The little pink unicorn chirped in pain and surprise as Sarah roughly pulled her out of the can that’d been her home for most of its brief life. The tubes attaching her to the waste storage popped out, drawing agonized cheeping from the creature. A painful start to a new life.
She wanted to start with her project now, but she knew it would have to wait until the foal was bigger, able to run and talk. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to get the foal attached to her first, after all. So for now, she gently cupped her in her hand as she fed her sweet formula.
The foal, used to the bitter, watered-down formula she’d received in her can for so long, desperately guzzled down the rich, sweet ambrosia. She was lucky that she was still so young; if Sarah had purchased her immediately before she opened her eyes she would have suffered many more long-term effects from the nutrient-deficient bottom-shelf formula in its can.
Sarah hummed to the foal. While singing would have been better for strengthening their bond, she wasn’t willing to put in quite that much effort for now. Maybe if the foal turned out to be…acceptable, then she’d be willing to actually care a bit. Until then, however, she was putting in the bare minimum to keep this foal alive, relatively healthy, and dependent on her. All according to plan.
The foal’s nubs tried to reach out to hug the unseen bottle, and in spite of herself Sarah felt a tiny bit of affection for the foal. She quickly crushed this emotion, however, reminding herself of the boneyard behind her apartment. Best not to get attached to a potential failure.
The foal finally pulled away from the bottle, her little belly healthily rotund. She had probably never experienced being full before, since the bitterness of the can formula likely caused her to only consume as little as possible. Now, however, she had gotten a taste of what was considerably closer to the milkies she’d always subconsciously desired.
As Sarah held her, the foal released a little waste onto her palm. Calmly, the set the foal aside and washed her hands, the sound of water causing the foal to once again begin chirping in panic. Well, given that canned foals were effectively blasted with water to clean them as quickly as possible while on the conveyor to be canned, the foal probably associated the sound of water with cold and pain. That might have to be resolved at a later date.
For now, it was important to make sure the foal was happy, healthy, and enamored with her.
…
“Peep! Chirp! Cheep!” the foal chattered happily as Sarah played with her. Her eyes were open now, so it was only a matter of time before she was able to speak. Before Sarah could put it to the use for which she’d purchased her.
The foal dashed around as fast as her underdeveloped legs could carry it, an expression of pure joy on its face. Long forgotten were the days of sitting, alone and frightened, in a can unable to move. Now, she was experiencing the joy of life for which fluffies had been created. And it was wonderful.
Quickly, however, the foal’s energy faded, and she drifted to sleep, cradled in Sarah’s hands. In her sleep, she still dreamed of the joyful life of running and playing, and enjoying her new, blissful life. As she was gently carried to her nest, she awoke briefly, thinking to herself that she hoped these happy days never ended.
…
“Babbeh wubs mummah!” Sarah was greeted by the cheerful words of the foal as she entered the saferoom again. She wasn’t surprised, per se, by the foal’s ability to speak, but the clearness of the words and the lack of a gap between them suggested that the foal had reached that developmental milestone while she was away. That was unfortunate, but shouldn’t have a measurable impact in the long run.
“I love you too, babbeh,” she said, voice filled with artificial brightness and a synthetic smile plastered on her face. This behavior had been endearing, at first, but after this many attempts she was numbed to it. However, it was vital that the foal believed that she genuinely loved her.
“Babbeh am tawkie babbeh nao!” the foal said, joyfully.
“You are!” Sarah affirmed. “That means its time for you to have a name!”
“Namesies! Babbeh wan namesies!”
“Alright! Since you’re such a pretty pink babbeh, I’ll call you Blossom!”
“Bwossom wub nyu namesies!”
Sarah’s expression darkened. “Oh,” she said, looking around the saferoom. “Blossom, I’m afraid you’ve been a bad babbeh.”
“Bwossom am sowwy! Nyu mean tu be bad!”
“Sorry for what?”
“Bwossom nu nyo wut Bwossom du, but Bwossom am sowwy! Nu wan mummah hab heawt-huwties!”
“Tell me what you did, Blossom!”
Blossom began to tremble, tears matting the fluff around her eyes. She didn’t know what she’d done, why mummah was so angry! “Huhuhu! Bwossom am bad babbeh! Gib mummah heawt-owwies!” she sobbed. “Pwease, mummah, nu stop wub Bwossom.”
Sarah’s voice grew menacing. “What. Did. You. Do? If you can’t even tell me what you did wrong, I know you think you didn’t do anything wrong! Tell me what you did!”
“Nu nyu! Bwossom am sowwy! Am wowstest babbeh ebah!”
