Do You Love Me?
by Shiv
–
“Do you love me?”
The minuscule blue foal blinks its soft brown eyes in surprise.
“Wha’ yu mean, daddeh?”
“It’s a question. Do you love me?”
Giggling, the tiny fluffy stretches its legs out in a “give huggies” pose. You obligingly present a finger for it to wrap its hooves around.
“Of couwse, daddeh! Babbeh wubs yu wif awwww his wittew heawt!” Cooing, it snuggles into the palm of your hand, suckling strongly on your fingertip.
You smile.
“I’m so glad to hear that,” you murmur, feathering a knuckle down its back, enjoying how the frail bones arch delicately into the caress. You gently press your finger into the cartilage at the base of its almost nonexistent wing, and mindful of how delicate the creature’s extremities can be, scratch softly.
“Hnnn…” the colt murmurs blissfully.
You work your finger more deeply into the wing joint as you continue caressing the foal. You notice its little brow furrow lightly and the wing begin to twitch as you continue scratching.
“Daddeh?” it chirps. “Be cawefuw wif wingie… Babbeh don’ wan huwty-scwatchies!”
You stop. The foal opens its eyes again, and you note how cow-like they are.
“Daddeh? Wha’ wong? Did babbeh -”
You dig your finger into the soft cartilage of the wing. Hard. You continue the scratching motions, forcing the entire wing assembly to juggle up and down.
“Eeeeeee!” it shrieks. “Wingie huwties! DaddeeeEEEEEE!”
Your other hand has ceased its gentle rhythm on the foal’s back and gone to the offended wing, pinching down hard on the feathery cartilage.
“NUUUU daddeh!” the pastel foal wails. “OWWIES! Babbeh wingie haf HUWTIES!”
With a sharp twist, you dislocate the wing from its socket.
“EEEE!” it cries, thrashing wildly, trying to pull away. “WINGIEEEEEEE!”
You release the animal onto the table. It drops the few inches and lands on its back, injured wing twisted beneath its tiny body. Four perfect little hooves wave wildly at the ceiling.
“Hewp!” the foal cries. “Wowstest huwties, daddeh! Pwease hewp babbeh!”
Holding out your hand, you carefully allow the wisp of fluff to use your fingers to right itself. It hangs its tiny head and weeps loudly.
“Huuu hu hu hu…” it sobs. “Fank yu fo’ rightsy-uppies, daddeh, bu’… Huuuu hu hu hu! Su many huwties!” Sitting down heavily onto its tiny rump, the blue foal begins to suckle at a hoof, desperately seeking some measure of comfort.
Sitting back in your chair, you try to not rattle the box of tools at your feet. You look evenly at the blubbering creature in front of you.
“Do you love me?”
Nodding frantically, it slurps even more frantically. “Yesh daddeh!” it says around the mouthful of hoof. “Babbeh wuvs yu, but pwease, nu mowe owwies!”
You carefully reach out and grip the suckling hoof. Bracing the fetlock joint between your thumb and middle finger, you use your index finger to begin applying pressure to the Pedal bone. The foal blinks at you wetly and moves forward slightly, trying to continue working its toothless mouth on the limb. With aching slowness, the hoof begins to arch sideways.
Silent, face displaying no emotion, you press harder.
“Daddeh?” the foal burbles, belatedly realizing that its hoof has bent too far away to suckle comfortably. “Daddeh, wingie haf suuuuu many huwties… wha’ am yu doing tu weggie?”
Perhaps your eyes glint and give you away, because the fluffy begins to scream moments before its leg breaks.
“NUUUU! WEGGIEEEEE!” it shrieks as the limb snaps. “WEGGIEEEEEE!”
Applying traction to ensure complete dislocation, you give the hoof a quarter turn before releasing it, severing it from the Cannon bone and allowing the ligaments to tightly pull the permanently misshapen limb back together. The foal grasps its mangled leg and tries to suckle on the hoof again, only to be rewarded with a fresh burst of agonizing pain.
“HUUUUUUUU!” it bawls. “TUUUU MANY OWWIES!”
Sitting back, you wait for the foal to cry itself into coherence again.
Sniffling, cradling its shattered leg, uninjured wing buzzing crazily, the little blue fluffy finally looks up at you through a haze of soggy tears. Sobbing, it tries to speak, but finds itself unable.
Slowly (oh so very slowly), you reach your left hand out and gently caress your finger along the foal’s muzzle. Broken and filled with agony, the biotoy reacts instinctively to your warm touch, pressing its wet face into your hand. Bit by bit, it finds its voice again.
