Bitter: Afternoon

It occurs to me on the way there that I can count on one hand the number of people that know where the body is.  Besides me, I mean.  Most of them are lawyers.

It's getting cooler out.  People with pets are walking them, and that includes fluffy ponies.

“New fwiend!”  they say to anyone passing by.  They think every human is their new friend.  That assumption is at the very core of why I cannot stand them.  They have that thing I never got to have.

It's only about a ten minute walk to the park.  After navigating the more public part, I get on the path that leads back into the only woods of note in this godforsaken desert, straddling the banks of the river.  Sure enough, I find some fluffy ponies, asleep to avoid the worst part of the heat.  One of them is awake, a teal unicorn with a black mane that approaches me, cheeks puffed.

“Dis fwuffy pwace!” he says.

I'd say I did not have a normal relationship with my mom, but that would be an understatement.  I spent most of my childhood as leverage, a bargaining chip to be used against my mother's sister – Sarah and Lucy's mom – for money.  In theory, this money was to be used for my benefit, to buy me clothes and things.  In practice, it was used by my mother to attract a series of men that she would try to blackmail.  I tended to do all the housework while she schemed; by age twelve, I was noticeably more fit than any other girl at school.  I wiled away my days as a maid for a con woman.

“Dis fwuffy pwace, go 'way!  Gif owwies!”

They always say the same fucking things.  Once I noticed it, I couldn't help but notice it, over and over and over.  I don't say a word to him, I just line up my swing.

“Gif owwies!  Dumb hooman go w--”

There's a particular way you can hit a fluffy pony with a shovel that causes their heads to detach.  This one's head tumbles quietly through the air before striking a tree trunk and falling down.

“Fw-fw-so-so-wy,” he stammers weakly before dying.

His herd is awake now, murmuring scared words and slowly gathering together in a fearful pile.  Time to turn on the charm – one of the few things I learned from my mother.

“I'm sorry, he was a bad fluffy.  I won't hurt good fluffies.”

“No huwt fwuffy?” a few ask.  I only see three mothers with foals.

“No, I won't hurt ya.”  After finding a good place to sit, I start urging them to come over.  “Come here.  Give me huggies.”

They usually can't resist the clarion call of hugs, but none approach.

“Hooman bad fo' fwuffy,” a couple murmur.

I hate the smartasses.  Fine, I'll grab one and show them.  Let's see...there's a smaller blue pegasus there, it'll do fine.  It cries, of course.

“Nuuu, no huwt fwuffy!  Pwease no huwt, fwuffy goo'!”

Always with the 'I'm a good fluffy' bullshit.  They're confused; I'm hugging it and not hurting it.

“Would a bad human hug a fluffy pony?”

“Hooman fwiend?  Fwiend fo' fwuffies?”

Like fucking clockwork.  Ten minutes later, I've got twenty fluffy ponies gathered around and hugging every part of me they can get their hooves on.  They're still scared of the headless corpse of their smarty friend, mind you, but now they're turning to me for comfort.  One of the foals is in my lap, a bright orange unicorn with a golden mane and tail.  I pick it up.  It can't be more than a week old.

“Pway?” it asks.  I smile down at it, and it smiles back.

Let's see who the mother is.  “You are a bad fluffy, baby.”

“Bad?” the foal repeats, unsure of my tone.  A greenish-gray unicorn suddenly perks up and turns to me.

“Babeh goo'!  Babeh wuv new fwiend!” she chirps.

“No, this baby is a bad fluffy.”

It would have been nice, you know?  To hear those three words.  Fuck, anything positive.  'Nice job cleaning the kitchen, Tiffany.  Way to go.'  'Thanks a lot for not telling your aunt about my lying to her!'

The foal in my hands is getting agitated because its mother is getting agitated.  “Mumma!  Wuv!  Wuv!”

Love?  No, you aren't getting any more of that, kid.  The rest of the herd has stopped playing and hugging, sensing the tension in the air.  Forty pairs of eyes are on me now.

“Mumma!  Wuv!”

“Babeh...babeh no mean be bad?” the mother offers, trying to climb up into my lap.  I knock her off.  “Pwease gif babeh!  Babeh no mean be bad!”

The baby never was bad, but the human is always right, aren't they?  I stand up, and the fluffies scatter a little away from my legs.

“Pwease gif babeh!”

I set the foal on a low branch and grab the shovel.  After digging a hole about a foot deep, I grab the crying little fluffball and drop it in, covering it up while holding the mother back with my foot.  The rest of her herd has no idea what's going on, only cognizant enough to ask if she needs 'huggies'.

“Babeh!  Why gwassies on babeh?” she asks, pawing at my calf.  I let her go, and she waddles over to the pile of dirt.  “Babeh?  Come to mumma!  Mumma no wike dis!”  After a few moments, she starts trying to dig at the soil.  “Hewp babeh!”  Her hooves aren't good enough for digging; soon, she's asking me for help.  “Pwease hewp babeh!  Babeh sowwy!”

“That's what happens to bad fluffies.  They go away.”

Her other foal begins crying for milk, so she stops to feed it, all the while begging the one I just buried alive to come get some milk too.  “Pwease hewp babeh, no wan' babeh go 'way...babeh nee' miwkies!”

“Dig it up, if ya really love your baby.”

“Fwuffy no can!  Fwuffy nee' hewp!”

“If fourteen year old me can bury a dead guy, you can dig up a foal!”

“Fwuffy...fwuffy no suwe...”

I didn't understand then, either.  By now, though, I'm too angry to care what these little bastards are saying.  It's all just a terrified chorus of insincere 'sorry,' with every swing of the shovel I take.  By the time I'm done venting, only the mother and her foal are left, trembling by the grave of her other child.

“Huuuuu, why huwt fwiends, why huwt?  Fwuffy scawed...huuuu...huuuuu...”

“Why would my mom ask her daughter to bury the boyfriend she killed?”

“Fwuffy no kiwwed...fwuffy no suwe, pwease no huwt, huuuhuuuuu...why huwt fwuffy fwiends...”

The answer to both of our questions is the same, and it's something I've been struggling with ever since I realized it.  No matter what the state says about my mother's mental illness, no matter what excuse they gave me when I was young, I know the truth.

There is no why.  There was never a fucking why.

I watch the survivors cry for a while.  They never stop begging me not to hurt them, and they never stop asking why.  Good.  Now they understand how I've felt.  The sun is low by the time I realize I've totally lost track.  I walk away from the sobbing mare and her baby; she's still begging me not to hurt her.  It's just a matter of time before starvation or nature does that for me.

I'm hungry.  Maybe I should drop the bloody shovel off and go get some Thai food.