Your name is Leaf. You’re called Leaf because your fluff is the same colour as the wet rotten leaves that line floor of your cardboard housie. But today, you’ve found a much better housie, a hooman housie! There’s a little flap in the door, the perfect size for a fluffy, and you can even smell sketties! You follow the smell into a little plastic housie, but somehow the door accidentally closes and the housie turns into a sorry box! You scream for help for forever, and then a nice mister comes to save you from the box. The nyu daddeh doesn’t say anything, just carries you into another room and puts on some funny blue gloves. He sighs, then opens the sorry box! He starts playing a game where he wraps you in a piece of newspaper and holds you down on the counter. “Wub hugs! Wub nyu daddeh!” When the hammer flattens your skull, you die before feeling any pain.
Your name is Fucking Shitrat. This is the name your new mummah gave you when she saved you from the wood and metal monster that gave your leg the wowstest huwties. You didn’t even get to eat the cheese that was sitting on top of the monster before it snapped down on your leg. It hurt when your new mummah twisted the monster off of your broken leg and threw you onto a table, it hurt so much that you made scaredy poopies, but now you wiggle your non-broken legs happily and say “Hewwo nyu mummah! Can Fwucken Thitwat have Nummies?” She makes a funny face, picks up the tiny piece of cheese, and leaves the room.
You worry that she might want the cheese for herself, and think back to the glorious day you found a flat square piece of cheese on the street. The clear cheese on the outside tasted not so good, but the soft orange cheese inside was amazing. Your tiny brain knows that skettis are the best nummies, but cheese is almost as good. When Nyu Mummah comes back, the cheese is covered in something red! Sketti sauce! Mummah puts the cheese in front of you and you quickly eat the whole piece. Then, something feels wrong.
“Buwnie huwties! Mummah! Mouf buwnie!”
Your mummah grins and says, “Burnie hurties? I can help with that.” She grabs you by the broken leg and flips you onto your back, pinning you on the table. She holds up a barbecue lighter and makes more buwnie huwties right on your belly. Your skin bubbles and your fluff scorches, filling the air with the acrid scent of burning plastic.
“SCREEEE! Dis game nu gud fow fwuffeh!”
Your meanie mummah keeps giving your belly buwnie huwties all the way to your neck, then flips you over and the buwnie huwties start on your back. Your fluff catches fire and meanie mummah jerks her hand away, the first and last human contact of your life. In flames, lying prone and immobilized by pain, you weakly tell your mummah:
“Wan die… Wan die… Wan die…”
Your name is Pewfect. Your mummah gave you this name because you were her bestest special baby and she wanted everything to be perfect for you. After the vroom-vroom munstah made all her boo-boo juice go onto the road, she went to sleep forever, but you’re still her favouritest fluffy. You went into a human housie to find food. When a sticky munstah grabs your leg, and you fall over and the sticky munstah grabs your side and wingie, you scream “Mummah! Hewp!” One of your legs is still free, and you try to wiggle away from the munstah making you stick to the floor, but it still holds on.
“Pwease, wet fwuffeh go!”
You kick at the sticky munstah as hard as you can, but now all four of your legs and both your wings are stuck! All of your limbs are splayed out like a starfish with the sticky munstah holding on tight. Luckily, a human comes to help! He picks up both you and the sticky munstah and you cry “Pwease hewp Fwuffeh!”
“Hey, little guy. Sorry about the glue trap, but I’ve had a fluffy problem for a while.”
“Fwuffeh no am pwobwem. Fwuffehs aw fo huggies and wub.”
“Whatever. Look, I hate seeing you guys suffer, so I’m going to get you out of here.”
You’re excited that he’ll get you away from the munstah he calls a gluey-tap! But you’re still attached to the munstah when he puts you in a bag full of twashies, carries you outside, and throws the bag into a big metal sorry box. You make scaredy poopies, and the not-pretty smell in the sorry box gets even worse. The bag is light enough that you can see it’s bright time outside. No one come for help after you shout for a whole bright time, and no one checks on you as you cry through the dark time. You fall asleep for a while and wait up in the bright time, still held by the gluey-tap inside the metal sorry box. You look around in the bag of twashies for anything you can eat and see nothing. You try to think of how long one forever is, and count how many forevers it has been since you ate, but your hooves can’t count that high.
You wiggle in frustration and to your surprise, your front legs seem to move a little bit! The skin is stuck firmly to the gluey-tap, but you’re able to move more than you were yesterday. Straining with effort, You pull as hard as you can! There is a ripping sound as your right forelimb triumphantly lifts away from the gluey-tap, leaving all of your fluff and your skin still stuck to the surface. You open your mouth to scream in pain, but only a wheeze comes out. You try to put your bleeding leg back on the piece of skin attached to the gluey-tap, to put yourself back together, but it doesn’t work. Your right front leg can wave weakly in the bag of twashies, but that doesn’t do anything to help your situation.
As time passes, you hold on to the hope that someone will come to save a fluffy as perfect and beloved as you are. You decide to pass the time by remembering every single happy moment from your entire life. That activity takes less than one minute. You try to sing in your brain but can’t remember all the words to the mummah song. When the bright time becomes dark time, you drift into sleep.
The next bright time arrives. You make poopies and they come out as a thin, painful stream. You are so hungry. Even as an alley rat microfluffy you’ve never been so hungry before. You look around in the bag of twashies for anything you can eat and see one thing. Your bloody right leg, waving uselessly with its skin torn off, is made of meat. Experimentally, you move your limb towards your mouth and bite down. It’s the wostest huwties. But your tummy hurts even more, and you know if you don’t eat you’ll have to go to sleep forever. After tearing the first few strips of flesh from yourself, the red flash of pain that comes with each bite feels less important than the relief you get in your belly. By the time the bright time becomes dark time, you’ve gnawed your own right leg to the bone.
You wake up to your fourth bright time in the big metal sorry box. Four is the highest you can count - it’s the number of hooves you have! Except you realize that now you only have three hooves, and now you aren’t sure if it’s been three days or four in the giant metal sorry box. In any case, you feel refreshed and well-hydrated after your feast yesterday. Though you’re still thoroughly stuck to the gluey-tap, you still hope that your mother might wake up and come to save you like she always did when you need help. As the daylight illuminates your bag of twashies, you look at the stump where your right leg was. To your surprise, there are little white worms wriggling around your shoulder, eating some bits of Pewfect meat that your mouth might have been able to reach!
“Hey! Dat’s fo me, no eat my weggie, meanie wums!”
You try shouting at the white worms, asking politely, pleading, and offering to play games with them, speaking until your voice gives out, but they won’t listen. As your desperate hunger returns, you try to bite the white worms, but they’re moving onto your belly now and you have no way of reaching them.
As the bright time becomes dark time, you feel the need to speak. You mouth the words several times before your dry throat manages to produce a sound, just one final time.
“Wan die.”