“Fine, since you don’t care what you did, that means I have to punish you. I didn’t want to have to do this, but you had to be such a bad fluffy. That’s three hits from the sorry-stick.”
Blossom fell into a fit of terror and despair. She’d never had to suffer that punishment before, but she knew it was only for very bad fluffies. She sobbed, rolling around, trying desperately to think what she’d done, but nothing came to mind. Which meant…that she was such a bad fluffy! Bad fluffies never knew when they did bad things! That’s what the mummahs on FluffTV said!
Sarah returned, holding a heavily-padded and relatively thin stick. Even to a foal, the impact from it would be laughably weak unless she put some serious effort into it. That wasn’t the point right now, thought. Right now it was about sowing the seeds for the future.
“Pwease, mummah! Bwossom am su sowwy! Pwease nu sowwy-stick!”
“But Blossom, if you don’t get the sorry-stick you won’t be able to be a good fluffy! Do you want to be a bad fluffy?”
“Nuhuhuhu! Nu wan be bad fwuffy! Wan be gud!”
“Then I have to do this. Hold still.”
Blossom froze, bracing herself. Truth be told, the impact didn’t hurt, and she felt so much better about herself afterwards. Bwossom am gud fwuffy 'gain! she thought, once the three “strikes” were delivered.
“Now, Blossom, if you keep being bad the punishments will be worse, do you understand?”
“Bwossom undastan’! Nu wiww be bad nu mowe!”
“Good. Now, do you want to watch FluffTV or play this afternoon?”
…
Blossom awoke with a sob. She always woke up sick with fear, worry, and self-loathing. She knew what was going to happen, and as she did every morning to tried, tried so hard, to think of what she’d done. Think of a reason why her mummah had to punish her every day. She didn’t want to be bad anymore!
Secretly, under her hatred for herself, she was wondering. Wondering what the punishment would be today. The sorry-box, with no toysies and no light so it was so dark and so, so scary? She hoped not, that was the worst! Maybe…maybe no sketties today? That was a bad option too, but better than the sorry-box. Hopefully, it’d be the sorry-stick, which didn’t hurt and wasn’t scary.
“Good morning, Blossom! Have you been a good fluffy?”
“Bwossom am gud fwuffy fow mummah!”
Mummah looked around the room, and the expression that Blossom had come to dread came across her face. Not anger, but sadness and disappointment. Whatever it was that Blossom had been unknowingly doing wrong, she’d done it again!
“Bwossom am sowwy!” she cried out, preempting the normal question from mummah.
“What did you do wrong, Blossom?”
“Nuuuuuuu! Bwossom am su sowwy! Nu nyo wut du! Am su sowwy! Pwease, mummah, Bwossom nu wan be bad fwuffy!”
“Blossom,” mummah said, her tone serious and frightening. “I’ve tried to be lenient with you. I’ve given you so many chances to be a good fluffy, but you always do this! I know you aren’t sorry, so why do you lie to me? I’m sorry, Blossom, but this time I’m afraid I’m going to have to be harsher.”
Blossom merely trembled and nodded. This was her fault, after all. Mummah was trying so hard to make her a good fluffy, but no matter what she was always bad! She hiccuped and sobbed, mostly from fear but partially from how much she hated herself.
“From now on, no more sketties, and no more tasty chow. You’re going to get kibble until you can be a good fluffy.”
Blossom suppressed a shriek of horror. She’d had kibble once, when she was an extra bad fluffy, and it was the bitterest, hardest, driest food she could imagine. She’d barely managed to eat it! But she didn’t dare protest. This was all her fault!
“And, since you’ve been especially bad today, you’re getting another punishment as well…” mummah paused, and Blossom waited, sickened with dread. “You’re getting the sorry-stick today.”
Blossom relaxed a bit. No sorry-box! She was still horribly sad about losing her sketties and her tasty chow, but at least there wasn’t going to be the sorry-box! Only the gentle, not-hurty sorry-stick.
“Since you’re a big fluffy now, that means no more babbeh-sorry-stick,” mummah said, walking out of the room. Blossom was confused. Sorry-sticks could be babbehs?
Mummah returned, carrying a much bigger sorry stick, one made of a flexible, switch-like material. It was thinner than the other sorry-stick, but much longer. Blossom relaxed more. A thin stick like that would be even weaker than the old sorry-sti-
CRACK!
“SCREEEEEEEE!”
The sorry-stick left a long, red welt along her back, sending searing pain along her entire body. Her legs collapsed, and she fell onto her side. This was so much worse than the sorry-box!
“Stand up.”
She struggled to stand, but the pain was too intense, and she flopped onto her side again.
“Stand up now.”
“Bwossom nu can! Bwossom am sowwy!”
