OC Pony Plush Story - Chapter 2

>The next day, you wake up later than usual.
>The dog is scratching at your door and whining, wanting to be let out so he can do his business.
>For a minute or so you just lie there in mindless bliss, enjoying the warmth of your duvet and the singing of the birds outside.
>Then you remember the events of yesterday. Your fear returns, clamping down in your chest like a vice.
>You throw yourself out of bed and get dressed. As you stand up, a wave of nausea hits you, and you briefly feel the urge to vomit.
>Maybe you’re coming down with something? Or... maybe you just stood up too fast.
>Yes, that’s probably it. Nothing to worry about.
>You go downstairs and let the dog out into the back garden. Once he’s done his thing and you’ve led him back inside, you walk around the bottom floor checking all the locks.
>You’re relieved to see they’re all still firmly closed. If one of them had been open, you think you might have had a heart attack.
>With your fears momentarily assuaged, you take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen. The plush hasn’t moved from its place on the table. You eyed it warily regardless.
>You still had no idea who had sent you it, or why they’d sent it, or how they’d even known about it.
>Another wave of nausea passes through you, and this time you physically grab the table edge to steady yourself before it passes.
“God. I must have caught a bug or something”
>You mutter to yourself, as you check the locks on the kitchen windows and the back door. >Finding them still locked, you turn towards the kettle.
>You decide to forget about the plush for now. You can deal with that later.
“A nice cup of tea will make everything better.”

>Making a cup of tea turned out to be easier said than done.
>For some reason, you just could not hold on to anything this morning. You kept dropping the spoon, and twice you dropped you nearly mug when you tried to pick it up, spilling tea everywhere.
>And when you went to the fridge to get the milk, the sight of a packet of bacon the bottom shelf made you sick to your stomach.
>But you finally managed it, and shaking your head at your own incompetence you went to the living room to sit down and enjoy it.
“This day, I swear to God. Can it get any worse?”
>Evidently it could. Before you could even sit down there was a knock at the door.
>You feel afraid again, remembering yesterday, but you glance over to the corner of the room, where the dog is snoring heavily.
>Based on his lack of reaction, you decide it’s probably nothing to worry about. You (carefully) put your mug down and answer the door.
>It’s the postman again. He has another parcel for you.
>This time you just take it off him, thank him quietly and shut the door. No time for chit-chat.
>You take it into the kitchen, slide it onto the table (pushing the suspicious plush aside in the process) and cut the tape.
>Inside the box was a jumble of metal cogs, screws and springs, of various types and colours. On top was a small paper booklet, with a screwdriver taped to it.
”Okay, what the hell is this? Who’s sending me these?!”
>You mentally scroll through a list of your friends, wondering just which one had the know-how to pull something like this off.
>Without even realising it, you’d already freed the screwdriver and picked it up. You slowly   looked down at it, then to the box of parts.
>Not quite sure what you were doing or even why, you sat down and got to work.

>Many hours have passed.
>Under your stiffening fingers (stiffening with effort, your mind explained away) bits and pieces were slotted, fitted and screwed together.
>You also kept getting horrible cramps in your arms and legs. Perhaps from lying or leaning on them awkwardly.
>You hadn’t eaten all day, and hadn’t drunk anything since your first cup of tea either.
>You felt nauseous, dizzy and sick to your stomach. But you didn’t care, it was nearly finished!
>Whatever ‘it’ was, you still didn’t know. But you just just knew, somehow, that it would be wonderful once it was built!
>Finally, the last cog is in place, and you screw on the thin, copper shell. You’ve built... a tiny metallic chicken.
>With glee you wind it up and release it. It hops around the table loudly, each hop giving it the appearance of pecking at the ground.
>You felt giddy with elation, your illness momentarily forgotten.
“Ah-hahaha! Success!”
>The dog doesn’t share in your happiness. He’s just sleeping in the middle of the floor again.

>Before you can celebrate any further, there’s a series of loud raps on the front door.
“Just a minute!”
>You call, rising to your feet. As you walk out the kitchen, you can’t help but notice how tanned you were. Your arms were positively orange!
>You quickly rationalise it away though. You’d been sitting in direct sunlight all day, what else did you expect to happen?
“Hello, can I help y-”
>Before you can even get a look at your visitor they kick the opening door in hard, the edge of it bashing into your face and sending you sprawling.
>Leaving you no time to recover, your assailant launches themselves at you, pushing your arms behind your back and slamming your head into the wall.
“Oh god, get off!”
You plead. The nausea from before had returned in full force, allying itself with the pain of your assault and leaving you too weak to fight back. All you could do was struggle helplessly.]
“Please, mate, you can take whatever you want! Just don’t hurt me!”
>They don’t respond. You can only watch from the corner of your eye as they jam a syringe into your neck.
>As darkness steals your thoughts away, the last thing you hear is your dog, howling in grief.
“Mother... fucker...”