Tiny Lives (Part 8) by emo_trash

Part 7

You pull your hat a little further down over your ears, shivering a bit in the late Autumn air. Winter is just days away, and it gets to be pretty harsh here up north. You slide your screen door shut behind you, booted feet happily crunching leaves as you trod to the shed in your backyard.

You slide open the door, and the warm air hits your face. Immediately, a fat yellow unicorn mare trots over to you, her hooves cushioned by the blanket you’ve laid down on the floor for her. “Hewwo nice wady,” she greets. “Haf wots ob nummies fo mummah an babbehs?” Her bestest baby follows closely beind her, pressing itself close to her chest and watching its brothers and sisters play.

You’ve been feeding the mare for about a month and a half, and her foals have long since weaned. You wanted to get rid of them immediately, but then the mare would fall depressed and the quality of Ellie’s milk would have decreased significantly. Instead, while you continued the unicorn mummah’s delicious and nutritious diet, her foals got a few small scoops of the cheapest kibble you could find at FluffMart; you’d picked the stuff up for Dummy, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t live long enough to finish it.

Finally, though, Ellie has gotten big enough to start eating solid food. You smile down at the expectant mother, who cranes her neck just to look up at you. “No, mummah,” you tell her, a slow smile beginning to creep up onto your face. “I don’t have any nummies for you. In fact, I will never give you or your babies nummies again!”

They all gasp.

“Bu’ nice wady!” one of the foals chirps. “Fwuffy haf tummy-owwies!”

“Wub nice wady!” peeps another. “Pwease gib nummies!”

“I’m sorry, mummah, but I don’t need your milkies anymore. My little baby doesn’t need it anymore. And that means that I don’t need you anymore! Do you remember what I told you when I agreed to let you stay here?”

Instantly, the mare shits on the blanket. Her terrified eyes dart up to yours. “Bu’ am gud mummah! Make yummeh miwkies fo Nice Wady’s babbeh! Mummah did du evewyfing Nice Wady say! Pwease, nu gib fowebah sweepies tu Mummah an babbehs!”

Smiling wickedly, you slowly stalk toward the mare. She squeaks in fear, and then quickly herds three of her four offspring together, predictably leaving the brown “poopie-babbeh” out in the open, where it covers its eyes with its hooves, hu-huuing softly.

“But mummah, you agreed to this! I told you that I would let you sleep in my nice warm shed so you could give me milk for my beautiful baby, and I told you that when she didn’t need your milk anymore, I would give all of you forever sleepies! And you agreed!”

Crying, mummah shakes her head. “Nu wan deaw anymowe! Fwuffy takesies-backsies!”

Snorting a bit on a laugh, you flick her nose. “No takesies-backsies!” you trill. “Now, which one of you should I start with?” You take a few moments to examine your options. You’ll deal with the “poopie-babbeh” later; for now, you focus on the three foals that the mare is actually trying to protect.

Deciding against starting with the bestest baby, you snatch up the hot-pink foal, holding it aloft by its purple mane. Crying out, the mare reaches for it, but you dangle it just out of her reach, holding the crying, squeaking foal almost within her reach, just to yank it away at the last second. “Pwease, Nice Wady,” she begs. “Nu huwt dat fwuffy! He wook jus wike Speshaw Fwend!”

As you transfer the foal to sit in your too-tight grip, you shake a lot of long-ish purple hair from your fingers. You glance down to the colt in your hand, whose mane is now patchy and uneven, large chunks missing completely. “Pwease nu huwt!” he whimpers at you, struggling to speak within your vice grip. “Am onwy widdwe babbeh!”

“I hate to break it to you, kid,” you inform him, “but you’re not that little.” The litter is older than your fluffies by probably around two or three weeks, judging by their size. This fluffy, while still young and not fully grown, is at least two months old.

You wrap your fingers around his throat. He is about the size of a guinea pig, so he’s not that hard to hold. You tighten and tighten and tighten your grip, and the pink colt lets out a few choked gurgling sounds, his soft hooves squishing and sliding weakly against you. At your feet, the yellow mare is screaming and crying, begging for you to stop; her bestest baby is climbing frantically onto his mummah’s back, so terrified and desperate that he’s reverted back to chirpy-baby behavior. He’s far too big for that, however, and the mare cries out in pain with every hair-pull, kick, punch, bite, etc. that her baby rains down on her in his desperate attempt at safety.

“Bestest babbeh, yu gibin Mummah huwties! Yu am tuu big fo be on mummah back!”

Hu-huu, Meanie Wady am tuu scawy!” the smaller yellow unicorn responds, and promptly shits on his mother’s back. As he clambers for a better grip, his hooves repeatedly slam into her head and body; quickly, her nose starts to bleed.

Turning your attention back to the fluffy that you are currently choking to death, you tighten your grip, directing the pressure up more toward the fluffy’s head, squeezing up and tighter and tighter and up until finally—!

With a splash of blood and a wet, audible pop, both eyeballs pop out of his head.

