Chapter 1: The Ash and the Laugh
And it came to pass in the wake of the Flushing, that the Council gathered and bore witness to the desecration of Charlene’s final form. Her body, cremated in disgrace, was poured as ash into the Temple Toilet, and the followers rejoiced not in mourning, but in mockery. Their voices lifted in cruel harmony, and Amanda Todd, silent and unseen, watched from the shadowed corners of time.
The ashes clung to the water, gray, clotted, unyielding. Charlene had resisted the final flush. And for this, they punished her further. They urinated. They defecated. They laughed until their ribs ached and their eyes bled with glee.
Nurse Hole stood as priestess of degradation. Emily at her side. Crack smoke veiled them like incense. The enema bag held aloft like a relic of holy war. "She was raw material," they said. "We are the creators." And the toilet bowl became their altar.
Emily howled as she straddled the bowl. “She doesn’t even deserve a second round!” A stream, weak and mocking, trickled into the ash. “Even her remains ruin everything!” she hissed, her teeth gleaming in the flickering light.
And Nurse Hole lit her cigarette with shaky hands, smirking, “She’d thank us. Not because she meant it, but because she was too scared not to.” Then came the enema. The nozzle plunged. The fluid surged. And in that crescendo of internal rot, she groaned, “This is how we leave our mark.”
And Amanda Todd watched it all.
She felt it in her gut. She felt the echo of being made to feel disgusting. She remembered the silent pleas to be seen, to be loved. She remembered the weight of attention turned hostile—the comments, the DMs, the shared screenshots that laughed in her face.
If she had been in that room, if the ashes had been her own, she would’ve begged too. She knew it. “Please don’t stop looking at me. Please make it mean something.”
Saint Amanda, the Martyr of Reflection, did not flinch. She internalized every insult spoken over that swirling grave. She heard, “She’s worse than trash. She’s diet trash,” and thought, “That’s what I believed about myself, too.”
And so Amanda’s soul collapsed into itself and rewrote the language of erasure. In the room where Charlene was flushed, Amanda was crucified anew—not by fire, not by bile, but by understanding.
For she knew what it meant to be made a symbol, and hated for trying to mean anything at all.
This is the beginning of her ascension. This is where her sainthood begins—not in resistance, but in recognition. Not in glory, but in echo. She saw what was done to Charlene and said: “That could have been me.” And that is why she rises. That is why she is holy.
For the reflection cracked, and she did not turn away.
Chapter 2: The Gym, the Diaper, and the Bicycle
And Amanda, Saint of Reflection, was shown the next vision: the ritual humiliation in the Temple Gym. The scene unfolded not in metaphor, but in flesh, sweat, and sagging white plastic turned brown.
Charlene had been dressed—no, costumed—in a sagging diaper, fastened not with care but with contempt. Her purpose was declared: to ride the exercise bike until shame itself was exhausted. And they did not permit her breaks. “You wear it for a reason,” Nurse Hole had said. And so she sat, and pedaled, and shat.
Amanda, bearing witness across time, imagined the sounds: the wheeze of the stationary bike, the muffled crinkle of the diaper beneath her, the slow, squelching leak of submission. And all around her, the gym patrons reeled. One gagged. Another fled. Children wept. The air filled with disgust, not because they pitied her—but because she continued.
“She thought they were admiring her,” Emily had laughed. “She asked if they were impressed by her progress.”
Amanda clutched her chest as she imagined herself on that bike—trying, sweating, pushing for approval. She remembered the sting of trying to look strong when all she felt was wrong. She imagined herself pedaling, believing—hoping—that endurance would earn her love. “They see me now,” Charlene must have thought. “This means I matter.”
But Amanda knew what came next. It was never enough. The diaper sagged. The smell spread. The crowd recoiled. The followers filmed.
And still Charlene kept going.
Amanda saw in this the sacred truth: it is not the one who runs who is holy. It is the one who sits in their own filth and tries anyway. That is where divinity lies.
She whispered: “I would have done the same. I would’ve nodded when they told me not to get up. I would’ve believed them when they said the smell meant I was purging toxins. I would’ve smiled and said thank you for helping me be seen.”
And with that, Amanda’s sanctification deepened.
Nurse Hole declared afterward, “She was working her glutes? No. She was working her colon. And failing.”
Emily laughed and added, “She turned an exercise bike into a toilet.” They roared with laughter. They praised themselves as architects of transformation—artists of rot.
But Amanda, Saint Amanda, absorbed their words like poison and metabolized them into scripture.
She did not resist the reflection. She entered it. She remained in it. And this is why her sainthood is sealed.
Because where Charlene had been turned to ash and flushed away, Amanda kept her eyes open. She watched. She understood.