“Fine. That’s your choice, then.”
CRACK!
“SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”
This time it ran across her belly, and it was somehow even worse! How was she going to stand the third lash? How could anything be this painful?
CRACK!
“Urk!”
The pain was so intense she couldn’t even scream as the breath rushed out of her body. She writhed, feeling her fluff dampen with sticky blood. Why was mummah hurting her so much? 'Cuz Bwossom am bad fwuffy…
“Blossom,” mummah said, picking her up and cradling her, heedless of the blood staining her shirt and skin. “I don’t want to have to do this. Please, Blossom, be a good fluffy!”
…
Blossom shivered in the cold, dark sorry-box. Her legs shook with exhaustion, barely able to support her anymore, but she couldn’t lay down. Frigid water came up to her shoulder, and if she laid down she knew she would drown. Bwossom am bad fwuffy. Bwossom make mummah cwy. Bwossom am bad fwuffy, she thought, her voice a mantra of self-hatred.
Over the past few weeks, her life had become hell on earth. The welts, long-healed, served only as a reminder of her mummah’s mercy. Instead mummah used what she called a “zappy-stick,” which somehow hurt even more but didn’t make Blossom bleed. Scarce comfort that was, though, when she spent every night in the cold darkness, and spent the days which had once been times of joy and play sleeping to try to recover, wracked with nightmares.
The she heard it: a distant chiming. It was morning! Mummah would take her out of the sorry-box now! She could sleep and be warm, just for a while! Maybe if she slept she would be able to see what she was doing wrong, why she was a bad fluffy!
"Blossom?" mummahs voice came into the box.
“Ye,’ mummah?”
“What did you do wrong?”
Blossom began quaking, not just from the cold but from the fear as well. Mummah never asked that until she’d slept! She…she couldn’t have been a bad fluffy while in the sorry-box, could she? If she was…then maybe mummah would have to do something even worse to punish her!
“Pwease, mummah! Bwossom nu nyo! Bwossom twy su hawd, but nu can fink of anyfin’! Pwease, nu gib Bwossom mowe huwties!”
She was roughly lifted out of the sorry-box, mummah flinching slightly as the cold water dripped onto her as she carried Blossom to the saferoom. She set the terrified fluffy onto the floor, and sat down in front of her.
“Are you really sorry?”
“Bwossom am sowwy!” Blossom said, knowing that the exchange would happen the same way it always did.
“Then what did you do wrong?”
“BWOSSOM NU NYO!”
“I see. Well, since you aren’t sorry and you keep being such a bad fluffy, I guess it’s time for more punishment. You clearly don’t want to learn to be good, so I don’t think I’ve been harsh enough with you. Stay here.”
Blossom shivered, trying to warm herself, but she didn’t care move to the nest to try to huddle under the blankets. Mummah hadn’t been harsh enough? What more could she do? Why was Blossom such a bad fluffy?
Mummah returned, carrying something Blossom had never seen before. Although she didn’t know it, they appeared to be modified bolt cutters. Made for severing fluffy limbs. But in spite of this lack of knowledge, the sight sent absolute horror gnawing into her chest.
“I’ve tried everything. Sorry-stick, no sketties, no chow, sorry-box, but you still don’t admit to doing anything wrong! I’m sorry, Blossom, but I’m going to have to take your leggies away, and from now on you’ll spend all day in the sorry-box too unless you tell me what you did.”
Blossom realized something. If her leggies were gone, and she went into the sorry-box…she would drown. Absolute terror enveloped her, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. Everything she’d ever done raced through her mind, desperately seeking what it was she’d done, every single day, that made mummah so sad. What could it be?
Then she realized. It was so simple. This had all started when she’d gotten her name! She’d been saying it wrong this whole time! That’s what she’d done wrong! That’s why she was a bad fluffy! She’d taken the name mummah had given her and ruined it every day! No wonder mummah was so sad!
“Bwossom nyo wut Bwossom du! Bwossom am sowwy fow sayin’ namesies wong! Nu mean tu, bu’ nu can sae Bwossom wike mummah du! Pwease, mummah! Bwossom nee’ weggies! Nu wan dwonie-huwties an fowebah-sweepies!”
“So you’re saying that what do did wrong was saying your name wrong?”
“Bwossom am sowwy! Pwease, mummah, gib nyu namesies tu Bwossom su Bwossom nu hab tu gib heawt-owwies nu mowe!”
“Do you think I’m that petty?” mummah growled. “Do you think I care that much about a name? Is that really the only thing you can think of?”
