[Libby Chapters 1 and 2 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 3 and 4 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 5 and 6 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 7 and 8 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 9 and 10 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 11 and 12 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 13 and 14 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 15 and 16 by Dildofarmer]
[Libby Chapters 17 and 18 (final) by Dildofarmer]
Libby the white pegasus is in bad shape. Her Papa locked her in her sorry box with a shoe covered in her own shit and left her there for several days. Her runt starved to death and her other foals nearly did. When he discovered the fatality among Libby’s brood, the drunken man became enraged and threw the sorry box against the wall. Libby has one fractured leg, one crushed wing, a bruised eye, a missing tooth and a kink in her tail. She crawled out of her wrecked sorry box in a very unclean state, but still alive and with some meager food and water in her belly. Her Papa stomped down the hallway to soothe his stress with alcohol.
Consciousness found her shortly afterward, half-covered in a drying cocoon of her own waste. Her skin was still damp and clammy, and it hurt when she shivered because the broken bones in her left wing and front left leg moved, as well as the contusion in her tail. While she was unconscious her body metabolized the handful of shit-covered kibble she had been fed. Her foals drained her as soon as she let down, and the sudden reintroduction of food into the red one’s still-developing stomach caused it to vomit. The two foals then fought over the small puddle of slightly-curdled milk. They couldn’t bear to get close to their mother’s sodden, bloody form, so they retreated back to the blue spongy dog bed to hide from the world, hug each other and cry.
The next morning, the man once again rose very late and sat at his computer for a long time. Hunger drove Libby out of her room. She tried not to make any noise on the way down the hallway, but her various injuries made it impossible, so a sad “tap tap-scrape” sound rang out over her panting. She was surprised to find a pile of kibble in her bowl and water in her dish. She scarfed up a mouthful of kibble and turned her head back around while she chewed to keep an eye on her Papa. He was sitting at his computer and drinking from a bottle. She bolted food until her throat felt scratchy, then hobbled over and tried to lap up water without making any noise. When she turned back around, her Papa was looming between her and the hallway.
“Well, shithead, guess what?” growled Papa as he pulled on his yellow kitchen gloves. Libby ducked and shivered but said nothing. “I got a buyer for one of your other little rats. Maybe both. She’s coming over tomorrow so I gotta clean you and your little shithole up. God damn, you smell. Now go get in the bathtub.”
Libby had always hated baths, but she was too afraid to argue. After herding her down the hall, the man dropped her into the tub and roughly hosed her off as she cowered against the wall and wept. When he was done, he slapped her dry with a towel, ignoring her chirps when he batted one of her injuries, especially her freshly-broken wing. He then chivvied her down the hall and into the tiny room. It was all over quickly. Libby scuttled over to the spongy blue dog bed where her two remaining foals were hiding and began frantically sniffing and embracing them, making tiny little wordless moans and cooing.
“Mummy! Miwkies! Wan’ miwkies!” squeaked the big white foal, rearing up and feebly butting Libby’s flank. When she lay on her side, they dove onto her teats and began nursing with deadly focus, squishing their tiny front hooves into the soft flesh. The dam kept baleful eyes on Papa as he lugged her smashed, shit-encrusted sorry box out of the room. She didn’t say a word until he was gone.
“W-w-wibby wuv babees. Wibby nu wet Papa take babees. Papa am meanie.” When she said this, a faraway look came into her eyes and she unconsciously began to gnaw and yank on the fluff and flesh of her crooked front hoof. Her foals were oblivious, only happy to fill their tiny bellies and then curl up as they began to digest their meal. Their bellies gurgled as they became accustomed to being fed as much as they wanted again.
When Papa clumped back into the room with a bag and a scoop and began noisily scraping the litter box clean, Libby reflexively hunched her body over her foals and curled her crippled front leg around them. The white one woke up and sensed his mother’s nervousness, and his still-developing powers of speech took over.
“Papa am meanie!” it squealed. Papa’s head turned around, and Libby’s blood ran cold when she saw his jaw clench. She hugged the squirming foal tight against her fluff and tried to turn so her body was between her baby and her looming Papa, but it was no use. He stooped over the bed and wrapped his fingers around the foal.
“Nu, pwease, babee nu wan’ be bad, babee just scawed-YEEP!” she yelped when Papa gently twisted her broken front hoof and took her baby up. Both the fluffy and the foal helplessly stared at Papa with wide, terrified eyes as he spoke.
“This is what I’m talking about, Libby. If the lady who wants to buy your little shits shows up and you fuck up the sale, I swear to God you’ll regret it,” Papa promised in a gravelly voice, wrapping his fingers around the foal and studying it intricately.
“Nu huwt babee, babee am scawed, babee wuv Papa-AAAUUUU!” The fluffy screamed again as Papa again tweaked her damaged hoof.