They hang from the attached stalks, dangling around his cheeks. They swing wildly with every shriek, repeatedly smacking into his face. Below you, the mare vomits, nearly splashing the foul substance onto your shoes.

Grabbing the eye stalks in a gloved hand, you experimentally attempt to lift the foal up by them. You don’t manage to get him fully aloft, but you are able to put a surprising amount of pressure on them before they snap audibly in your hand.

Dropping the foal to the floor and stomping harshly on his tiny head, you wipe some blood from your hands off onto your pants and survey the area for your next victim.

Abstaining again from the bestest baby, you pluck up the dark green pegasus filly with a yellow mane, who was scratching desperately at the door behind you, struggling to escape. As you pluck her up into the air, you can feel her tiny wings fluttering uselessly against your palm, her bloody, scraped hoofsies sliding wetly against your skin.

Holding her on her back with her head in one hand and her butt in the other, you slowly bring your hands together. At first, the little girl just begins to curl up—initially, this is practically a comfortable position. Quickly, though, as you continue to bring your hands closer, her spine hits a point at which it can’t bend anymore. She tries to speak, but by now her chest is pressed too hard against her stomach for her to get enough air in to do so with, but she does manage to let out those short, chirpy-screams that you love oh-so-much.

With a loud snap and a huge release in resistance, the filly’s spine snaps clean in half, and her chin slams into her ass. You dispose of this fluffy the same way as the first.

Next, you turn your attention on mummah. “Look at what you did to your babies!” you say, faux-sadness ringing through. “You are a bad-mummah! Half of your babies are dead! Why didn’t you protect them? What kind of mother are you?”

Her bestest baby is still flailing about on her back, clobbering her mercilessly. They are both sobbing, struggling against each other. You swat the bestest baby off her back, and he goes flying into the wall behind him. He lies on the ground beneath, chirping in fear and distress, but not too much pain, considering the short distance.

You grab mummah roughly by the back of the neck, and she starts screeching, “Nu huwt mummah!! Wastest babbeh nee’ mummah! Pwease, nu mowe!”

Ignoring her pleas, you slide the first foal’s eyeballs onto the floor beneath her nose, and force her head down against them. “Eat it,” you growl to her. When she refuses, you slam her head quickly into the ground, blood spurting from both nostrils, and then try again. When she still refuses, you try a new tactic. “If you eat every bite, I might let one of your babies live!” you tell her.

This halts her sobs for a moment. “Meanie wady wiww sabe babbeh if mummah num odda babbeh see-pwaces?” When you nod to confirm this, she takes a long, hard look at her bestest baby, who is still crying and crumpled against the wall about half a foot away.

Finally, sobbing miserably as she does so, the mare manages to choke down both eyeballs. When she’s done, she runs over to her bestest baby and picks him up with her mouth by the scruff of his neck, and drops him at your feet. “Wady take babbeh tu housie an gib nummies and huggies nao?”

You avoid answering her question, instead scooping up the chubby yellow unicorn colt. “Nice wady be nyu Mummah?” he peeps at you, and you smile at him. Gently reaching up to stroke his pink mane, you give one reassuring look to his mother before you rip his head off of his body with a sharp twist.

As mummah looks unable to comprehend what just happened, you scoop her up by the tail in one hand and then cross the shed to pluck up the poopie baby with the other.

Exiting the shed, you hold up the poopy fluffy where mummah can see. “This is the fluffy that I’m going to let live. Say bye-bye!”

You don’t wait for her to actually do so—not that she would have if you’d given her the chance—you make sure she’s watching as you chuck the poopie filly over your fence as hard as you can.

In the time you’d spent inside the shed, a light snow had begun, and about an inch covered the ground. Maybe it would help cushion her landing, but most likely not.

Now, all that’s left is mummah. She is sobbing hysterically, rolling around on the snow and flailing her hooves. “Fwuffy am wowst mummah eber! Aww babbehs gu fowebah sweepies e’sept poopie-babbeh! Hu-huu, am wowst mummah! Wan die! Wan die! Wan die!”

You grab the woodcutting axe that you keep leaning against the side of the shed and raise it over your head. Planting a light foot over the fluffy mare’s head to hold her still, you remove her legs and tail with five deliberate strikes.

“SCREEEE! WAN DIE! WAN DIE! MEANIE WADY NEE’ GIB FWUFFY FOWEBAH SWEEPIES! WAN DIE! HUU-HUU, WAN DIE!”

You listen to her suffer for a little while longer before she bleeds out, and then you chuck her corpse over the fence before heading to clean up the garage. Those shitrats made one hell of a fucking mess, and you’re not looking forward to it.

Part 9

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This is great, i love it.

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I love it!

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Good shit. Can’t wait for part 9! I don’t know how much more physical torment Dummy can take before his body breaks at this point. I would recommend engaging in more of that sweet sweet psychological torment and injustice. That way you can prolong his suffering even longer!

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GOOD

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Sweet free foal!

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