The Shyamalan prompt .

I hate my diapers. `` waa, waa,'' I say in protest. In protest of her. She is confident that she is in charge. A dictatorial authoritarian, firmly attaching the clasps around my hated leg-wear, disregarding my ineloquent protests. My arms, feeble, unable to respond to my desires, flail uselessly around her body. Her face is a grimace of determination and I stare back angrily, helplessly. 
 
 Some day. One day, I think. We'll change places. Orange and Blue are my favorite colors. So is three. The room I am in is painted yellow and there are Four bird figurines attached to strings tied to a stick hanging from the ceiling, slowly spinning. I'm too old for this. 
 
 I'm crying. I do n't care. This bed is too small for what I want. I'm peeing. I want to explore. I want to experience. I want. 
 
 `` If anything, his puberty is worsening his already severe autism,'' I hear. There's a man, with a strict look, with a furrowed brow, with a white coat, peering next to her. My coat is orange. My coat is cool. 
 
 She's crying. I do n't care.