“Open your mouth!” snarled Papa.
Confused and afraid, Libby opened her mouth wide. Papa released her front leg and latched his hand onto the side of her face instead, pinning her jaw down with his thumb. Then he brought the white foal over her, holding it in his fist a few inches above Libby’s head. As Libby watched in horror, the tendons and muscles in her Papa’s hand flexed, and she heard her foal croak and saw it open its mouth and stick its tongue out as Papa sharply squeezed it. Its little legs batted at his fingers, then flailed in tiny, pathetic circles. Finally, two gobbets of milky shit spurted from its hindquarters and fell into Libby’s open mouth with a ‘plop.’ In a flash, Papa switched his grip on her face and held her mouth shut as she struggled and gagged. Libby felt the recently bashed up tissues of her nose split and tear again, and was forced to choke her foal’s waste down her gullet as she felt Papa’s chuckle through her arm.
“Haaahhh… … haaaakkkkk…” the white fluffy mare retched and heaved, squeezing her eyes shut and scrabbling at her mouth with her front hooves. She breathed in, driving the stench and taste of shit deeper into her sinuses and throat. “Nu wike! Nu wike!” she gagged. She was dimly aware of her papa dropping the crying foal into her bed and rising to his feet. As he usually did after harming her, Papa spoke to her breezily while he left the room.
“Okay, Lib, I’m going to go straighten up the front of the house. You better clean up your nest, and I mean it, 'kay?”
Libby hobbled over to her water dish and drank heavily, trying to wash the taste of her foal’s droppings out of her mouth. She limped back to the bed, where the white baby was crying and wrapping its legs around its chubby white body to soothe its strained innards. The foal looked up at her with teary eyes and held its front paws up towards her.
“Mummy? Huggies? Owwies! Haf owwies!” it begged.
Sudden anger rose up in Libby’s heart as she stared down at the helpless, injured little foal.
“Babee teww Papa Wibby say Papa am meanie! Babee make Papa huwt Wibby! Babee make Wibby eat poopies!” she snarled. “Bad babee! Bad babee! Babee am shit-head!” Libby brought her crooked hoof down on the baby’s snout as hard as she could manage, causing them both to yelp. Libby began to shake with rage, and hit the foal again and again, but every blow stung the misshapen bones in her front hoof more and more. She gave up after a few jabs and bounced on her good front hoof in rage and pain before flopping down in the nest and violently sobbing into her hooves. The white foal simply went limp, its guts and face throbbing. The red one sat in the nest on the tiny pile of shit it had squeezed out, too afraid to approach its mother for comfort.
You are Libby, the white wingie mare. You wish you had not woken up today. You have become used to your crippled front hoof and bent tail, but you still forget about your broken wingie on the other side and try to flap it when you are scared or angry. You are scared and angry a lot, so you often feel bad owwies, even after you begged your wingie to stop hurting you. Your smashed eye is a little better but it still feels funny and things are still cloudy on one side. Your Papa gave you a bath, so you no longer smell not-pretty, and he cleaned up the wreckage of your sorry box and cleaned the poopies out of your litter box. However, this brings you no comfort because he told you that he is going to take away your two remaining foals - the bigger one is a white earthie colt with a black mane and tail, and the other is a pretty little unicorn filly with red fluff and a darker red mane and tail, and a tiny little grey horn.
Yesterday, your white foal told Papa he was a meanie, and he made you eat its scaredy poopies. You were mad at the little foal for being bad and making Papa hurt both of you, so you hit it and called it names. You felt bad afterwards, but every time you look at your foals now you feel sad and angry and you love them more than anything all at the same time. All you can think about is that Papa is going to take your foals away.
“Mummy sad?” bleats your red foal.
“Babee huwties,” whined the white one.
You stare down at them for a while with your good eye, but when your white baby becomes frustrated and starts hitting you with his hooves, you wrap your hoofies around them and cry. You lay in your room all day and listen to Papa walk around the front of the house and make tap-tap noises on his blinky box.
As the light starts to fade, you hear the doorbell ring. Your heart starts pounding in your ears as you hear a woman’s voice ring out - something you haven’t heard in the little house in so long you can’t remember. Your Papa’s deeper voice answers her, and you hear them walk down the hallway to your little room. You hiccup in fear and start shaking, tasting bile in your throat. You lie down with your back towards the door and wrap your legs around your babies, squeezing them into your fluff, and turn your head as far back as you can to keep an eye on your Papa and the strange woman as they walk into your little room and stand in front of your nest, peering down at you. The woman has brown fluff and is shorter and wider than your Papa. She has shiny things in front of her eyes.
