Chapter 1: Burning Of The Throat
Careful. That was the perfect word to describe someone such as Prince Blueblood.
He was always careful to not sully his hooves or track them with dirt. Impeccable hygiene was a must for royalty such as himself. Constant hoof washings and hooficurs were the only way to go.
Which is why he missed out on much of the fun, early days of his childhood. No playing hoofball with the fellow foals. No rolling around in mud like a common peasant colt. No prancing in the rain either. A prince simply did not do such trivial things.
So he was always clean.
He was always careful to stay in the loop for the current fashion trends. Black is back in season for fall while green is currently in favor for the winter. It would be simply unthinkable for someone of such important stature as himself to dress in anything that wasn’t the hippest and trendiest.
Even if it meant wearing bowties that would cut off air to the rest of his body. Or shirts of such itchy texture that he had to mentally will himself not to scratch. And even clothing of such vivid colors and hues that one felt their eyeballs bleed just staring at it.
So he always wore nice clothes.
He was always careful to stay safe. Always with armed guards whenever he took a stroll outside the castle. It would be just a travesty if the prince was harmed in any shape or form, so he made sure that had avoided injuries at all cost. His perfectly white coat without so much as a scratch or scar in sight was proof of his success.
This meant he never really took many risks in his lifetime. No climbing up trees as a colt to swing from the topmost branches. No crazy dares as a youth either. Just staying inside while the other ponies his age got scrapes and bruises.
So he was never hurt.
All these things and more the prince took care of. Yep, always careful. Especially with his outward appearance for his public image. Nothing less than perfection for the shining example of royalty that he was.
And sure, this made him a bit of a snob. Just like all the other royals. A typical cliche even. No need to stand out. Being part of the crowd was the best way to go. So what if he was held in contempt by some of the peasants? So what if he was looked upon as a spoiled brat? He was just like every other noble out there.
He was always careful to never stick out. Always act posh, always hold the peasants in a disgusting light, always be fancy. Never the one to do anything that is not normal or not to be expected of a noble.
So his public image was as spotless as his salon-styled coat, or his polished hooves, or even his blacker than black suit with nary a wrinkle in sight. The perfect little nephew to his Auntie Celestia. Free to ask for whatever amount of bits he wants to spend on some frivolous, pricey item that catches his fancy.
But this wasn’t all he was careful with. He took particularly painful, scutisious, almost methodical care for every aspect of his private life. A life no one other than himself knew about.
Like how he was always careful to brush his teeth twice in the morning with a full cup of mouthwash to wash away the smell of alcohol on his breath. Or how he would take a shower with the most extravagant smelling soaps to get scent of booze off his coat, along with heavy scented cologne to mask the smell of a bar that normally followed him around.
Yes, he was quite careful to make sure his eyes weren’t bloodshot from tears shed at night over an open bottle. Or to not wince at social events with a hangover pounding inside his skull. No, he’s just smiles, smiles, and even more smiles while on the inside he just wanted to drown in booze.
He wasn’t quite sure how the urge of alcohol first tempted his heart. Sure, in his youth he partook in the occasional brusky and couple of sips of wine, but nothing that would foretell an addiction to the drinks of the fermented variety. But like a drug addict taking his first hit, he couldn’t help but want more.
At first, it was one or two drinks a night. Just to ease him to sleep at night. A little relaxation ritual, really. Nothing too bad to indicate something serious. But like an off the rails train, he crashed hard and fast.
From two drinks to three, then four and five and six and finally culminating to entire bottles stacked high into pyramids at the end of most nights. Like dominos stacked together in a straight line, it took only one drink for him to topple into a chain-reaction of opened bottles and emptied drinks.
Blueblood knew he had a problem. He wasn’t stupid, much to the contrary of the local gossip. But the thought of seeking out help was... an unappealing prospect to him.
He could just hear it now. The prince revealed to be nothing better than a two-bit drunkard. The very thought made him squirm with a shudder passing up his spine. If there’s one thing he would never attempt or allow was to tarnish his good name, his royal name, with such a pathetic thing such as a drinking problem.
So he just sullied himself in happiness that only a bottle could bring every night. A tedious process to be sure, but a dependable one.
Often times when he’d be alone in his room at his desk, curtains drawn and door locked, that he’d think about how low he’d sunk. They said money couldn’t buy you happiness. Usually ponies who said this never had much money to begin with. Blueblood knew for sure money could buy you plenty of happiness.
