Warning, this chapter deals with a serious mental illness as well as an implication of something particularly vile. I did my best to fairly depict an individual suffering from a serious anxiety disorder. To those who suffer from it and feel I have not properly conveyed the experience, please accept my sincerest apologies
Chris had finished his shopping at the local hardware store, but unfortunately it had taken longer than he expected. The lumber he was looking for was out of stock, so he had to waste time discussing with the manager what would be the most suitable replacement wood to use. They were understaffed, and Chris had to lug the heavy wood into the truck himself. Due to his injuries, he had to move at a slower pace than a normal thirty-five-year-old man did despite his overall great shape. Its at times like these, he is reminded of the harsh reality that he truly was a disabled veteran and that he would always have some limitations. He secured his load, turned over the ignition, and pulled out of the hardware storeâs parking lot.
Chris let his mind wander on his way back to the house, the drive is pretty quiet and boring on the old country road. The majority of this wood is intended to begin the much-needed repairs on his home, while others he got to make something for his young foals. Chris had seen a play fort advertised on Fluff-TV, that absolutely captured the minds of his young foals. Although Chris could have easily bought the overpriced play fort, he knew he could make something much better. Double the size with double the safety, he wanted to make something special for his little foals so that they always knew their daddy loved them. As Chris was on auto pilot, a small cardboard box had blown onto the road.
Chrisâs mind snapped right back into focus, he panics and swerved hard almost driving his truck straight into a tree. He felt himself begin to hyperventilate as all he could focus on was the suspicious box that he had just narrowly avoided. He slows his vehicle down to a stop, his hands violently shaking as he grips the steering wheel on for dear life. His dashboard suddenly looked like a Humveeâs, and the Georgia country road started to look like the sandy highway of Southern Afghanistan, Chris was having an episode.
Chris was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder before he was medically retired from the Navy. He spent the majority of his time as a Hospital Corpsman attached to an expeditionary Marine Infantry unit, and he was exposed to a lot of hostile encounters. Its hard to say if there was a specific incident, he witnessed that cause his anxiety disorder, or if it was the constant life and death situations, he found himself into that compound until it reached a breaking point. Regardless of how he developed it, living with this illness made life very difficult for Chris. There were many things that would trigger Chris, such as random debris in the road, the sight and smell of blood, fireworks, and even certain words and smells would set off his condition. There were many coping mechanisms Chris used to deal with his PTSD, but the thing that worked best for him was taking care of his fluffies. They grounded him to reality and provided him with a sense of security and comfort that his anti-anxiety medicine could not do. Chris needed his foals, just as much as his foals needed him.
Chris focused his breathing and repeated a simple mantra to himself as he tried to calm down. He said to himself, over and over again, âI am in Georgia, not Afghanistan. I was there then; I am in Georgia here nowâ. After about five minutes Chrisâs breathing returned to normal and he pulled his truck back into the road to resume his trek home. He thought to himself, perhaps when he gets home that he ought to take twenty or so minutes to play with the foals. Theyâre probably awake now, and he could really use their soothing company. The remaining ten minutes on his drive back seemed to fly and before he knew it, he was pulling into the driveway of his home. Chris unloaded the contents of his truck bed into the barn, putting away the wood and nails into the places he had set aside for them. Unfortunately, all this heavy lifting had set off the pain he had in his kneecap. The pain was bearable, but Chris had to limp all the way back to his home. He fumbled for his keys, turned unlocked the door, and stepped inside. In just moments, everything Chris knew in his life to be stable would be completely turned on its head.
His eyes widened as he peered into this home, it looked like it had been ransacked. His plants had been toppled over, vases and lamps smashed, and weirdly enough food and mud all over the place. Chris thought that he might have been robbed, and in a sense he was right. His thoughts were racing, what did the intruders take? Are the intruders still here? Are my fluffies ok? Chris grabbed the baseball bat he keeps next to the front of the door, and cautiously walks around examining his home. Its hard to sneak around with steel toed boots, but he keeps himself and his trusty baseball bat down at the ready. Normally in the event of a robbery, Chris would have armed himself with his shotgun or pistol; but those were locked up on the other side of the house and the bat would have to suffice. He looked around, trying to pay attention to any detail he could. There was dirt everywhere on the floor, and small food stuff dragged in it. Tons of things were broken, but nothing outside of the food seemed to be taken. Whoever busted into his home, did a shit job at stealing from him.
As Chris walked down the hall, he heard a very feint babbling chatter coming from the back of his home. He couldnât quite make out the sound, it was diluted and sounded like many people were talking at once. As he approached closer, he heard a very peculiar sound, it sounded like a small grunting sound. The sound has a progressively quickening rhythm to it, Chris had never heard anything like that before. Almost muffled by this grunting, he heard an incredibly frantic and horrified cheeping sound. Chrisâs heart sank, he recognized that sound immediately as Indy but concerningly more, he couldnât hear Flurry, Pyra, or Truffle at all. His heart started to race as Chris abandoned his sneaking into a full-on sprint, His foals desperately needed their daddy and he prayed that they would be just fine. As Chris turned down the hallway to the safe room, nothing could prepare him for the nightmare he was about to endure.