“Why… why su many huwties, daddeh?” it whimpers. “Am onwy wittew babbeh…”
Your eyes dilate at the hated phrase. The foal stumbles as you abruptly withdraw your hand; it accidentally puts its weight onto its destroyed leg. The creature squeals shrilly and stumbles sideways.
“Nu mowe owwies, dummeh weggie! Nu huwtie gud babbeh nu mowe!” Hobbling clumsily, it lifts its crushed leg and balances unsteadily on the remaining three. It looks at you plaintively, tears running freely, as you ask your question again.
"Do you love me?”
The foal drops its head and looks up at you from beneath long lashes. You remain unmoved, recognizing the programmed response originally intended to garner extra treats and attention.
“Babbeh… babbeh nu knuu wha’ tu say! Pwease gif’ babbeh huggies tu make huwties bettew!”
You force yourself back into a state of calm.
“Do you love me?”
Confused, crippled and broken, desperate for affection and compassion, the foal lowers its head until it almost touches his soft, fuzzy little chest.
“Yes, daddeh, babbeh wuvs yu… Huuuu hu hu hu…”
Before the artificial animal’s slow reflexes can register the movement, you withdraw a heavy gauge safety pin from your breast pocket and stab it through the foal’s uninjured forehoof, sinking it deeply into the wooden surface of the table. The foal stares in confusion at the steel spike, seconds counting by as its overloaded nervous system tries to catalogue the sensation.
“Wha daddeh do wif EEEEEEEEEE!”
The foal reflexively tries to pull its leg backwards but the rubbery hoof is stuck firmly. It puts its whole weight into a series of jerking tugs, adding to the agony but going nowhere.
“EEEE!” it wails, throwing its head back and regressing into the bird-like newborn lexicon that it had only recently left behind. “EEEEEE CHEEPIE EEEEEEE!”
You slowly remove a fresh X-acto knife from your toolbox. Making sure that the foal can see every motion, you pop the safety cap and gently press the wicked tip into the oaken table. In horror, the foal watches as the razor blade sinks easily into the scored wooden surface.
“EEEEE!” it chirps helplessly, tugging harder at the viciously pinned hoof. “EEEEEEE!”
Expressionless, you apply the tip of the knife into the center of the hoof, directly in front of the immobilizing safety pin.
“Do you love me?”
Squalling, the foal can only frantically throw its head desperately up and down. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a yes, but you’ll consider it such for the sake of brevity.
The hoof parts in two almost effortlessly. Leathery and soft to begin with, the razor knife parts it with ease. Brilliant crimson blood spurting, you slit the two segments of hoof into four, four into eight, and, with exquisite care, eight into sixteen. The hoof now resembles the teeth of a comb.
Eyes rolling, foam flying, the foal bucks its back legs in the air, belatedly realizing that putting most of its weight on a shattered foreleg was probably poor planning. Stiltedly falling to its stomach as best as the pinned limb would allow, it begins to breathe shallowly and rapidly as neurogenic shock sets in.
“Oh, little honey,” you murmur. “We aren’t done yet.”
An ocular spritz of pure nicotine is enough to bring the foal out of shock. It twitches as the stimulant takes effect before looking up at you with a truly noteworthy degree of sadness.
“Nu mowe, daddeh,” it says calmly. “Fwuffy wan die nao.”
Sighing softly, you repeat your question.
“Do you love me?”
The foal’s gentle brown eyes meet yours. It remains silent. You wait patiently.
Minutes tick by.
Finally, blinking, the foal lowers its head one last time.
“Nu.” it says. “Fwuffy nu wuv yu. Fwuffy…” It swallows delicately, tiny throat dancing up and down, deliberately enunciating its words. “Fwuffy hatechu.”
You smile.
“I’m glad.”
The safety pin is removed with almost no effort. The freshly serrated hoof has bled and clotted, sticking to the table, but comes free with a crunch and a scream.
“WAAAAAAN DIE!” the foal shrieks.
Chuckling, you carry the creature over to a corner of the room. “Soon enough.”
The freshly sharpened blade of the meat slicer glitters in the cold light of the overhead fluorescents. You’d sharpened it in anticipation. The old blood that you couldn’t quite manage to scrub out of the base plate tells a wealth of stories.
“You should always tell the truth,” you say softly. “Daddy doesn’t like fluffies that tell lies.”
The motor starts with a whir. The blade spins up to its maximum rotation quickly and smoothly. The lubricating oil that you’d added earlier darkens the cutting steel minutely, and you notice a fine spray momentarily arc from the windward side. Mechanical perfection.