So much so, you grow bored with it.
What was the point in spending like a flippant fool when he never worked for those bits? Never knew any hardships of any kind? Then the bits lose even more meaning than before. Was there any use in buying whatever you want when in the long run it meant nothing? Nothing at all?
So he spent frivolous and drank himself to sleep each night. Because why not? Why shouldn’t he just waste away his life in this endless cycle of hitting the rocks hard while pretending to be a perfect little prince to the wide-eyed public?
The answer, he knew, was that it was unfair, but mostly to himself.
Yeah, he was selfish. Big surprise from a greedy stallion like himself. All he wanted to do was continue to go on with his dead end life. Just a little bit longer, day after day. If he couldn’t be truly happy, then he’ll wallow in sadness in the most comfortable way possible.
So here he was again, back at his desk inside his lavishly decked out bedroom. Art of only the highest caliber and price adjourned the walls. Rugs of such soft texture that your hooves would sink into its depths. A plush queen-sized bed with expertly stitched blankets. All in all, it was an extravagant room with only one point of modesty to be found.
An old worn desk that he was currently sitting at. The wood was aged from years of use, with stains of multiple beverages on its surface. Inside its drawers, one would find every kind of alcoholic beverage money could buy. Rum, gin, vodka, liquor, wine, absinthe, and much more.
Blueblood sipped from his glass, the strong drink sliding down his throat in a familiar burn and settling in his belly with a warm feeling. He rested the glass back on the counter, staring at the drops of water roll down the side of the glass.
It was often times like this, sitting all alone by himself, wallowing in his misery in the most luxurious way possible, that he thought of how he ended up here. He did have plenty of candidates to blame.
First would probably have to be his fellow nobles. Instigating into their culture and way of life has turned him into the stallion he was today. Though that was more on his own part for not wanting to be left out of the crowd. He mostly had himself to blame for not choosing to be a black sheep.
Then of course, there was the pony that was supposed to take care of him. After both his parents died in a horrific accident when he was still young, he was thrust into the care of his aunt, Princess Celestia. Now, one would think this would be a glorious thing to have, to be a sort of son to the ruler of all of Equestria.
It wasn’t.
Since she was, of course, a ruler, Celestia had little time to raise him. And with what time she did have, she usually used to dote on her precious student Twilight Sparkle. The most time he’d spend with her was usually at dinner... if he was lucky. He would often times go months without saying two words to her. Maids and nannies were closer examples of mother figures than she would ever be.
Oh sure, he held Celestia in contempt. For never being there for his childhood. For caring about a commoner unicorn more than him, her flesh and blood. The best thing he was known for was being a powerless puppet with just the title of prince to his name without much else. He may have been royalty, but the duties tied to the crown didn’t apply to him at all.
But of course, the newly-coronated Princess Twilight Sparkle is now a big deal. New princess, new responsibilities ruling Equestria. The thought of it made Blueblood grimace in sour disgust as he gulped down another mouthful of his drink.
So what if she knew about the power of friendship and all that other bullshit? And saved the world a couple of times. And was more magically gifted in every way possible compared to him...
In a fit of sudden rage he picked up and hurled his glass across the room, the shattering and spilling of expensive liquor heard crashing on the wall. Breathing heavily from his seat with his mane frazzled, he stared at the wet stain across the wall and floor.
It wasn’t like he didn’t try. Hiring the best tutors bits could buy. The most expensive books about magical knowledge. Countless hours spent practicing and honing his skills. But did Celestia notice? No. Did it measure at all to Twilight’s prowess? No.
How could a peasant one-up him like that? And now she’s a princess too. And what was he? Just a prideful prince with a drinking problem. Yeah, not pathetic at all.
He didn’t even notice his hooves were shaking at first. Pushing hard on the counter of the desk to get a grip on himself, he breathed in and out heavily, the slosh of only liquor in his belly moving causing him to feel slightly nauseous.
Gulping at a suddenly dry throat, he opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew the first bottle his fumbling hoof could get a grip on. Slamming it on the counter, he unscrewed the cap with an almost animalistic ferocity, already sticking his lips to the bottle and gulping back mouthfuls of booze without tasting it.
After several seconds of just chugging back the throat burning beverage, he laid it back on the counter half empty and sighed in relief. Much had spilled on his suit he was just wearing, staining the black satin jacket and white dress shirt.