“So this is Libby. Like I said, she’s a rescue, and I didn’t know she was pregnant when I brought her home. Having a litter wasn’t exactly in my plan, but we’ve done our best.” says your Papa.
“Ohhh,” said the woman in a sing-song tone, “I can see she’s had a rough time. Poor thing. But her colors really are beautiful.” The woman kneels down on the wooden floor and talks to you in a friendly voice. “Libby, I’m Brenda. Can I be your new friend?” Your Papa is staring straight down into your eyes, making you feel afraid. You don’t say anything.
“She’s so quiet,” says Brenda.
“Yeah, the folks at the shelter say she was abused.” says your Papa.
“Ohh, that’s awful. Good for you for taking her in. Libby, can I play with your babies?”
“Nuuu,” you moan. “Babees need miwkies and huggies fwom mummy.” You hunker down protectively over your foals and roll your good eye as far back as it will go to watch the humans.
“Libby,” says your Papa in an irritable tone, “Your foals aren’t eating right now. Let Brenda see them.”
“Pwease nu, babees nu wan’ pway.”
Your Papa doesn’t answer, but instead kneels down next to Brenda and pulls your white baby out from between your leggies with one hand while wrapping the other gently around your throat. He hands the struggling, crying little foal up to the woman, then picks up the red one. He looks down at you with dangerous eyes and gives your throat a quick, sharp squeeze, just long enough to make you wiggle.
“Nu huwt! Nu huwt! Sowwy!” your white baby mewls while the woman cradles it in her hand and coos to it.
“Ohh, I’m not going to hurt you, little guy!” chirps the woman. She starts petting your foal and rises to her feet. Your Papa stands up too, carrying your other baby far above your head. With tears filling up your eyes, you scrabble to your hooves and walk around the tall humans in a little circle. They are going to take your babies away. You will be left all alone in the dark little house with Papa and nobody will ever hug you or love you again. You start shaking with angries, and then you squeal in pain as you unconsciously try to flap your wings again, causing the broken one to give you terrible owwies. You cringe as the pain washes through you, and then you start to feel even more angries. You hear your white baby coo, and you hear the tiny noises it makes as it nurses on the woman’s finger. She coos back to it. She is acting like she is your baby’s mother!
“Gif babees.” you say in a small voice. The humans ignore you, so you say it louder. “Gif babees! Gif babees!”
Without looking at you, your Papa kicks you in the side with the point of his shoe, making you stagger sideways. The air is knocked out of your lungs and stars dance in front of your good eye. Again, as the pain fades your mind burns with a need to give Papa the worst owwies. You stamp on the floor with your hoofies, but that hurts you too. Before you know what you are doing, you find yourself yelling at the humans as loud as you can.
“GIF BABEES! NU TAKE BABEES! HATE YOU! WIBBY GIF BIGGEST OWWIES!” You turn around and point your poopie place at the woman’s legs.
“God dammit, Libby, shut the he-” your Papa starts to say, but it is too late. You hunch over and squeeze down on your poopie place, and you feel the sorry poopies gush out of you and hear the splattering noise. There is a split second of silence, and then the woman hoots and yells, waving her hands and making quick, aimless little steps as your sorry poopies slide down her leg and pool on her foot. Your mind and vision clear as you watch her bobble your white foal into your Papa’s hands and flee the room, shrieking and yelling words you can’t make out. Your Papa thumps down the hallway after her, his deep voice booming out in between her quailing, high-pitched noises, but soon you hear the front door slam and the booming steps of your Papa as he clumps back into the room. His face is twisted in rage, and he starts yelling at you louder than he has ever yelled before.
“YOU GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? YOU WANT TO FUCKING DIE?” Your Papa’s hand winds up and he whips your red foal straight at you with terrible speed. You flinch, and your tiny red baby bounces off your right side and goes tumbling across the floor, making a high-pitched chirp. You are so full of angries you don’t even watch where it goes. Instead, you puff out your cheeks at your Papa and scream at him as loud as you can.
“WIBBY HATE PAPA! HATE YOU! KIWW YOU! KIWW YOU!” You rear up and wave your hoofies at him, wishing he would come down so you could hurt him and make him feel the biggest owwies in the world. He surprises you by suddenly snorting with laughter and clambering down to his knees. He leans way over, farther than you have ever seen, and extends his hand in front of your face, palm down with the little finger closest to you.
“Okay, Libby, go ahead. Show me what you’ve got, you little retard! Give me your best shot!”
Without hesitating, you lunge forward and clamp your teeth down the fleshy part of the outside of Papa’s hand. You bite down as hard as you can, so hard that you hear a roaring sound in your ears, and then you twist your body as hard as you can. Your toothies slide on Papa’s skin, but then you feel the gap where your missing toothie used to be snag just as you whip your head sideways. Blood spurts into your mouth as the sharp edges of your remaining toothies tear a bit of Papa’s skin free. You tumble painfully, mashing your broken wingie, but you are so angry that you skitter back up to your hooves quickly to face your Papa again, panting.
