The coin floated from her palm like a weightless ember, glowing brighter than ever. Aya stood, stunned, as it drifted out of her room — silent, purposeful — through the hallway and toward the nursery door, which creaked open with no push.
She followed.
The nursery was warm with the scent of baby powder, sweet milk, lavender lotion, and the faint musk of soiled wipes tossed into the nearby bin. The air was soft, thick with comfort. The soft whir of the white noise machine blended with Emi’s gentle breathing from the crib. A golden glow came from the lantern perched on the shelf beside the changing table, casting long shadows of stuffed animals and rattles.
Aya stepped inside barefoot, holding her breath. The coin floated in the middle of the room for a heartbeat, shimmering above Emi’s crib… then veered suddenly.
“No…” she whispered, as it glided toward the changing table.
The light struck the stack of neatly arranged Pampers, their pastel hearts and babyish cartoon animals glowing under the lantern’s warmth. Girly prints. Baby pinks and purples. The top one had little butterflies and bows across the waistband.
The coin hovered above the diapers.
“No, wait—! I didn’t say—!”
But before Aya could finish her thought, it dropped — not with a clang, but with a soundless shimmer — landing squarely on the stack.
And Aya’s body vanished.
She gasped, or tried to. But there were no lungs now. No lips. No fingers to touch, no legs to run. No voice.
Just awareness.
She awoke moments — or maybe hours — later, bathed in the nursery’s hush. She was cold and smooth and crinkly. Soft, inside and out. Tightly folded, wrapped with faint pressure.
She could smell the nursery air stronger now — overpowering. Powder. Soiled diapers. Lotion. A hint of breast milk. She tasted the plastic, the faint chemical sweetness of the materials she was made from. She felt the coolness of the changing table beneath her, the softness of the other diapers pressing lightly against her sides.
She could see, faintly — like through a foggy lens — the edge of the table, the wooden crib across the room, the dim lantern light.
She could hear: the creak of the mobile, Emi’s occasional sleepy whimper, the rustle of curtains from the cracked window.
But she could not move. Not even a twitch.
Aya realized with sick horror: she wasn’t the pacifier. She wasn’t the bottle. She was a diaper.
Her thoughts screamed. No, no, no, I didn’t choose this! But the coin was gone. The magic had decided.
She was one of many. Folded and waiting. A part of the endless cycle of change, use, disposal.
Her only comfort — if it could be called that — was knowing she’d soon be wrapped around Emi’s warm little body. Close. Pressed against her. Needed.
Morning crept slowly over the nursery, sunlight washing the walls in soft gold. The mobile above Emi’s crib turned lazily, casting dancing shadows over the floor. Aya, still folded tightly in her pastel prison, lay on the changing table among her identical sisters — a stack of innocence and use, of routine and disposability.
She had waited in silence, feeling time drip like molasses.
Then came footsteps. Naiomi’s.
The door creaked open. A soft yawn, followed by the tender rustle of fabric and the creak of the rocking chair.
Naiomi (whispering): “Morning, my little bug. Did you sleep well?”
A tiny wail answered her.
Aya couldn’t see them from her place on the changing table, but she could hear everything. Naiomi sat with Emi, unbuttoning her nightgown. The wet suckling sounds of breastfeeding filled the room — slow, contented, primal. The baby was warm and alive. Aya could hear her mother humming, soft and tired.
Then came the words that made Aya’s core tighten with dread.
Naiomi: “Whew… smells like someone had a very busy night.”
The rocking chair creaked as she stood, Emi still latched to her shoulder, burping now with a squirm.
Aya’s world shifted — a hand pressed into the stack of diapers, lifting the top one gently.
Her.
She was unwrapped. Opened. Unfolded into the air.
Now she could see.
The nursery was as she remembered: gentle colors, plush animals, the warm glow of the lantern now joined by morning sun. Her body — if she could still call it that — was white and fluffy, with a soft quilted interior. Across her waistband were pink and lavender bows, little cartoon hearts, butterflies, and pastel letters that spelled “Pampers Baby Girl size 1”. She looked… adorable. Perfectly engineered for someone small, helpless, and loved.
