[The following is a letter found in the apartment of Mr. Reggie Cox on August 5th, 2014, written by him we presume shortly before his disappearance that day. With no sign of foul play or murder, Mr. Cox is presumed to be alive, although if his story is true, he may no longer be human. The Special Investigations Bureau team 9-543 is currently investigating his whereabouts–the locations indicated in the letter have been condemned and redacted from this file. Pending investigation and clearance, security clearance level two or above is required to access them.]
This will sound crazy, I know, but here’s the truth of it.
There are toilets that can talk.
I know that sounds like the words of a madman, or a schizophrenic, but I claim that I am perfectly sane…if, at the moment, no longer quite human. I am leaving this as a record of what has happened to me, since I first heard them whisper to me. I can hear the pipes calling to me now, it hurts so much, I’m so full–I have to go. But I will tell my story first, and hopefully others can use it to avoid the same fate as I have.
The first time I heard them was at [REDACTED]. I went in, and as I was pissing, I heard a voice in the room. It was very difficult to make out–I thought, perhaps, that it was coming from the vents, and I was eavesdropping on some conversation. Now, because this was a restaurant I frequented regularly for lunch, I thought nothing of it, but soon found, that each time I went to the restroom, the whisper was always there, and I quickly grew a bit curious as to what was being said.
I soon discovered it was not coming from the vents–it was loudest by the toilet, and the vent was on the other side of the room. Thinking it was perhaps coming through a pipe, I got down next to the toilet, and I discovered that the voice was somehow coming from the toilet itself! I was, naturally disturbed by this realization, and I fled quickly, abandoning my meal, and never returned their for lunch again.
Something happened in there, however. I quickly discovered the same whispers all over the city. Not every toilet spoke, perhaps one in every ten, urinals included. Now that I knew what it was, and where it was coming from, I found it very difficult to ignore, though I still found the whisper too quiet to really decipher many of the words, and yet, something was happening to me all the same. The dreams began around then. I would dream of men pissing on me, of drinking their piss. I would be trapped in complexes full of bathrooms, all of them speaking at me, demanding my attention. I would wake from these sweating and terrified, and yet incredibly horny at the same time. Occasionally I would wet the bed, and have to get up and change the sheets, unable to believe what I had done.
My curiosity was growing into an obsession. I began mapping where the toilets were that spoke, searching for some sort of pattern. I concocted government conspiracies, I questioned my sanity and went to therapists who were no help to me. Oh, it became so much easier when I finally stopped and listened!
I would only use toilets which were silent–their whispers terrified me, and yet, one day at [REDACTED], in the stall, I hastily chose a toilet without listening, and as I shat, the words…they became clearer to me. I don’t think my shitting had anything to do with the clarity–rather, it was like I was finally hearing them for the first time, or the first time I simply bothered to listen. And as soon as I could hear them, I couldn’t stop listening. It was close to half an hour later, when someone banged on the door to see if it was occupied, that I awoke from my trance, wiped and fled the bathroom.
By the time I returned home, the specific words the toilet had spoke had faded away. In fact, I don’t think they speak in words at all, more in…more in ideas, these images and tastes that linger in your mind. They speak as obsessions. That night, when I wet the bed, I no longer felt compelled to change the sheets. I mean, I did change them, but more out of habit, out of some sense of humanity, but it was only as I laid in that clean bed that I found I missed the stench of my piss. This disturbed me, and yet I couldn’t stop listening, from that moment onward, my ears were no longer shut to them.
I listened to urinals. I learned how wonderful piss smelled, I learned how wonderful it tasted. They urged me to lick them clean, to see for myself. I listened to toilets, how they loved the taste of shit, how good it felt to serve men, how worthless they were, how worthless I was, that I could hear them. They had so much to teach me. I learned, soon, how to go unnoticed. How to make myself invisible as a simple toilet. I remember one day, I visited one of my favorite toilets at [Redacted], a small private space where I could listen for hours uninterrupted. But that day, it told me to leave the door unlocked, and kneel in the filthy, piss sodden jock I had taken to wearing, and wait.
Men came and went, and never noticed me once. The toilet told me what a good job I was doing, acting just like a nasty, filthy urinal, and I could imagine myself as just a fixture in the room, stuck to the wall, and the more I imagined it, well, soon men were using me! They would stand at me, and they would piss right into my thirsty mouth, and I was so happy. I’m still happy, and after closing, I licked the toilet completely clean all night long, and left when the shop opened in the morning.
In return for what the toilets were teaching me, I thought what they wanted was for me to serve them. By now I had quit my job, and would seek out the filthiest, loudest ones, and I would clean them, and listen to the secrets they had to share with me. It was around then that I acquired an insatiable taste and hunger for men’s shit. When I wasn’t learning, I would often be found in a sling in the filthiest bathhouses I could find, begging men for their shit and piss–soon, it was all I wanted to eat, and not long after that, it was all I could eat.
All other food makes me retch now. I can’t keep it down, it just plugs up my throat until I can gag it up again. As soon as that happened, I realized that the toilets weren’t looking for someone to serve them. They were speaking to me because they could sense that I want to be a toilet too.
I didn’t know that right away. I didn’t know that’s what I really wanted. I clung to the idea that I wanted to be human, but I was so happy as a toilet in training, how could I deny what I was…what I am feeling? Still, I’ve held off until now. I thought, perhaps, I could find some middle ground, but the toilets have grown impatient with me. They…they took my cock away. I can’t piss any more, I’ve had a completely full bladder for weeks now. It huts so much. I can’t shit either, everything is just backed up inside my huge, swollen gut, aching for release.
I can hear my pipe calling to me, however. It’s reasonably close, I think it is at [REDACTED]. There’s some new construction happening around there, I think I will like it. Not that it matters what I like. I’m just a worthless toilet, slathered with shit, drenched with piss, a huge bloated gut full of waste. It will feel so good to let it out that pipe the first time, feel it flow through my insides. How long until I get my porcelain? Or maybe metal–I’d like to be a metal toilet, so much filthier.
I’ll be whispering, if you want to come and hear me. If you want to be a toilet like me. If you don’t, well, shut your ears. Still, I think you’ll hear us if you’re meant to, like I was. I have to go, my pipe is calling me. Goodbye.