Looking over the label of the bottle, he noticed that this was some pretty pricy liquor. Approximately, every shotglass worth cost about five hundred bits. This news would have once comforted him, knowing he could take but a sip of this drink, with that sip being worth more than most ponies make in a week. But now it just sickened him to the point he felt like vomiting his guts out until he was empty of everything.
“What’s the frickin’ point?” the prince slurred, staring at the bottle before him like it would answer his question. “I don’t have anything anymore. Nothing important. Just... just shit, everywhere I look.”
The bottle did not answer, as inanimate objects tended to do. Instead, Blueblood held a staring contest for a fruitless ten seconds before the rational part of his booze-addled mind blew past the alcoholic mist slowing his thoughts and slapped him across the head.
Shaking his confused noggin, he grunted as laid his nose on the cold counter. “Fuck... I can’t go on like this. No point. No fuckin’ point.” A tear ran down the corner of his eye. “Wh-what am I? The fuck am I? Huh? Everyone says one thing or another, but what do I fuckin’ know? What do I know...?”
Plenty of answers popped in his head. A washed up has-been. A deadbeat drunkard. A sorry excuse for royalty. A prince that was lowlier than a princess who wasn’t even born into royalty. This and many more are fitting descriptions of himself. Heck, outside in the castle grounds and all of Equestria, the citizens probably had better categories to fit onto him to properly show their contempt for his very being.
“Damnit...” he whispered in the wood of the desk, just wanting to rest his head there forever, to not look back at his grim reality; the bottle was the perfect image for that. “There are ponies... much worse off than me. With so much less. And yet I complain. Real... real fucking greedy bastard I am.”
And there he goes with hating himself again. Just hitting the bottle brought back his pitiful existence for him to stare straight in the face in.
Oh, Blueblood, is the pain too much? Then drink up? Can’t handle the fact everyone sees you as a spoiled brat with the personality of a rock? You know where the bottle is! Hate the fact your own aunt thinks of you as nothing more than a spineless toad without an ounce of self-worth or dignity in your pathetic body? Then pop open a cork and enjoy! Sad that you’ll never have somepony close in your life because you have the mannerism of an uncouth pig? Who needs love when you have booze?
And so on and so on until he was plastered so hard from the spirits he’d lie on the floor in a sprawled mess. An event so common he’d gotten used to the feel of a hard surface against his cheek.
Sure, he could have been a great and wonderful stallion even with the nobility aspect of himself. But the bottle had already ripped away that chance from ever entering his grasp. Which, of course, was his own fault in the first place, so even then he never had a chance!
Now was that special time of the night where his emotions while in his drunken state of mind culminated in what he liked to call the ‘three step process.’ First up was anger. Well, that smashed glass against the wall was a sure indicator he passed step one.
Moving onto step two, sadness. Weeping like a filly all by himself with only a bottle of some pricy booze pretty much assured that step two was fulfilled. That only left step three.
Usually at this step, he was already passed out drunk, but on this rare occasion he wasn’t. How wonderful. Time for another segment of ‘Will Blueblood pussy out of killing himself?’ From seeing his past attempts, the answer is yes. But suicidal depression only came around once in a blue moon, so he thought he might as well as humor it.
Blinking to clear his fuzzy vision, he reached out awkwardly to pull open the bottom-leftmost drawer of the desk. Unlike the other compartments, this one only had one bottle in it.
Withdrawing the small green bottle of unknown liquid, he laid it down on the counter next to the open bottle he had already gone to town on. Getting another glass out, he poured it half full of the expensive liquor.
Picking the unlabeled green bottle with dark black liquid sloshing inside, he sighed and uncorked the top. He tipped in a couple of drops, just enough to get the job done, then quickly fitted the cork back on and set the bottle down.
Now all that was left was him and the glass. An interesting yet typical predicament he had often times found himself in. Though it would usually end with him waking up in his seat with a bad back cramp and the glass sitting untouched on the counter, as always.
A suicide attempt that only amounted to him doing nothing, time and time again. What was the point in buying that poison if he was never going to use it?
The answer, of course, was simple. Suicide came in two flavors, usually. The rushed job that happened quite suddenly due to a traumatic experience or last minute thinking. Or the planned out style that amounted to careful calculations and thinking over it for some time. Blueblood fit more in the second category, except his plans just led to a dead end he could never jump over.