Naiomi (sing-song): “Let’s get this squish into a freshie!”
She peeled away the overnight diaper — soaked, yellowed, heavy, the print discolored. Aya felt the rush of cold air hit Emi’s skin and then… she was moved into place.
Sliding under her sister.
Her face — if it could be called that — pressed against warm, wriggling baby flesh. Emi squealed softly, her feet kicking. The smell of powder was strong again as Naiomi dusted her, then pulled Aya up between her legs.
Naiomi: “There we go. All wrapped up like a little love-bug!”
She taped Aya snugly in place — one side, then the other. Tight. Secure. Intimate.
This was it. She was being worn.
Emi was set down in the playpen with a soft grunt and plopped onto her tummy. Aya felt every squish, every shift. She was muffled, but present. Beneath a giggling baby who had no idea her older sister was now a layer of cotton between her and the world.
Cartoons played. Emi laughed, drooled, babbled.
Then came the first wetting.
A warm rush spread through Aya’s core. She would’ve gasped if she could. The heat soaked into her, swelling her slightly. She took it — her job now. A good diaper. Her existence reduced to a vessel for waste.
More hours. More shifts. More warmth.
And then… the sound.
A bubbly, wet frrrbbbt echoed through the playpen.
Aya knew.
Naiomi (from the kitchen): “Oof, I heard that from here, baby girl. That one’s gonna be a monster!”
The pressure built. Then came the mess. Hot. Unforgiving. It filled her from back to front. Aya could feel every inch of it — sticky, squishy, wrong. Her thoughts buckled under the weight. This is what I’ve become. This is what I chose. A diaper. Nothing but a filthy barrier between purity and filth. Disgusting. Replaceable. Disposable.
She wanted to cry. But there were no tears. No face. Just heat. Just stink. Just use.
And yet… as the minutes passed… something in her shifted.
This was Emi’s life. Her sister’s comfort depended on her now. She would be changed soon. Thrown away. Forgotten. But for this moment, she was close. She was wrapped around her sister, protecting her, keeping her dry — for a time. Her last act would be intimate, necessary. Poetic.
She wouldn’t be a star. Or a bottle. Or a doll.
She’d be a whisper in the landfill, one of a thousand sisters before and after, each born for the same fate.
Aya let the warmth hold her. Let the stink fill her hollow shell. And as Naiomi returned, baby wipes in hand, nose wrinkled in maternal horror…
Naiomi: “Whew, you are officially a blowout champion, Miss Emi!”
…Aya smiled in the only way a used diaper could — by accepting her ending.
Final.
Aya had become something to be cleaned off. Something unspeakable. Something worse than trash.
She had become waste.
And as Naomi carried Emi to the changing table, she put Emi down where only a few hours ago, aya began her short journey. Her mother pulling wipes from the container and speaking in soft, amused tones, Aya felt the end closing in.
The loud rips of the tapes signified Aya’s end attached to her sister as she was opened seeing a look of disgust from her mother. Not that she could blame her. After a few wipes Aya felt a release of pressure as Aya was pulled out from under her sister and put to the side, getting dirty wipes tossed in.
Aya’s replacement was put down next to her. A identical diaper started the cycle once more. As the replacement was put on Emi was lifted off and placed in the crib. Her mother turned back around to Aya. Now a used diaper Aya was something to be disposed of, as her mother rolled her up using her tapes to keep her shut then walking over to the diaper pail. The seconds passed like hours for Aya as her mother carried her to her tomb. A step on the peddle flung open the lid. Only darkness below. Where many diapers end there journey, Aya was next. Her mother tossed her without a thought and Aya fell into her grave.
Forgotten. Laying on a bed of her sisters used diapers… her sisters like her used by Emi.
But in those final moments, a strange thought flickered in what remained of her soul.
Maybe she had mattered, if only for a moment.
Maybe being everything to someone, even just as a diaper, was better than being nothing at all.
And then the lid of the diaper pail creaked open.
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