You are a fluffy and you are trapped in a sorry box, trying to remember how you got here.
Everything is fuzzy in your thinky-place. Your thinky-place has the biggest hurties. It tries to show you old thinky pictures and all you can do is let it drag you back…
You are a bestest babbeh. Your mummah tells you so all the time. You don’t know what that means and you can’t ask because all you can manage are chirps and peeps. You don’t know what you look like because your see-places haven’t opened yet but your mummah sings to you every day about how pretty and smart and good you are. You have brothers and sisters. You can feel them against you when you go to sleep, snuggled into your mummah’s fluff. When you wake up, they’re not there anymore. You can still hear them. Their distant chirps beg for warmth and love. Mummah tells you not to listen because they’re poopie fluffies who would steal your warmsies and miwkies and that makes them bad babbehs.
Mummah says you shouldn’t listen to bad babbehs, but the bad babbehs can’t be quiet. They don’t stop chirping while you’re trying to sleep or drinking mummah’s delicious miwkies. Sometimes you feel angry, like you want to give them foweba sweepies because they can’t be quiet or because you know they want to steal your miwkies and warmsies. Mummah coos and tells you not to worry about bad babbehs because mummah will make them go foweba sweepies just for you, her bestest babbeh. Only bestest babbeh matters. She must be right because it isn’t long before the bad babbehs go quiet. Finally, you can have peace.
Your days are a blur of laying at mummah’s teat and drinking all the warm, creamy miwkies she has to give until your little tummy is bloated and you can’t drink any more. The bad babbehs are gone and you have mummah all to yourself. All her warm fluff and all her miwkies. She coos and sings to you about how you’re her bestest babbeh and you know it’s true. Such is your life until your see-places finally open.
Your eyes are a brilliant emerald green. “Peep! Peep! M-mummah?” Finally, you can see her for the first time. She’s so pretty! She has blue fluff and a red mane and tail. Wait. Something is wrong with mummah. She doesn’t speak to you. She doesn’t tell you how proud she is that your see-places have opened. Her eyes are blank and empty and they stare off in different directions. Her mouth hangs open and a thin line of drool spills onto her chest fluff. She doesn’t say anything at all, at first. When she does, her voice isn’t like what you remember hearing before your see-places opened. She stammers and stutters. “B-b-babbehs… huuu… b-b-babbehs… huuu.”
You’re so focused on your mummah that you don’t notice the shadow that falls over you until you feel something wrap around your middle, hoisting you away from mummah. Naturally, you cry out and kick your little weggies, separation anxiety terrifying you. “Mummah?! Daddeh?!” Your first words spill out along with a torrent of terrified chirps, peeps, scaredy poopies and peepees.
“Derped and dead,” the human stallion holding you tells you in a deadpan voice.
“Nyu daddeh?” You chirp, wiggling your weggies.
“We’ll see.”