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The adoption center was designed to look bright and pleasant, inside and out. The glass of the individual enclosures gleamed under the daylight bulbs above, and something smelled like chocolate chip cookies. From where you were standing in the doorway, you could just barely see through the inset windows of the doors lining the walls— most of them seemed to contain a plush sofa and plenty of toys, just waiting for a potential adoptee to test them out. A frisson of excitement rippled down your spine and you bounced on your toes.
“Welcome to Bitty Rescue Society!” a cheerful voice sang out from the front desk. “Are you looking for a new friend?”
“Definitely!” you replied. “My roommate had a bitty, but she moved out last month, and now the apartment is just way too quiet.” You approached the desk, almost sheepish, and gave the employee a little smile. It was a lie, of course, but people always wanted to believe the best of other people, you’d found.
“Oh, then you’re in the right place. I’m sure we can find someone amazing for you! Why don’t you take a look at the enclosures and see if anyone catches your eye?” She swept an arm toward the rows and rows of lidless glass squares.
There must have been dozens of the little skeletons, most having noticed your arrival by now. Suddenly, the room was abuzz as the bitties clamored to catch your eye. Some posed and preened, others held out little presents, and still others tumbled around their enclosure in a bid to cause the most ruckus possible. When you got close to each cage, though, the bitty inside got quiet; they all seemed compelled to stare up at you in wonder.
You looked down at the contents of each cage, skimming the labels stuck to the glass. A starry-eyed Blueberry clasped its hands together under its chin and asked, “Mama?”; an especially tiny Cherry tried to hide inside its sweater when you glanced at it; a classic Papyrus bitty brandished a toy sword and tried to look heroic. None of them seemed right, somehow. As you passed cage after cage, you wondered if it had been a mistake coming here.
You’d almost reached the end of the rows, and had already mentally moved on to what you were going to eat for lunch, when your eyes fell on a cage that looked somewhat... dingier than the others. Even the light seemed dimmer in this corner of the room, and the cage’s occupant looked like it was doing its best to sink through the floor.
You lingered off to the side of this slightly dirtier glass enclosure, pretending to study a sleeping Soft Bones, but really keeping your eyes on the bitty in the cage to the left. It was enormous, to start with; most of the bitties here were palm-sized, but this one looked like it would stand knee-high. Male, you noticed, eyeing the slight bulge in its (were your eyes playing tricks on you?) threadbare trousers. Most of him bulged, actually; it looked as though this bitty had never missed a meal in his life, and had probably managed to eat plenty of meals belonging to others, too. What stuck out to you most wasn’t the beaten-up chocolate sampler he listlessly held in his lap, or the lack of any toys in his enclosure, but the leather-and-metal contraption enclosing his lower face. He was muzzled, and seemed to wear a despondent expression underneath. He hadn’t looked at you yet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. You returned to the front desk, setting off a new wave of bitty activity. “Excuse me, what exactly is the deal with that huge one in the corner?”
At your question, the bubbly worker’s bright eyes seemed to dim. “Oh. Him.” She paused. “Yeah, state law says that we have to hold all strays for six weeks. The owner is a big softie and extended that thing’s time twice! It’s kind of dumb, we all know no one wants it, but what can you do?”
“Hold them for what?” you asked.
“Well, sometimes the owner will come in, or a lot of the time somebody takes the stray home, of course. Him, though...” she trailed off, “he’ll finally be put down at the end of the week, to clear the space for another bitty who needs it.” The worker sighed, and attempted to steer the conversation in a more cheerful direction. “Anyway, did you find anyone who could be a match?”
Your mind was made up. “Actually, yes. I’m sorry, you didn’t tell me what breed he is, but I’d like to meet the bitty we just talked about.”
“You... do?” She looked both confused and slightly pleased. “Okay, um, pick an empty room and hang on a minute!”
You heard a scramble of activity behind you as you chose one of the rooms with a couch and closed the door behind you. A moment later, the door opened again, and the large, plump bitty was shoved through. The door closed again, this time with a bang.
