltale plop when my breakfast makes its final journey or smell the evidence before it’s whisked away. In those moments, I feel like a dog on a leash, squatting in the grass, desperate for privacy, silently pleading with its owner to look away.
If it’s unavoidable, I go to great lengths to muffle the act. I’ll carefully lay paper over the water, building a soundproof barrier, or even — on occasion — hold it beneath me, catching it mid-air, all to keep the silence intact.
When it’s over, the flush feels like absolution. A confession sent swirling down into some distant abyss. Like kneeling in a church pew, whispering your sins to an invisible God, you hope to emerge clean, unburdened. But deep down, you know you’re not. You’ll sin again.
You expect, when you open the stall door, to find a crowd gathered outside, ears pressed to the walls, judging you for the noises you made. But there’s no one. The restroom is empty, and night has fallen. The only witness is the moon, hanging high and heavy in the sky. It winks down at you, as if to say: Your secret’s safe with me, I won’t tell anyone you just took a shit.