The fluffy sobs, softly chanting “wan die.”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this,” you say conversationally, “but a wise man once said that ‘babies are for huggies and wuv.’ Did you know that?” You lock the brakes on the slicer’s cart. “Huggies and wuv. Huggies and wuv.” You retract the retention plate and slip the crippled foal into the meat compartment, turning the thickness adjustment knob down to its absolute minimum. As you gently close the studded gate, the creature’s lower back is pressed firmly against the baffle that guards the center of the blade. “Babies are for huggies and wuv, huggies and wuv, huggies and god damned mother fucking wuv.”
Snapping the retention plate into place firmly squashes the foal against the leeward side of the disc. Small shreds of pale blue fluff are pulled into the rotating steel and whisper into the air of the room. It looks up at you, resigned, tears drying on its fuzzy cheeks, but remains silent.
Pulling the slide drawer back, the foal is momentarily drawn away from its violent doom.
“Huggies and wuv,” you say sagely, slowly moving the drawer back towards the blade.
As the drawer slides smoothly back into the meat slicer assembly, the first millimetre-thin slab of fluffy slivers down onto the catch board. You note that the morsel of skin beneath the severed wisp of blue fluff is a pale pink that quickly turns white as the blood drains out. The foal’s eyes lose their focus and it continues to repeat “wan die.”
“Fuck you. Babies are for huggies and wuv.” Slice. “Huggies and wuv.” Slice. “Huggies and wuv.” Slice.
The “wan die” loop remains in effect an admirably long time. You’ve shaved away the entire lower back and enjoyed watching the hind legs twitch involuntarily as tiny segments of spinal cord are severed. The bladder and bowels empty automatically once the cauda equina nerve bundle is destroyed, but it isn’t until the blade bites smoothly into the squashed left testicle that the colt’s eyes shoot open.
“NUUUUUU!” it shrieks, reminding you to put your earplugs in. “NUU TAKE SPESHUW-WUMPS!”
Why was it always the balls that bring them back?
“Hey, buddy,” you say, smiling warmly, face splattered with blood and blue fluff. “Glad to make your acquaintance again. Do you fucking love me, you little fuck?”
Screams are your only answer as you accelerate your speed on the meat slicer. More and more slices of fluffy fall onto the catch board, and as the pile grows you have to nudge it to the side to make room for more.
“Babies are for huggies and wuv!” you giggle as you work.
Gasping, little heart pouring its tiny supply of bright blood onto the cold steel of the slicer, you reach the creature’s minute stomach.
“There go the miwkies you had for breakfast!” You howl with laughter as the organ is shredded and a minuscule thread of white momentarily joins the constant flow of red. “No more miwkies for you, ever again!”
“Nu… nu mowe miwkies?” the colt responds haltingly, unable to comprehend the horrifying concept. You’re surprised it can still form words.
“…w-wan die…” Less of a surprise.
Obligingly, you hammer the tray as fast as you can, the pile of sliced fluffy growing to a stack and tipping over, spilling vivisected segments of bone and organ onto the concrete floor. You’re not entirely sure when the foal ceases to be, as it’s said, but you know there’d been a moment when a tiny puff of air had been forced out of its little quivering snout that hadn’t been followed with an intake. You’d been busy razoring the blade through its lungs at that point, so that was expected: still, a shame you hadn’t been paying more attention.
Disappointed at your lack of restraint, you finish reducing the pastel foal into a pile of deli bologna and begin to clean up. The stack of worthless rat-salami goes into a little black garbage can and you swiftly perform the laborious process of cleaning the meat slicer with the practised air of a seasoned professional.
A half hour later, you critically survey your work and deem it adequate. The slicer sparkles, the table retains no trace of horror other than a few fresh notches, and the very basement air smells of lemons rather than coppery blood. You open the large blue Rubbermaid tub next to your workbench and expose a gaggle of multicoloured foals, all crying and shitting on each other as the bright light pours in. Their voices rise in a terrible cacophony as they simultaneously beseech you for uppsies and huggies.
You snag a runty brown earth-type filly, firmly replace the lid on the container, and set her down onto your work table. The shrill screams from the tub fade to a quiet drone behind the thick plastic. She quivers as she tries to hide her eyes behind tiny hooves, pitiful body shivering with sobs.
With infinite patience, you wait until her wailing tapers off and she demurely peeks out from behind a chestnut forehoof. Emerald eyes sparkle with fear and traces of desperate hope.
“Hewwwo mistew…” she whispers carefully, tears drying on her muzzle. “Nice mistew… be nyu daddeh? Gib… gib huggies? Huggies an’ wuv?”
You smile down at the little creature.
“Do you love me?”
