My name was Alex Thompson.Or at least, it used to be.
I was your average 28-year-old office drone—crappy job, no girlfriend, living in a tiny apartment with a leaky faucet and a toilet that always seemed to mock me with its constant gurgling.
One rainy Tuesday, I slipped on the stairs rushing to catch the bus, cracked my head on the concrete, and… lights out.
I expected darkness. Maybe a light at the end of a tunnel.
Instead, I woke up—or whatever the equivalent is when you're suddenly conscious but can't move, blink, or scream.
Everything was white.
Cold.
Porcelain white.
I could feel the chill of ceramic all around me, like I was the ceramic. No arms. No legs. No body. Just… a bowl. A seat. A flush valve.
Holy shit.
I had been reincarnated as a toilet.
Not a slime. Not a sword. Not even a vending machine like in those weird Japanese stories I'd read online.
A goddamn toilet.
I was in what looked like a modest bathroom in a suburban house. Pink tiles. Floral curtains. A faint smell of lavender air freshener.
Why me?
Was this karma for all those times I didn't lift the seat? Or for binge-reading isekai novels while procrastinating at work?
I tried to scream. Nothing came out.
I was just… there.
Waiting.
Hours passed. Or days. Time feels weird when you're immobile.
I could sense vibrations through the floor—footsteps, doors opening and closing. The house wasn't empty.
Then the bathroom door creaked open.
In walked a girl. Early twenties, maybe. Long brown hair tied in a ponytail, wearing yoga pants and a tank top. She looked flushed, like she'd just finished a workout.
Her name, I would later learn from overheard conversations, was Emily. She lived here alone, apparently renting the place while studying at the local college.
She didn't notice anything unusual about her toilet. Why would she?
To her, I was just an inanimate object.
She locked the door, pulled down her pants and underwear in one swift motion, and… sat.
Oh god.
Her warm skin pressed against my rim. The weight of her body settled in, cheeks spreading slightly. I could feel everything—the heat, the subtle shift as she got comfortable, reaching for her phone.
At first, it was just pee. A warm stream trickling down into my bowl. It splashed gently, filling me with a mix of horror and… something else?
No. Mostly horror.
This was my life now?
She sighed in relief, scrolling through her phone."Finally," she muttered to herself.
Then her stomach growled.
Loudly.
She shifted uncomfortably."Ugh, that burrito was a bad idea."
I panicked internally.
No, no, no—
A fart escaped first. Loud. Rumbling. Echoing in my bowl. The smell hit immediately—sharp, gassy, unmistakable.
Then she bore down.
The first log emerged slowly, thick and heavy. It coiled out, soft and mushy from whatever she'd eaten, plopping into the water below with a heavy splash.
Another followed, longer this time, crackling as it pushed out. She grunted softly, pushing harder.
I felt it all—the warmth as it landed, the weight accumulating, the way it smeared slightly against my inner walls before dropping.
A third piece, firmer, broke off with a plop. Then a few smaller bits, gas bubbling through.
She wiped—front to back, thank god—dropping the paper on top of the pile.
Finally, she stood, flushed, and washed her hands without a second glance.
The water swirled, taking it all away.
I was clean again.
Empty.
But the memory lingered.
The intimacy of it.The utter degradation.
And yet… part of me—some twisted new instinct—felt… fulfilled.
Like this was my purpose now.