Madison’s World Redux Season 3 Episode 37

Cindy walked across the habitat after Brooklyn ended the FaceTime. 

For a few moments, she did not look back at the tablet. She could not. Brooklyn’s login information was still waiting there. Science notes. Class materials. Another folder. Another set of tasks. Another layer of humiliation dressed up as usefulness. 

She crossed the small living area on stiff legs and knelt beside the water bottle Madison had clipped to the side of the habitat. 

The bottle hung above a shallow bowl, the kind sold for Littles who were not trusted with cups or glassware. Cindy pressed the metal tip with both hands. Water trickled down and collected beneath it, rippling as it filled the bowl. 

She kept pressing until there was enough. 

Then she leaned down. 

And lapped at the water. 

Her tongue touched the surface, drawing in a clean mouthful with each motion. Not too much. Not too fast. Just enough. Her throat accepted it easily, her breathing adjusting without thought. Each lap gave her body the perfect amount of water. 

That was what she hated most. 

Not the bowl. 

Not the posture. 

Not even the fact that Madison had decided this was how Cindy drank now. 

She hated how natural it felt. 

Brooklyn’s voice echoed in her mind. 

Science. 

Cindy shut her eyes tightly and took another drink. 

Her body knew what to do. That was the awful part. It knew how to balance itself on hands and knees. It knew how close to bring her mouth to the water. It knew how much to take in so she did not choke. There was no learning curve anymore. No awkwardness. No resistance from muscle or instinct. 

Only from pride. 

She had tried the spigot once. 

It had been early on, when she still believed enough determination could make her body obey the old rules. She had stood beneath the water bottle, tilted her head back, and pressed the metal tip the way an animal might. The water had come too fast. Too direct. It had hit the back of her throat and sent her into a coughing fit so violent she thought she might drown upright. 

Little physiology, Madison had explained later with that horrible smugness she got whenever Cindy proved a rule correct. Littles had smaller throats, smaller lungs, weaker control over sudden intake. Lapping from a bowl was not just easier. It was safer. 

Safer. 

Cindy hated that word almost as much as she hated the bowl. 

She took another lap of water, slower this time, and the memory rose before she could stop it. 

Emma’s house. 

Madison’s friend Emma had invited them over once, back when Madison was still testing what she could do with Cindy in public. Cindy remembered being brought there like an object Madison had decided to show off. Emma’s family was wealthy enough to have proper Little glassware, actual miniature cups and pitchers and serving pieces arranged like a tea set. 

Cindy had hated them on sight, but at least they looked human. 

At least a glass looked like something a person used. 

Emma had offered one with a bright little smile, and Madison, eager to prove that Cindy could behave, had allowed it. 

Cindy could still remember the weight of the tiny glass in both hands. It had been delicate, almost elegant, and for one foolish second she had felt something like relief. 

Then she tried to drink. 

The angle was wrong. 

The rim was too high. 

Her hands were weaker than they should have been, and the water shifted too quickly inside the glass. She tipped it back the way she remembered doing as a full-sized woman, but her new body did not handle it the same way. Water rushed over her lips, too much at once. She sputtered, choked, and dropped the glass onto the table with a sharp little clink. 

Madison had gone completely still. 

Brooklyn had covered her mouth. 

Evan had looked away, but not fast enough to hide her smile. 

Trina and Charity had both been there too. 

That was the part that burned deepest. 

Trina had lifted her glass with perfect little control and taken a careful sip. Charity had done the same, quiet and composed in the way Littles became when they knew everyone was watching. 

They drank from glasses. 

Cindy had coughed water onto her shirt like an untrained pet. 

Emma, trying to be helpful or perhaps simply trying not to laugh, had brought over a saucer. 

“It might be easier for her,” Emma had said. 

Her. 

Not Mrs. Wessen. 

Not Cindy. 

Her. 

Madison had not looked at Cindy when she nodded. 

The saucer had been placed in front of her, and Cindy, humiliated past the point of argument, had leaned down and lapped from it while Trina and Charity drank from glasses. 

She could still see their eyes. 

Trina had not laughed openly. Charity had not either. They were too well-trained for that. Too careful. Too aware of their own positions. 