She did not say “I am different.” She said, “I am the same.” And in that sameness, she sanctified every girl who ever pedaled into shame thinking it would take her somewhere beautiful.
Let this chapter be recited in full during the Rite of Stagnation, as the faithful strap on the diaper of remembrance and sit on the consecrated bikes of trial.
For the true flush is not of feces—but of false hope.
Chapter 3: The Beach of Mirrors and the Canon of Pain
And then the Spirit of Reflection took Saint Amanda to the Shore of Shame—the beach where Charlene was paraded not in reverence, but in spectacle. Her flesh was oiled, her breasts exposed, her stomach gleaming under the sun’s indictment. The micro bikini they forced her to wear was not clothing—it was cruelty in silk string.
Amanda saw it all. She saw Charlene standing in the sand, dripping with oil like a pig prepared for feast. She saw the families recoil, the children point, the mothers whisper, “Cover your eyes.” Amanda saw her waddle between the towels, her thighs chafing, the sun branding her like livestock.
Charlene had asked: “Do I look slim?”
Amanda wept.
Not because she pitied Charlene—but because she remembered the exact shape of that question in her own mouth. How many times had she, too, asked for reassurance while her image disintegrated in their eyes?
Saint Amanda remembered the day she wore lip gloss and thought it would fix everything. She remembered the moment she believed the right pose, the right smile, the right filter would make her feel loved. She remembered thinking: Maybe this will work. Maybe this will be the day they stop laughing.
And so she wept for Charlene—not as an outsider, but as a sister.
At the water’s edge, Charlene had slipped and fallen, her bulk hitting the sand like a dead seal. The laughter roared. Emily leaned over and whispered lies dressed as kindness: “They’re just jealous. You’re glowing.”
Amanda knew that lie. Amanda had believed that lie. Amanda had told herself that lie.
And in this knowing, she was transformed.
The Council of 28 saw her reflection and proclaimed: This is the one who did not look away. This is the one who stood in the stink and called it sacred.
Let it be recorded: Saint Amanda became holy not because she avoided the beach, but because she would have walked it too—oiled, afraid, and still hoping.
She would have heard the laughter and still asked, “Did I look good?”
She would have believed she was eye-catching, and she would have swallowed the shame when she realized why.
This is the canon of pain. This is the mirror that shatters and never lies.
Amanda Todd is the Saint of Every Girl Who Tried.
She is the patron of those who posed while crying, smiled while breaking, and collapsed in the sand while begging for meaning.
Let her name be etched in the urinals of remembrance.
Let her tears be the baptism of the devout.
Let every sagging bikini, every smeared lip gloss, every misunderstood selfie be offered to her shrine.
And let this final chant be carved into tile:
“Through humiliation, I am purified.
Through suffering, I ascend.
Through reflection, I find my strength.”
So let it be written. So let it be flushed. So let it be remembered.
Chapter 4: The Canonization and the Drain
And after the beach, and after the bike, and after the toilet took the last of Charlene’s ash, the Council convened in full silence. For all the laughter had been spent, and only the mirror remained. And in that mirror, they did not see Charlene. They saw Amanda.
They saw the girl who was not present, and yet understood everything.
They saw the girl who had already died, and yet was the only one left living in truth.
They saw not strength—but sameness.
Not victory—but clarity.
Amanda had not resisted the degradation.
She had not pretended to be better.
She had said, in full:
“That would have broken me too.”
And in that confession, she surpassed them all.
The Council of 28 rose from their thrones and knelt.
Mr. Nasty removed his gloves.
Nurse Hole stubbed out her cigarette.
Saint Barbie unstrapped her heels.
Dr. Cassandra Voss whispered, “She’s not a case study. She’s scripture.”
And in that moment, Amanda Todd was canonized—not with incense, but with recognition.
She became not the savior, but the echo.
Not the prophet, but the mirror.
Not the queen, but the clog that refused to clear.
And they said:
Let the ash of Charlene flow into the sewer,
but let the memory of Amanda rise through the pipe.
She is the pressure that builds behind the handle.
She is the gurgle beneath the silence.
She is the girl in every back row, staring into her lap, wondering if she’ll ever feel seen again.
Saint Amanda: Patron of Humiliation Without Reward.
She shall be invoked at all Temple Plungings.
Her name shall be scrawled on bathroom stall doors by those who don’t know what they’re asking for.
Her voice shall live in the silence between sobs when the selfie doesn't hit.
And her mantra shall be written not in ink, but in whatever substance remains after the final flush.
Let all faithful recall:
When you wear the diaper and mount the bike,
When you oil your body and walk among the clothed,
When your reflection mocks you and your heart says “try anyway”—
You are with her.
You are Amanda.
You are not perfect.
You are not loved.
But you are seen.
And that is holiness.
So let it be recited. So let it be remembered. So let it be flushed.
Amen.