Papa is holding up his damaged hand and staring at it in open-mouthed surprise. There is a little, ragged wound halfway down the outside edge of his palm, dribbling a steady trickle of blood. Papa rotates it slightly, and then you see his eyes snap over at you instead. You laugh at Papa the same way he always laughs at you, and then you spit a bit of blood out onto the wooden floor. You are so happy that you have finally been able to hurt Papa that you giggle and prance a little. Your Papa leaps to his feet and his face turns almost as red as the foal he threw a moment ago, and he takes two giant steps toward you until he can look down into your face from his towering height.
“Oh, yeah? You think you’re fuckin’ tough, huh? Well, how about this?” Your Papa holds your white baby up in his fist so it can look at you. It is crying, and as soon as it finds itself hanging in empty space, it spews a tiny gout of scaredy poopies and peepees out onto the floor. Your Papa reaches up with his bleeding hand and squashes both its back hoofies together, and then slowly bends them back past its tail and poopie place until he folds them flat against its back the wrong way. Your baby’s eyes bug out at first, and it beats its little front hoofies against Papa’s grip and screams piteously, and then just thrashes its head and legs and gibbers as its legs and hips make tiny popping noises.
“Babee scawed! Muuu-aaah! Aaaahhh! Eeeeaaaaa-auuuuuhhh! EEEEE! EEEEE!” it squeals. Papa drops it, and it seems like it tumbles slowly in front of you and makes a tiny ‘bonk’
noise when it hits. The room goes still as both you and Papa watch it drag itself forward on its front hoofies while its ruined back hoofies twitch and flop around like strings. You can see little lumps moving around under its fluff around its hips. It hoots and squeals, making unearthly sounds with little words mixed in between.
“HU! HU! HU! BAB-BUH! BUH! HA-ha-ha- OWWIES! EEEEP! PWEASSS! PWEEAHH!” it cries as it makes crazy jerking and swaying motions like grassies in a stiff wind. It’s little eyes look like they are going to pop out of its head. It’s mouth opens and closes like it is nursing.
Your mind goes black and red again, and you leap forward snarling and bring your good hoofie down on your baby’s head as hard as you can. When you pull your hoof away, you can see that you have smashed one of your baby’s eyes and that it looks flat and funny and ringed with blood the way yours probably does. You ignore the pain from your damaged hoofie and lean on it, freeing your good one to hit and stomp your baby as hard as you can. You find yourself screaming words you didn’t mean to say.
“Wibby wan’ pway! Wibby wan’ pway! Wibby kiww you!”
You are interrupted by a rush of air, followed by an incredible impact. The world around you warps and shudders like thunder, and you feel something burst in your tummy, and then all the air and thoughts and words are knocked out of your body when you slam into the wall. You fall through the air wiggling your hoofies back and forth and smash into the wooden floor. It is only then that you understand that your Papa has kicked you harder than you ever thought possible. You look up at him through the flashing and sparking of your good eye’s sight and giggle, but instead of the happy sound of you laughing you hear a distant burping noise and a gout of blood sprays out of your mouth and nosie instead. Your Papa is screaming, but all you can hear is a crying, whining noise. You see his giant foot rise up above you until you can see the funny marks on the underside, then it falls down towards you faster than anything you can imagine. You feel your whole body get squeezed, then a ripping, tearing feeling from your poopie place, then a tremendous gushy, empty feeling followed by a wave of cold all in a split second. The last thing you are aware of is your Papa’s foot, rising up into the air again as your vision goes smeary and dark.
Postscript: So, while I was editing this story up from its Booru version, I decided a few things: One, I don’t think I did a good enough job showing Papa’s change into a no-fun kind of barely-functional drunk. The scenarios from my former job that inspired this story were chronic. OTOH, I see I was pitching the fluffy not understanding time like we do. So maybe it would have seemed like a series of escalating, unexplained incidents to Libby.
Second, I had to cut out a lot of stuff from Libby’s POV where she thought about things like a human writer with a vocabulary. Libby doesn’t think in flowery metaphors or have my bad habits of wordiness and explaining things twice.
Third, most posters on Fluffycommunity seem more sympathetic to Libby’s situation and (rightfully) critical of Papa. I was going for hardcore sadbox, but I didn’t necessarily want to have Papa be an over-the-top Nosferatu or play with my audience’s emotions for the hell of it. I think maybe in retrospect I got too close to both. I also might just be remembering a few edgy-type Booru posters - there’s no way to go back and see. Anyway, I hope you liked it and I’m open to any and all criticism. I will get around to editing up my next story sometime soon.