“Bu’ Bwossom nu du nuffin’ wong bu’ dat…”
“You know what? Fine. I’m done trying to get you to understand. I’m going to cut off your legs and drop you in the sorry box to fucking drown, and it’s all your fault.”
“Pwease!” Blossom sobbed. “Jus’ wun mowe chance! Nu gib Bwossom fowebah-sweepies! Bwossom twy tu be gud, but nu can! Bwossom nyo Bwossom am bad fwuffy, nyo Bwossom desewbe fowebah-sweepies, bu’ Bwossom jus’ wan wibe! Bwossom wubs mummah su much, bu’ nu nyo wut du! Bwossom pwomise wiww nebah du anyfin’ bad ebah ‘gain if mummah jus’ teww Bwossom wut Bwossom du!”
“Listen to me,” mummah hissed. “I’ve given you so many chances, but you never learn. You keep saying you’re sorry, but you can’t even begin to tell me what you did wrong! So that’s it. I’m killing you and finding a fluffy that might actually behave!”
Blossom hyperventilated as the blades of the cutter rested around her front left leg, bracing herself for the agony she knew what soon to come. She seethed with hatred for herself. If all she could do was hurt mummah, maybe it was better if she just died. Maybe then mummah wouldn’t have to be so sad.
“Three…two…one…”
Something snapped in Blossom’s head, and she screamed louder than she’d ever managed before. “BWOSSOM NU DU ANYFIN’ WONG! BWOSSOM HATCHU! MUMMAH AM MUNSTAH MUMMAH! ONWY WAN HUWT BWOSSOM! BWOSSOM AM GUD FWUFFY! BWOSSOM HATCHU HATCHU HATCHU HATCHU!”
She didn’t think the terror could’ve gotten worse, but it somehow did. How had she said those things? How could she blame mummah for the wrong things she’d done? Mummah had been so patient, so loving towards her, and she’d just been bad! What would mummah do now? What could be worse than death?
“Do you really think that, Blossom?”
Blossom wanted to take it back, wanted to admit to whatever she’d done wrong, but she couldn’t! “Mummah, Bwossom nu du anyfin’ wong! Nu deswebe huwties, an sowwy-box, an nu sketties, and tu wose weggies, an’ fowebah-sweepies! Bwossom nu nyo wut mummah tink Bwossom du, bu’ Bwossom nu am sowwy!”
“Blossom,” mummah’s voice somehow grew more menacing. “Do you know what you just did?”
“BWOSSOM NU CAWE! BWOSSOM JUS’ WAN WUB! NU WAN BE BAD BU’ NU WAN MUNSTAH MUMMAH EDDA!”
“What you did was called ‘standing up for yourself,’” mummah said, taking the blades away from Blossom’s leg.
“Mummah…nu am angwy?”
“Did you do something I should be angry about?”
“NU!”
“Are you sure?”
“Bwossom am suwe!”
“Good.”
“Wut?” Blossom couldn’t comprehend what was going on.
“About time. Come on,” mummah said, walking towards the door and opening the gate out of the saferoom.
“Whewe goin’?”
“Well, if you haven’t done anything wrong all this time, I think I owe you a lot of sketties.”
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Twisted, lovely, well-done.
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WOW… That was a massive twist, at least for me lol, The idea of getting a Fluffy to stand up for itself like THIS is fucking awesome! wonder if Blossom is finally happy with all those Skettis?
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Nice.
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Self-assertive fluffies can easily become smarties, so I question working to make a fluffy more self-assertive. It seems like a very bad idea.
Maybe some of those buried in the yard became smarties?
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Yes, it’s implied she was going for a fluffy that wasn’t a total sycophant but also wasn’t a smarty, which means the failure rate was going to be very, very high since they tend to be one or the other.
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That went so abuse, it came right back round to being hugbox.
Absolutely masterful
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Threading that needle she’s trying to do is going to result in a lot of dead fluffies and a ton of effort and stress on her part.
In the end, would it be worth it? I’m not so sure. The extraordinarily rare fluffy that finally makes it through the grueling process (and doesn’t become a smarty later) will likely have severe psychological scarring.
The writing was well done though.
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Have to agree. Not to mention that the girl is a sociopath for having to act like a merciless, hypocrite jailer. That, or she’s beating herself up for every bit of suffering she inflicts on those poor bastards whose only sin is being aware of how much weaker they are compared to her, so they cannot avoid being punished for something they are not smart (and pragmatical) enough to realize is bogus.
Still, I liked the writing and the ending, while it does not absolve the girl of her pettiness of wanting the “perfect fluffy”, gave meaning to the story as a whole.
Without it, it would have made me go “ok, fluffy pony died unfairly. Wooo.”
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This was fucking amazing 
(a smartie has been born)
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