He often times thought of what would occur in the event he ever did off himself. He left no suicide note. The bottles upon bottles of alcohol in his desk drawers would already be a clear indication for his problems mentally wise. But how would everyone react to the news of his death?
Of course, there'll be a funeral for his death. A lovely ceremony adjourned in the most fitting way possible for dead royalty. Ponies from all across the kingdom would attend. The nobles because it was proper of them to arrive for the social gathering and pay what little respects they had for him. Commoners to celebrate the fact another selfish and bit grabby noble had finally bitten the dust.
That left Celestia last. He had always been curious as to how his closest blood relative would react to his passing. She had already had to endure the event many times before with his distant ancestors, so he guessed she was used to it. But seeing of how he behaved in the past, especially with the furious glare she gave him during that one Gala event when he treated one of the Element bearers poorly, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t shed many tears. Most likely, she’d actually be relieved to finally be rid of him, and to no longer dig into the treasury for money to occupy his time.
That was a comforting thought. No one would truly be grief-stricken about him keeling over one day. Probably not even a tear or frown for his death either. He’d just die and quickly be forgotten, with hardly two words spoken about him in the decades following his death.
This information just made the glass filled with the deadly concoction all the more tempting. It was like a drug addict trying to steal his fix from inside the maw of bear. You know you’ll die, but the tempting offer was just too good to pass up. It called for you, persuaded you, tempted you with its allure until you’re just another common whore to its hand.
“Come on, you c-coward,” he whispered, holding his head up in his hooves as his eyes never left the glass. “Are you going to... to do it, or not? Can you? Can you do it? Can you finally... finally do it?”
He already knew the answer was no. Even with every single aspect of his wondrous life being a shithole, he didn’t have it in him to actually end it. Courage was never really his strong suit, and you needed plenty of that to finally end your life. That, or moronic stupidity.
Sighing, he leaned back in his chair, just staring at the glass to pass the time. Seconds ticked off to minutes, which passed into hours, and yet still nothing. Was he ever going to truly do it? Just end it, lay all the cards on the table and fold away his life like a bad hand at a gambling table?
Blueblood wasn’t afraid of death. How much worse can it be than life? Would it be a relief, or just the beginning of another nightmare? While many a pony feared death because of the unknown, Blueblood merely took it in a nonchalant attitude. No point in getting worked up over something that’ll just happen one day anyways, whether he wanted it to or not.
So really, what was he stalling for? Why couldn’t he get it over with? Unless he wanted to go back to an existence of putting on a fake smile at all hours until he was alone in his room so he could drink the pain away. Yeah, that lost its attractiveness real quick.
Before he knew it, the glass was already in his hoof, the pungent smell of the alcohol almost overpowering the smell of the poison. But not quite. He knew it was still there. He couldn’t fool himself into not thinking he was going to gulp down poison. No easy way out for him there.
Why he didn’t just buy a gun to get it over with, he didn’t know. Maybe he’ll just chicken out there as well. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want the first thing ponies would see of him being a caved in skull with blood and brain matter all over his body and floor. Too messy.
There was always the decision of jumping out of his balcony to fall to his death. Five stories would assure him dead, right? But that would leave him as a wet, red splatter on the ground below. Also too messy.
That just left the poison. Would it kill him slowly, the viscous liquid killing off his organs in an agonizing process before his body finally failed on him? Or would it be sudden, him not even realizing that he slipped over the edge of life into death? Well, there was only one way to find out.
He pursed his mouth, the cool glass resting just on his lips. He closed his eyes, no tears streaming down his face. So tired of the tears. The smiles. The fake positivity he shrouded on himself day in and day out. How ironic the only time he got to be himself and get as close to happy as he could reach was when he was slumped over an open bottle of the very substance that helped drag him down so low.
His arm was too weak to lift the glass any higher. Hoof was shaking so bad he was sure the liquid would spill all over himself. The only thing he could do was lean his head back, open his lips, and just be done with it.
Would anyone feel bad for his death? Certainly not himself, in the end. It’s always at the end where we second guess ourselves; act unsure, undecided, unaware of how our decision would truly affect ourselves and the ones around us.
But sometimes, you just have to go with it.
“Just one more drink. One more, and I’ll be fine.”
Several moments later, the sound of glass shattering on a floor could be heard echoing from his room. Liquid from a glass half empty quickly spread to stain some priceless rugs. Much too messy.