But Cindy had seen the smirk in Trina’s expression. 

She had seen the flicker in Charity’s eyes. 

Recognition. 

Pity. 

And worse, superiority. 

They were Littles too, but in that moment they were above her. They knew how to behave. They knew how to drink. They knew how to be handled in public without embarrassing their guardians. 

Cindy had not. 

Madison had been mortified. 

And Cindy had never heard the end of it. 

She could still hear Madison’s lecture afterward, her voice sharp and wounded in the way only a humiliated teenager could manage. 

If you didn’t know how to drink from a glass, why would you take one? That was so embarrassing. This is why you don’t go places. 

Cindy took another lap from the bowl, her face burning even though she was alone. 

That had been the last time she was offered a glass. 

Madison had gone beyond simply refusing to buy Little glassware. She had made it a rule. A household policy. Cindy was not to be given cups, glasses, or anything that required “advanced Little handling” until Madison decided she was ready. 

Then Madison had taken it further. 

She had gone to McKenzie with a PowerPoint presentation. 

A PowerPoint. 

Cindy could still hardly believe it, even though she had watched Madison prepare it from inside the habitat. 

The title slide had been pink. 

Why Mom Is Not Ready For Little Glassware 

Madison had used bullet points. 

Pictures. 

A risk assessment. 

She had included phrases like “aspiration hazard,” “public embarrassment,” “fine motor instability,” and “guardian reputation damage.” 

That last one had made Cindy want to crawl into the floor. 

McKenzie, to her credit, had looked uncomfortable through most of it. She had even said Cindy could probably learn with practice. But Madison had been relentless. She had argued that practice required supervision, that Cindy had already demonstrated poor judgment, and that until she could reliably follow drinking protocols, bowls were safer. 

Drinking protocols. 

For water. 

For her own mother. 

And because McKenzie cared about safety more than dignity, she had eventually agreed to a temporary restriction. 

Temporary. 

That word had done a lot of work in the Wessen house lately. 

Cindy lowered her head and lapped again. 

The water was cool. Clean. Easy. 

Her body accepted it with humiliating gratitude. 

She sat back on her heels when she was finished, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The movement made her feel even more animalistic, so she stopped and reached for a tiny cloth instead. 

Across the habitat, the tablet chimed again. 

Cindy did not move at first. 

She already knew what it was. 

Brooklyn. 

Madison. 

Ava. 

Another task. Another reminder. Another little digital leash tugging her back toward usefulness. 

The tablet chimed a second time. 

Cindy stared at the water bowl. 

Brooklyn’s words returned again, smooth and cruel. 

Your body starts understanding the circle of life. You make your guardian happy, your guardian praises you, and then you feel good because you did what you’re supposed to do. 

“No,” Cindy whispered. 

Her voice sounded too small in the habitat. 

She looked down at the bowl, at the little ripples still settling across the surface. 

Then she looked at the tablet. 

The assignments were waiting. 

The notes were waiting. 

Madison would expect progress. Brooklyn would expect highlights. Ava would expect her work done too, because of course Madison had offered Cindy’s time like it cost nothing. 

Cindy stood slowly. 

Her knees ached faintly from kneeling, but not as much as they should have. Her body was learning this too. Learning the floor. Learning the posture. Learning all the positions Cindy hated. 

She walked back to the tablet and picked it up. 

Brooklyn’s science folder was open on the screen. 

The first document title stared back at her. 

Little Biology and Reinforcement Response 

Cindy’s stomach turned. 

Of course. 

Of course that would be the lesson. 

For a moment, she considered closing it and doing Madison’s history first out of spite. Madison had ordered her assignment first. Brooklyn had ordered science first. There was a tiny pocket of choice there, so small it was almost pathetic. 

Then another message appeared from Madison. 

Brooklyn said do her science too. Do mine first tho. 

Cindy stared at the message. 

A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. 

Even her rebellion had been anticipated by competing instructions. 

She lowered herself into the chair at the tiny desk. 

“Yes, Ms. Wessen,” she whispered to no one. 

Then, because Madison had told her to, Cindy opened the history assignment first. 

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