You were alone with him. His eyes remained on the floor, and his hands stayed tucked behind his back as he shuffled his bony feet against the floor. It looked like you’d have to break the ice. “Hello...” you said, waving a little. The bitty’s attention snapped to your face, and he inched a little closer.
“...hi...” you barely heard. He scooted another foot closer to where you sat on the sofa, and now you could see that he was holding something behind his back.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” you asked kindly, making sure to keep a friendly tone of voice.
“...don’t have one.”
“Oh, that’s too bad, we’ll have to do something about that!” you said.
Immediately, you felt something bump against your knees, and then something small was pushed onto your lap. You looked down, and the bitty was staring right up at you, having placed his box of candy on top of your legs. “What’s this for?” you asked.
“For you... if you take me home...” His voice was wobbly, and you wondered how many times someone had expressed interest in adopting him. As you were thinking it, big tears began to fall from his eye sockets. “You... take me home?”
Hesitantly, you placed a hand on his smooth, warm skull, careful of the bandage on the left side. You could’ve sworn you saw a blush dust his cheekbones, and heard the beginnings of a purr rattle in his chest. “You know, I think I will,” you said, stroking along the edge of the muzzle. “I think I will.”
“Mama!” The bitty suddenly clambered up into your lap, his not insignificant weight causing you some discomfort as he threw his arms around your neck. “My mama! Mama, mama, mama!”
You smiled to yourself, knowing he couldn’t see your face as you patted his back gently. He smelled as though he’d never seen a bath, which you’d think would be impossible for a being made of bones. You’d need a long shower after this. “Yes, baby. I’m your mama from now on.”
You’d been all but shoved out the door of the adoption center, fee waived and all. You glanced over the paperwork you’d been hastily handed, noting that your new bitty was apparently called a “Pure Bite” and that it was muzzled because of its razor-sharp teeth and tendency to mindlessly snap. It ate meat, you read, and liked to sleep in its owner’s bed. The Pure Bite had been good in the car, not moving around much, except to try to look out of the window.
When you arrived at your house, you helped the bitty down from the passenger seat and clipped the leash you’d been handed to the harness the adoption center worker had put on him. “Are you ready to see your new home?” you asked, sweet as sugar. He nodded so hard you heard the leather of his muzzle creak, and his bony, stubby tail did its best to swish back and forth. You unlocked the front door and led the Pure Bite inside.
He seemed a little overwhelmed by the new space, blinking dazedly at random objects while you removed your shoes. He followed when you tugged on the leash, though, and led him through a door adjacent to the kitchen. Inside was a flight of stairs going down. You flicked on the light, and started to descend. The bitty, still out of it, stumbled down the first step and landed flat on its bottom. You laughed a little as you helped it right itself. “I’d say to be more careful next time, but...” you trailed off as you led him over to the right, out of view of the stairs. If the Pure Bite hadn’t been so busy rubbing at his sore little bony tail, he might have noticed the metal rings set low into the concrete wall. He might have struggled as you replaced his leash with a length of one-inch chain, clipped another chain to his muzzle, and attached both to the wall. “...I guess it doesn’t matter, since you won’t be going back upstairs anytime soon!”
Something in your voice, even more than his current predicament, set the Pure Bite trembling. Ah, there it was; the realization that life was not, in fact, looking up. “Ma... ma...?” When you looked at his face, he seemed to be on the verge of tears again.
“No, not really,” you answered. “Oh, how do I explain this in terms something like you can understand? I take monsters, just like you,” and you punctuated those last three words with gentle boops to his muzzle, “and make sure they can’t hurt anyone anymore. Who knows? If you’re very, very good for me, maybe you will get a real home one day!” This was a lie, of course; there was a reason you “specialized” in bitties no one cared about or wanted.
The Pure Bite didn’t even make it through your little speech before he was crying uncontrollably. It wasn’t a cute sort of crying, either; more like an extended “aaaaaaa” punctuated by tears and snot. How could a skeleton have snot, you idly wondered, as you turned your back to the wall. “Oh, precious. You can cry as much as you want. You’ll only give yourself a headache!” Another nasty little laugh escaped you, the sugar still in your tone but gone completely sour. “I’ll let you settle in down here, and we’ll get started tomorrow.” With that, you walked back up the stairs briskly, flipping off the light behind you. After spending so much time in the nasty thing’s presence, you would have killed for a shower.
