Status: finished
Innocence
1
Zim was always great at playing the guitar. People often said he was perfect. Women would drool over him on a daily basis, and who could blame them? He was adorable. He got so much praise for his mad guitar skills, and he was all too often told by fans that he was an inspiration to them. Zim was very grateful for all of this, but even with the constant praise, he still never felt good enough. He always had problems with his self esteem; He also had depression, and horrible anxiety. Manson knew this, and still chose him to be in the band, but why? Zim felt he didn't deserve to be in such a great band.
Tonight they played a concert with a rather large audience. It seemed larger than normal. With all eyes on the stage, playing could be very nerve-wrecking for all of them, especially Zim. His anxiety would skyrocket, but he tried to control it the best he could. He tried all kinds of different coping techniques, but only found one that would truly work every time.
By the end of the concert, he was shaking. What if he didn't play well enough? He did his absolute best, but what if it just wasn't enough to satisfy the crowd of roaring fans? He left the stage, biting his nails down in the process. It was one of his bad habits. All five members left the stage, praising each other for playing a good show. It seemed that Zim got the most praise, though.
"You really know how to shred a guitar, man." said Manson, with a gentle pat on the back.
"It's always nice to play on stage with you." said Pogo.
"Amazing, as always," said Ginger, as he offered a warm smile.
Zim said nothing. He kept his gaze slightly downward and the tips of his blistered fingers to his mouth, as he tried to control the trembling in his knees. But what if they were just lying to make him feel better? The band knew of his problems, and were always trying to help. But what if they were secretly looking to replace him? Pogo and Manson exchanged worried looks after noticing Zim's behavior. "You...you alright, Zim?" Pogo asked. Zim was still mute as he simply nodded. The two older men looked at each other once more. "Well, once everyone's cooled off, we're all gonna go head over to the hotel bar," said Pogo, "you wanna come along?"
Zim allowed himself to look up, and he forced his fingers from his mouth. He drew a shaky breath, and finally spoke, "Uh...no thanks," his voice was soft and hushed, "I think I should rest." His eyes shifted away from theirs. Eye contact could be hard for him. The other two nodded, slight disappointment in their eyes. "Well, you know, you're obviously welcome to come party with us if you change your mind," said Manson, offering a rather devilish grin. Zim nodded and gave the faintest smile back, before turning around and walking off.
Manson knew something just wasn't right.
You see, Zim's preferred way of coping was very different than any other method. The others would never work for him, and if they did, it wouldn't last. But this way, was both comforting and extremely helpful. This method was subconscious regression.
For some reason, playing the role of a newborn baby boy was the best way for Zim to cope. He kept this to himself, always. Even though it helped a great deal, Zim felt incredibly ashamed of himself. How pathetic could he be? Grown men weren't supposed to play baby behind closed doors, damnit! It just wasn't normal. It felt wrong at first, but then the feeling grew so very right. He couldn't bear to think about what could happen if the band found out, the band, the media, the fans. The big tough guitarist of the world's most hated band was infantile. He felt like such a joke.
Undeniable panic was rushing through him as he made his way down the hotel hallway. He needed his safe place, and quickly if he wanted to save himself from panicking himself sick. His muscles tensed, his palms had gone sweaty, his breathing went swift, and he was trembling ever so gently. Tears welled in his unusually dull green eyes. His mind was rapidly regressing beyond control, and by the time he finally neared his hotel room door, Zim's thumb was tightly pressed to his mouth for comfort. It only helped a little bit, and no one was around to see such a shameful act, thankfully. The hallway was empty and the lighting was dim. It's unusual that there were no fans chasing after him. That only made his panic rise.
"No fans would want to chase after you, anyway," he told himself.
He quickly unlocked the hotel door, and even faster than it had swung open, it was slammed shut behind Zim's petite, shaking body. The tears that once filled his eyes to the brim now fell down his soft, reddened cheeks carelessly. Zim cried out in his emotional pain, sliding down his hotel door to the floor in a heap. A sobbing mess, the poor guitarist hugged his knees and slightly rocked. He just couldn't bear this weight upon him to be perfect, he couldn't handle the thought in his mind that he was never good enough.
He looked over to his suitcase in the corner of the room, all of his happiness hid just beneath the zipper, right there. His green eyes widened, and soon, innocence glossed over them. "Remember, you're a baby," he thought to himself, "babies don't have to be perfect, they don't have to play guitar or perform in a band." Zim shakily caught his breath and calmed a little bit, wiping his eyes. He continued on with his thoughts as he slowly stood to his feet. "Babies like you don't know any better than to babble, and drool, and play, and wet," he thought.
His lips curved slightly into a smile, "Yeah, you're a helpless little baby boy, Zim," and he made his way across the room to the large black suitcase, full of comfort and tenderness. His skillful, calloused fingers grasped the zipper and ever so softly he began to open the bag. Almost instantly, he could smell the sweet baby powder that loomed inside. His smiled widened, his tears soon diminished, "That's it, no more crying, you'll be all better soon enough."
The black bag flipped open, and everything he needed was in plain view, now. He let out a little cry of joyful relief, and smiled wide. He nervously looked around the empty room before going any further, almost expecting to find someone lurking in the shadows somewhere. But no one was depicted, he was alone. This was the perfect time for his regression to take place. Zim slightly covered his sweet blushing cheeks in a shy, boyish manner. He glanced down into the suitcase, and his eyes locked onto one essential item that no baby was complete without.
A nice soft, loud, and thick, babyish printed diaper was in plain view. It was like it was calling out for him to wear it. "Wear me, Zim. I'm soft and comforting, and I'll make all your troubles disappear. Wear me. Use me."
