Equipped with a small, wooden hairbrush, you gently stroke it through her fur. The brush slides through with a little effort, untangling the thick, yellow fur. It glides out of the coat and is repeatedly drawn through again and again.
You watch this action for a while, stuck in a brushing trance. Enchanted by the frivolous item, you focus on the fine strands that shine in the sun. Braixen, on the other hand holds a look of annoyance as you slowly brush her fur. When not bearing a bored expression, she winces from each pull through her hide. Reluctant to complain to her trainer, she tries to hold her position and tough it out.
One long hour later, Braixen’s skirt was thoroughly brushed and cleaned. Soft, soft is all that could describe Braixen at the moment. Well, metaphorically that is. You could describe her with dozens of adjectives. Beautiful, graceful and innocent, just to name a few. You back away from the dress, putting her entire body into view.
“All done,” you say to no one in particular. You stand there in place examining her form strong legs, feminine skirt, delicate hands, all of her you adored. And best of all, the cutest face in the world which was marveling her groomed attire. You find yourself compelled by a powerful urge. You stare blankly at Braixen, who seems more than concerned for your well-being. Still, she stands in place, her face contorting to a look of worry.
Around four feet in front of you, Braixen barks in your direction. Oh yes, her wonderful voice kick starting your urge again. Your urge, it consumes you, it embodies you. Her cries, her beautiful lively cries; you can’t wait to hear what her scared screams sound like.
You look at the environment around you. Grass in every direction with no sign of foreign life: perfect. You could do the act on the soft ground. Oh god, the urge is calling for you. You get down and start frantically searching around in your bag. Great ball…no…max repel…no…urgh, where could it possibly—. There we go; you pull out a large plastic bag full of pokefood. You take the food and pour it back in your bottomless bag of tricks. The plastic bag held in your hand…it would have to do, considering the scarce resources you had at the moment.
Oh, what you were about to do, the lingering voice in your head telling you it’s an act disturbingly cruel. So cruel to the poor, clueless Braixen standing just an arm’s reach away. Should you really be doing this? It would be a disgrace to pokemon as a species, plus it would be terribly illegal too. But that doesn’t matter, none of it matters, the only thing that does matter is to get control of the Braixen in front of you.
You leap forward to catch her, but instead grasp on empty air. Braixen, witnessing what was happening, started to run away, but was held back by her small wrist. You have her now. Ready to put things into motion, you pull her close to your body. With a Cheshire smile on your face, Braixen cowers in fear. Her body squirms against yours in your gruesome bear hug. You pull her to the front of your body, putting you face to face with the frightened fox. Nothing could stop you now.
You shape the plastic bag into a tube…and pull it over Braixen’s muzzle. You hold the bag tight over her mouth, with your other hand on the back of her head. Braixen struggles fruitlessly to escape your hold. She paws at the bag with furry fingers, attempting to pry it off her face. You squeeze tighter on her, eliciting muffled screams from the poor pokemon.
Poor pokemon, ha, that’s an understatement. Braixen was in tears, now sputtering out broken sobs. Braixen’s small yelps became quieter. Still crying and sobbing, Braixen attempts to hug you, despite what you’re doing to her. Looking up at you is a pair of big, red, glossy eyes. You stare into them, with them asking you one simple word, ”Why?” For a second, you wonder if you should stop, but then decide that you need to continue.
“Master, Master loves me. I remember hatching as an egg and him hugging me, holding me, loving me. He trained me, and every time I won a battle I would run up to him and he would snuggle me in his arms. He fed me, he kept me alive. He evolved me, then he started to even kiss me. Why? Why did you kiss me and then do…this? I thought that you loved me. Because I love you! I love you, Master. I…love…you.”
Braixen’s last breath, or attempt at one, finally came, and the mystical fox is dead. Someone so innocent, so pure, did not deserve to die. She had a beautiful life. She fought in battles for you, netting you two gym badges, an impressive feat for just one pokemon. You shared meals with her, exchanging various poffins and people food across the table. You put her to bed and tucked her in at night. You always kept her out of her pokeball and walked by her side. Your bond with Braixen was fulfilling and pure.
And all of that made her torture that much sweeter. Her death by suffocation, God, it brought you a rush. Confusion, desperation, hopelessness, betrayal, sadness, and love, all of Braixen’s emotions pleasured you. Thinking about your pokemon suffering, that enlightened you. If she was alive, she would be so traumatized she would want to die. That thought brought you to the moon; you were enthralled by the act, wishing you could do it again. Because in this story, you adore the murder of your dearest friend.
You threw everything you had for her away and could care less about her feelings. You are a killer in a murder story. Oh? Earlier you thought that he was actually gonna r—oh, no, no, no, obviously you were planning to murder her because of what you were thinking at the time. What you previously thought would be sexy, not tragic and dark. And you’re the perverted one for thinking otherwise. Now where was I?
The dead pokemon falls into your arms. Her cold dead eyes still stare fearfully at you. You swipe the hand gripped around her maw over the white orbs, shutting them forever. With her arms still held out to hug you, you lift her up and return the hug. Her body still feels warm, probably because of her fire-typing. Your hug has changed to one of affection, with you softly caressing her corpse in your grip.
You take the plastic bag off her face and throw it aside. Looking at the soft, undisturbed grass, you lay down the fragile body of your former best friend. She is positioned in a way similar to one who was sleeping the side, slightly curling herself into a ball. You stare at what might as well be the sleeping pokemon. You store this graceful yet tragic scene into your memory. Then you lie down behind the bipedal fox and spoon her. You gently peck her on the cheek and whisper into her dead ear, “I love you.”
You are one sick mother******.