You couldn’t see it, of course, but the bitty immediately stopped sobbing, too frozen in fear to even cry. “Pease,” it wailed dumbly, “pease no go ‘way, mama...” as the Pure Bite curled into a trembling little ball on the cold, hard floor.
When you opened the basement door the next morning and turned on the light, the bitty was still curled up and shivering. How cute, you thought, a horror like that afraid of the dark. He’d be slicing children’s faces off if not for the muzzle, and he had the nerve to cry about the lack of light. You’d certainly give him something to cry about today. “Good morning, darling boy!” you chirped, snapping the Pure Bite out of his trance. His expression was dull as he lifted his head and the muzzle chain jingled. “Guess what we’re going to do today?” You waited for a response, but none appeared to be forthcoming. Shrugging, you reached into the little box you’d brought with you and popped a chocolate into your mouth. “Thank you so much for these, by the way. What a lovely present!” you cooed. If it was possible, the Pure Bite’s expression fell even more, becoming the picture of dejection and heartbreak. “Well, I suppose you’ll find out the plan for today soon enough, anyway, so that’s all right,” you finished as you walked over to the wall where he was chained. You undid the clips attaching the chains to the wall, but kept a tight hold on them. As large as the bitty was, it wasn’t all that strong, so you were able to prevent him from thrashing around too much or running away.
He hadn’t noticed it the previous night, of course, but there was a shiny silver table in the opposite corner of the room, with more metal rings lining its sides. It was this table that you pulled him toward now, ignoring his attempt to drag himself away. “Oh, stop,” you said crossly, yanking on the chains. “Even if you got away, that door is locked, and you’re too small to reach the knob. Be a good boy, and let me fix you. You wanted me to be your mama, right? Why would I want to keep a nasty little monster like you?” His struggles let up a bit, and you used the moment to scoop him up (ugh, so heavy!) and plop him on the specially designed surgical table.
The Pure Bite began to struggle again when he felt the cold metal through his thin shirt and trousers, but you were an old pro at this. You had a length of chain between his right radius and ulna in a flash, and then clipped that chain to one of the rings around the table’s edges. You repeated the move on the other side, enjoying the look of confusion as the bitty, dumb animal that he was, realized that escaping the chains would mean breaking his bones, and probably dusting himself. You hummed a little tune under your breath as you pushed up the legs of his pants and threaded chain between first his right tibia and fibula, and then the left. Only then did you reach behind the Pure Bite’s head and undo the muzzle. This seemed to turn back on his powers of speech. “Mama, pease, no no no!” he wailed, wiggling in his bonds to no avail. “Hurts, pease, mama! I be good!”
Well, that was enough of that, you decided as you reached below the table to the instrument shelf. You grabbed a pair of gloves and a couple of pieces of shiny metal, holding them up for the bitty to see one at a time. He seemed confused by the dental gag, but was apparently smart enough to recognize a pair of pliers, as the sight of them sent his cries to a new pitch entirely. “You will be good,” you agreed, “as soon as I finish this up!” The sugar was back in your voice, but the bitty knew by now it just meant poison. Carefully, very carefully, you avoided the knifelike white teeth and slipped the dental gag snugly against the bony back parts of his jaw. Then you removed your hands from danger and began to twist the knob on the side.
The Pure Bite didn’t stop making noise, but the noises certainly got more incoherent as the gag forced his mouth wide open. He tried to toss his head back and forth to dislodge it, but a collar and another three or so chains attached to the surgical table put an end to that. You held up the slim, shining pliers again, and waited for him to pay attention. His expression was one of sheer terror, but his cries subsided and you could tell you had his focus. “These,” you explained, “will help me make you into a good boy.” You opened and closed the pliers briskly a couple times. “Without all those nasty teeth, you can’t hurt anyone anymore!”
