“How do you know that?”

“Mothers know everything. The doctors told me outside the operating room. They had never encountered anything like it before. So I know what a liar you are.”

At least I knew it was out. Before that conversation with my mom I figured the doctors had opened me up, seen it wasn’t infected, and left it in. So I had always worried I might really get appendicitis. And what could you say then, when you’d supposedly already had appendicitis? So that’s what had happened. Good to know. A lot of needless hours of worrying. Right after you’ve had your appendix taken out, it hurts incredibly badly to laugh, to walk, to stand, to do much of anything, because it feels as if the stitches are going to rip open. I tensed and curled up just like now with my ass. Is it possible the doctors recognized my name? Did it cause a sensation in the hospital back then — that a girl would endure an operation just to trick her teacher? Did they go out of their way to make this operation particularly painful — oops, I slipped — as payback? Am I paranoid because of the pain? Because of the painkillers? What is going on? It hurts so bad. Robin. Bring the pills.

Here he comes. He hands me two tablets and says something. I can’t concentrate. I’m writhing in pain. I slurp the pills down. Please, let them work fast. Now. To calm myself down, I put my hand on my pubic mound again. I always did this as a kid, too. But back then I didn’t know it was called a pubic mound.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most important part of the whole body. Nice and warm. Perfectly positioned for your hand to reach. My center. I stick my hand into my underwear and run my hand around. This is the best way to put myself to sleep.

I root around like a squirrel down there, and just as I’m falling asleep I have the impression there’s a log of crap poking out of my ass. The bandages feel exactly like that.

He approaches and I can see a giant cock is hanging out of his form-fitting sports leggings. I think: Nope, a man with five legs.

He walks past me and I turn and watch him go. It pleases me to see he’s pulled his pants down in the back and a huge log of crap is hanging out of his ass, bigger even than his cock. I think: Wow, six legs. I come to and I’m thirsty and aching. The hand on my pubic mound wanders to the back to feel my wound. I want to see what they did back there. How can I have a look? I can look at my pussy if I bend way forward, but I’ve never been able to see my own ass. A mirror? No, a camera. Mom needs to bring me the camera.

Will she be here when I wake up? Message.

“It’s me. Can you bring the camera when you come? And can you wrap up the bulbs in my room without breaking the shoots? And bring the empty glasses, too, please. But hide them when you come in, Okay? You’re not allowed to have anything but cut flowers here. Thanks. See you soon. Oh yeah, can you also bring about thirty toothpicks?

Thanks.”  n°

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Charlotte Roche was born in England in 1978 and raised in Germany, where she still resides with her husband and daughter. A longtime host on Viva, the German equivalent of MTV, she is a well-known and award-winning television personality. Wetlands is her first novel.