your tummy is empty. It hurts worse than anything you’ve ever experienced— given you were born mere minutes ago that really isn’t much of a feat, however. You can’t see anything, your seey places still closed tightly as they continue to develop beneath the thin eyelids. You give a croaking “cheep”— the first sound you’ve ever made— and nearly give yourself a heart attack from the startle of your own noise. Was that you?
It was so loud compared to the soft mumblings you hear around you. Your mummah doesn’t seem very talkative and she smells… sad? Smell? Another scent hits your nostrils before you can contemplate the new olfactory sensations. You don’t know what it is, but it makes your tummy hurt worse and growl angrily. You cheep again, this time a collection spilling out like milkies from a full teet— milkies! That had to be the sweet scent currently assaulting your smelly place. With shaky leggies you crawl towards the temptation, continuing blindly until you reach velvety flesh that bumps against your smelly place gently.
Carnal hunger kicks in and you gum obnoxiously against the skin and you latch onto the pert nipple before you. The first taste of milk has you drooling— nearly purring as you gulp down as much of the ambrosia that you can manage without choking. There’s more muffled noises— closer to you this time… well, perhaps you’re now closer to IT. You deduct with your simple chirpy babbeh brain that this MUST be your mummah. You’re too consumed by gluttony to question her lack of mummah songs and cooing.
You’re unaware that you’re currently suckling from a muted milkbag, screaming in terror around a feeding tube as you nurse from her. Your wing and horn combo has her petrified, not that she could really move otherwise. Your silvery fur does not match her own, neither does the scarce tufts of sherbet mixed mane. In fact, you look nothing like her— she’s not even your mummah!
You’ll wonder why she doesn’t look like you once you open your seey places— you’ll wonder why she won’t sing to you or give you huggies or even leave the walk she’s fixed to.
You’ll wonder why the big mummahs and daddehs treat you well but never let you call them that. You’ll even wonder why this isn’t your home forever and where that home will be.
None of this matters now, though. No, now you’re simply full of milk and happiness. You snuggle up to the velour tit, lulled to sleep by the subtle cries of your mummah.
—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—
Hey I’m not dead.