Zim chuckled a little to himself. While the other band members liked to turn to drugs and alcohol to escape from their problems, Zim turned to the wonderful world of infancy for an escape. It is a satisfying escape from reality, indeed. He picked up the soft crinkly undergarment, just the sound of it sent a warm sensation down his spine. He remembered the first time he came across such babyish disposable diapers made for adults, before. He remembered it well.
Tonight they played a concert with a rather large audience. It seemed larger than normal. With all eyes on the stage, playing could be very nerve-wrecking for all of them, especially Zim. His anxiety would skyrocket, but he tried to control it the best he could. He tried all kinds of different coping techniques, but only found one that would truly work every time.
By the end of the concert, he was shaking. What if he didn't play well enough? He did his absolute best, but what if it just wasn't enough to satisfy the crowd of roaring fans? He left the stage, biting his nails down in the process. It was one of his bad habits. All five members left the stage, praising each other for playing a good show. It seemed that Zim got the most praise, though.
"You really know how to shred a guitar, man." said Manson, with a gentle pat on the back.
"It's always nice to play on stage with you." said Pogo.
"Amazing, as always," said Ginger, as he offered a warm smile.
Zim said nothing. He kept his gaze slightly downward and the tips of his blistered fingers to his mouth, as he tried to control the trembling in his knees. But what if they were just lying to make him feel better? The band knew of his problems, and were always trying to help. But what if they were secretly looking to replace him? Pogo and Manson exchanged worried looks after noticing Zim's behavior. "You...you alright, Zim?" Pogo asked. Zim was still mute as he simply nodded. The two older men looked at each other once more. "Well, once everyone's cooled off, we're all gonna go head over to the hotel bar," said Pogo, "you wanna come along?"
Zim allowed himself to look up, and he forced his fingers from his mouth. He drew a shaky breath, and finally spoke, "Uh...no thanks," his voice was soft and hushed, "I think I should rest." His eyes shifted away from theirs. Eye contact could be hard for him. The other two nodded, slight disappointment in their eyes. "Well, you know, you're obviously welcome to come party with us if you change your mind," said Manson, offering a rather devilish grin. Zim nodded and gave the faintest smile back, before turning around and walking off.
Manson knew something just wasn't right.
You see, Zim's preferred way of coping was very different than any other method. The others would never work for him, and if they did, it wouldn't last. But this way, was both comforting and extremely helpful. This method was subconscious regression.
For some reason, playing the role of a newborn baby boy was the best way for Zim to cope. He kept this to himself, always. Even though it helped a great deal, Zim felt incredibly ashamed of himself. How pathetic could he be? Grown men weren't supposed to play baby behind closed doors, damnit! It just wasn't normal. It felt wrong at first, but then the feeling grew so very right. He couldn't bear to think about what could happen if the band found out, the band, the media, the fans. The big tough guitarist of the world's most hated band was infantile. He felt like such a joke.
Undeniable panic was rushing through him as he made his way down the hotel hallway. He needed his safe place, and quickly if he wanted to save himself from panicking himself sick. His muscles tensed, his palms had gone sweaty, his breathing went swift, and he was trembling ever so gently. Tears welled in his unusually dull green eyes. His mind was rapidly regressing beyond control, and by the time he finally neared his hotel room door, Zim's thumb was tightly pressed to his mouth for comfort. It only helped a little bit, and no one was around to see such a shameful act, thankfully. The hallway was empty and the lighting was dim. It's unusual that there were no fans chasing after him. That only made his panic rise.
"No fans would want to chase after you, anyway," he told himself.
He quickly unlocked the hotel door, and even faster than it had swung open, it was slammed shut behind Zim's petite, shaking body. The tears that once filled his eyes to the brim now fell down his soft, reddened cheeks carelessly. Zim cried out in his emotional pain, sliding down his hotel door to the floor in a heap. A sobbing mess, the poor guitarist hugged his knees and slightly rocked. He just couldn't bear this weight upon him to be perfect, he couldn't handle the thought in his mind that he was never good enough.
He looked over to his suitcase in the corner of the room, all of his happiness hid just beneath the zipper, right there. His green eyes widened, and soon, innocence glossed over them. "Remember, you're a baby," he thought to himself, "babies don't have to be perfect, they don't have to play guitar or perform in a band." Zim shakily caught his breath and calmed a little bit, wiping his eyes. He continued on with his thoughts as he slowly stood to his feet. "Babies like you don't know any better than to babble, and drool, and play, and wet," he thought.
His lips curved slightly into a smile, "Yeah, you're a helpless little baby boy, Zim," and he made his way across the room to the large black suitcase, full of comfort and tenderness. His skillful, calloused fingers grasped the zipper and ever so softly he began to open the bag. Almost instantly, he could smell the sweet baby powder that loomed inside. His smiled widened, his tears soon diminished, "That's it, no more crying, you'll be all better soon enough."
The black bag flipped open, and everything he needed was in plain view, now. He let out a little cry of joyful relief, and smiled wide. He nervously looked around the empty room before going any further, almost expecting to find someone lurking in the shadows somewhere. But no one was depicted, he was alone. This was the perfect time for his regression to take place. Zim slightly covered his sweet blushing cheeks in a shy, boyish manner. He glanced down into the suitcase, and his eyes locked onto one essential item that no baby was complete without.
A nice soft, loud, and thick, babyish printed diaper was in plain view. It was like it was calling out for him to wear it. "Wear me, Zim. I'm soft and comforting, and I'll make all your troubles disappear. Wear me. Use me."
Zim chuckled a little to himself. While the other band members liked to turn to drugs and alcohol to escape from their problems, Zim turned to the wonderful world of infancy for an escape. It is a satisfying escape from reality, indeed. He picked up the soft crinkly undergarment, just the sound of it sent a warm sensation down his spine. He remembered the first time he came across such babyish disposable diapers made for adults, before. He remembered it well.