Chris comes to a complete halt as he looks into the safe room, he nearly drops his bat. He feels himself start to get dizzy as he peers into the saferoom he painstakingly built for his fluffies. Covered in shit, blood, and dozens of adult fluffies he had never seen before. The only words he can even muster, âOh my fucking godâŚâ. The sight and scent of blood fill Chrisâs nostrils as he feels himself begin to hyper ventilate and get dizzy, these invaders are polluting the saferoom with their filth. Chris stumbles forwards a bit scanning the room, and he sees it. Hidden in the massive shit pile are three of his four foals, his precious children: brutally murdered. Chris holds his hand over his mouth as he takes steps backwards leaning against the wall. Tears well up in his eyes as the safe room in front of him begins to morph into the battlefield of Helmand Afghanistan. The corpses of his fluffies flash between the bodies of his dead friends, as the invading fluffies flash back between creature and Afghani Insurgent. Finally, Chris snaps back to reality as he hears the rapid cheeping of Indy. He seeâs a massive stallion get off of him, stomping on his leg, and calling him âdummie enfie babbehâ. Chris remembered the grunting he had heard earlier, and finally put the pieces together on just what happened. Another green fluffed stallion was approaching Indy as he frantically cheeped. Chris needed to pull himself together, his baby needed him, and he wasnât going to let him die like this.
Chris lunged forward into the room; a visceral scream escaped his mouth as he Swung his bat wildly. He smacked a beta scavenger straight into the wall, causing it to fall down-shitting itself from the pain. He stomped forward crushing a recently born foal of his enemy and swung the bat again violently. The invasive fluffies morphed between insurgent and vermin, Chris violently swinging his bat as he keeps slipping in between reality and the past. The fluffies screed and panicked at this sudden attack, running in all directions grabbing food and their foals trying to find and hiding place. Chris makes it to the corner of the room, he yells I the deepest voice he can muster at the stallion attempting to mount Indy,
â Hey, Fuck Face!â
Before the stallion can react, he grabs him by the mane in a rough tugging motion and throws him as hard as he can, as far from Indy as he could. The Stallion smacks into the fluffy TV, falling to the ground as the TV fell crushing him. Chris reaches down and picks up Indy, who is cheeping pathetically and grabbing tightly onto Chrisâs thumb. Indy is in critical condition, and desperately needs medical attention right away. As Chris turned to leave the room, he was smacked hard in his wounded leg by the smarty, Chris groaned in pain as he felt another stallion ram its horn into his other leg. The smarty yells at Chris screaming,
âStoopi Hoomin, Dis Am Smawtie Wand Nao, gib back bestest Enfie Toysie Ouâ get foweba Sweepies!â
Chris lunges forward to grab the smarty but is tackled and nearly toppled over by another one of the Smartyâs retainers. Chris looks at Indy in his hand, his breathing is labored, and he is violently shaking. Every second that Indy wasnât getting treatment, was a louder knock-on deaths door to claim his little soul. Realizing he doesnât have time to fight this battle, Chris uses his bat as a cane to limp out of the safe room. He slams the door shut behind him and moves a piece of furniture to block the door; keeping the invaders inside and buying him time to try and save Indy.
Chris limps as fast as he can down the hallway, moving towards the kitchen so he can grab the supplies he needs to treat Indy. As He turns the corner, he trips over yet another beta scavenger and topples over sliding down. Fortunately for Indy, Chris rolled to his back and cupped him in his hand to mitigate any further damage. He crawled forward, his knee throbbing and his body scraped and bruised. Chris picked himself up, leaning his back on the wall for support as he looked down at his would-be assassin. Sobbing in front of him was a puke green furred Pegasus, with a dirty grey mane. It leaned against the wall, screening about how much pain it was in. The pitiful and overweight creature flapped its pathetic wings, yelling at Chris, âWai Huwt Fwuffuy! Am Gud Fwuffy Stoopi hoomin Munstah!â. Chris gritted his teeth as he saw this oxygen thief yell at him. He had the gall to break into Chrisâs home, destroy everything he has worked for, steal his food, destroy the lives of his foals, and had the nerve the accuse Chris of being the monster? Chris limped forwards to the panicking fluffy and began to kick it hard as he could against the wall. Wham! Five full force kicks from a steel toed construction boot, the pitiful fluffy screed and shit itself from pain. Chris began to stomp the creature, its ribs cracking and a nasty squelching sound escaping from its disgusting trash eating gullet. Finally, Chris braced himself against the wall, and kicked the fluffy full force into its chin and straight into the wall; obliterating its head and putting a hole into his wall.
Chris panted as he glared at this glorified piece of refuse, pain shooting through his body and his rage at the absolute peak. He looks back down at the shivering, badly damaged foal in his hands and marches forward to the kitchen. He lays Indy on the kitchen table, as he frantically looks for any and all medical items that he can use. In an ideal situation, Chris would drive Indy to a high- end fluffy veterinarian to get him the proper care he needed, but unfortunately that was out of range. Chris lived deep in the country, and the closest fluffy vet that could do anything to help Indy, lived nearly an hour away. Time was not on his side and even in the best-case scenario, Indy would have succumbed to his injuries on the operating table. Once he has collected everything he needed, he looks over the pitiful mess that is Indy and sighs. Its going to be a long night.