You expected the further litany of wailing that followed, but you grew impatient waiting for this round to subside. Instead, you got very close and studied his mouth. You selected a tooth— a nice, sharp canine, close to the front. Almost gently, you fitted the pliers around the tooth, and then clamped down as hard as you could. Distantly, you heard the Pure Bite’s cries of what might have been “no, Mama, pease no!” reach a crescendo.
You pulled.
The tooth came loose, the ecto-flesh around it giving way and sagging in its absence. Blood began to flow from the hole, but not so much that you were worried about him dusting on you. You were almost deaf to the screams he let out, awash in a sadistic haze. You clamped the pliers around another tooth, the same one on the other side, and pulled.
Again.
Pulled.
Again.
Pulled.
At some points during the operation, the bitty sounded like it was choking on the blood running down its throat. You weren’t worried— bitties didn’t need to breathe, they just did on impulse.
Clamp. Pull.
Clamp. Pull.
Sometimes, a tooth broke before it came out, and you had to dig it out of his gum. The scalpel worked well for that.
Clamp. Pull.
Clamp. Pull.
Clamp. Pull.
When you came back to yourself, tossing the pliers onto the table, you couldn’t help but smile at your handiwork. The Pure Bite had passed out at some point, going away into his head to escape the pain, but you knew he wasn’t dead, so you weren’t concerned. Instead, you marveled at his smooth, toothless gums, stared at the fangs littering the table and floor, and enjoyed the inexplicable rush that washed over your mind. You discarded your bloody gloves and reached tentatively for the bitty’s still-open mouth. When he didn’t stir, you stroked your bare fingers over the soft ruin of his mouth, wiggling your fingertips into the sluggishly bleeding holes left behind. He jolted awake, jaw clamping down in a subconscious effort to get rid of the intrusion. It was a bit uncomfortable, you mused as you withdrew your hand, wiping it on his little shirt, but you had all of your fingers, and that was what mattered.
The pain seemed to hit the Pure Bite at that moment, as he futilely tried to roll around and get away from the feeling. You waited until the initial shock wore off and he returned his attention to you, which took a while. After a couple of minutes, the bitty lifted his tear-stained face (as much as he could, chains considering) to meet your eyes.
“Ma...ma... why? I... bad?” he sputtered out. It seemed all this thing was capable of doing was crying and more crying, you thought. You supposed you ought to answer him.
“Bad? Yes, I think you are. Why, you tried to bite me! It’s a good thing we took those nasty teeth away!” you scolded, noting with pleasure the look of utter shame on the Pure Bite’s face. After all this, he still wanted to please you! Wasn’t that absolutely darling?
“Yes... mama... I bad,” he burbled, flecks of blood escaping with the words. “I be good now... pomise... pease... no more...”
“No, no more,” you agreed. This seemed to comfort him, somehow; the minds of these little creatures were honestly beyond your comprehension. You’d ripped his teeth out with no good cause and no anesthetic, and he still believed you when you said you were done hurting him. Well, in this case, you supposed, he was right to believe you.
“...hurt,” the Pure Bite spoke up again. “Mama, hurt.” He wiggled around again, chains rattling. His tears hadn’t stopped, but at least he wasn’t making that awful racket anymore.
He was so caught up in attempting to make his pain known to you, as though he could prompt you to somehow care, somehow soothe him, that he didn’t notice you were leaving the basement until you’d reached the top of the stairs. One hand on the light switch, you spared one last glance at the broken creature still chained to the table before turning off the light. If you strained, you could just make out a small voice wailing “No leave, Mama... pease no leave!”
Two weeks later, you reopened the basement door, broom and dustpan in hand. “Ugh!” you exclaimed, upon discovering bitty dust scattered in a long trail from the surgical table to the top of the stairs. You nudged the little shirt and trousers, stained with old blood and covered in powder, out of your walking path. The Pure Bite, driven mad with fear and pain, must have broken its own bones to try to get free before it finally died and dusted. It was lucky for you the basement was mostly soundproof, so you didn’t have to listen to it, and that you hadn’t needed to do laundry in a while.
Either way, you thought, you had your cleaning work cut out for you.