A single drop of water plummets down, freed at last from the cloud that has held it captive throughout the afternoon. Knocked loose by a solid kick from a pegasus, it would have screamed with elation, like a young foal upon the return home of a beloved parent, had it sentience.
Of course, being a raindrop, it does not.
Instead, it falls in silence toward the waiting earth of Ponyville. This drop, however, never reaches that parched ground. No, its downward journey ends upon the nose of a pink filly. Blinking, the pony looks upwards, just in time greet the arrival of the rain drop's compatriots. The deluge scheduled for the evening truly begins.
"Figures," mutters the pony, but she makes no move to get out from under the downpour. It isn't something that matters. Besides, it rather fits her state of mind. And so she ignores it, returning her attention to the two-story house across the dirt road.
The house isn't much to look at, by her standards. It is old, and not in the way that could give it a certain elegance. No, this house is near decrepit, with its painted faded with age and worn off in places. Like the paint, the roof has also seen better days, but it at least is still mostly solid, the water pitter-pattering off its clay tiles, before streaming down into the gutters. The filly knows it won't be long before those gutters overflow. The mare of the house had no doubt placed pans at strategic places in anticipation of the storm. If she forgot, as she sometimes did, then no doubt she was scrambling to place them now. Either way, the house would be filled with the sound of water striking surfaces within and without.
A few months ago, she would have turned her nose up at a place like this. She might have deigned to pay it attention long enough to make a derisive comment or four, but nothing more. She certainly wouldn't have been wishing to be inside the ramshackle building. To be entirely truthful, she still would behave that way, on any other day than today, and for any other building than this one. She is who she is, and who she is isn't always the nicest pony.
She doesn't think of herself that way, of course. She knows she is a good pony, one who does all the things expected of a filly in her position, from donating the clothes she no longer wants to the less fortunate (and who isn't less fortunate?) to volunteering at the local animal shelter. It's just that when she sees fillies in her old clothes, she cannot help but feel superior. Likewise, she is fine about playing with the animals and feeding them. Well, at least for the ones that don't eat icky things like fish. So gross and slimy. But it is best not to ask her to clean the animals' pens, no matter how cute the animal in question. That sort of thing is beneath her, and she will not hesitate to let you know that.
And yet this pony sits in the rain, not caring that her normally carefully-styled mane is now plastered to her head, nor of the water soaking her coat. She barely even notices the rain as it mingles with the salt water trickling down her face. It is safe to let it out, now that nopony can see. She just sits there wishing she was inside the ramshackle, little house. Wishing she was inside with one of the ponies who lived there.
It'd be so easy, she thinks. All she has to do is take a step forward, then another, and just keep doing that until she stands at the door. A knock and the door would open. An invitation would follow and she will be inside. So easy.
She feels her weight shift as one of her forelegs lifts of its own volition. She glances down at it, but makes no move to stop it as it comes down on a patch of bare ground. She clenches her jaw, hearing the squelch of the mud and feeling the cool wetness as some of that mud works its way into her hoof.
The feeling is like stepping in slug slime, or perhaps stepping on the slugs themselves. At least, this what what she has always imagined that would be like. She doesn't know for sure, but slugs look gross enough, so no doubt they would feel that way as well. Her thoughts drift momentarily to a certain farm filly. That one no doubt knew how stepping on slugs felt. But not her. She is above that, a lady, a princess, albeit not officially, who always makes sure she has her galoshes with her if she is going to be out at a time when the cloud-pushers have scheduled rain.
She wishes she had them now, but her galoshes are warm and dry, neatly lined up with her other hoofwear at home. Home, where she herself would be if the day had gone at all as planned. It isn't her fault, of course, that it hadn't. It was never her fault; this time is no exception. It was those three. They ruined her day, stole her necklace, and she'd said something she shouldn't have. Something that should have been the truth, but wasn't. But it most definitely wasn't her fault. It was theirs.
Surely he will see that and understand, once she explains it to him. Then he'd beam that big, silly grin of his. How she longs to see that again. That perfect mix of toothpaste commercial and… well, not adorkable, since he's really more of an idiot than a dork, but anidiotable just didn't have quite the same ring to it. But that's what he is, anidiotable. And he is her idiot. Was her idiot. They'd ruined it. Their fault...
She lowers her head. The tips of her mane drag on the muddy ground as her feet continue to take her forward. Water flows down her face, hot and cold. She doesn't deserve his adoration, she knows. The thought almost makes her take control of her errant feet, to turn them around and begin the journey home. There, the butler would pull her a bath, warm water's embrace to help soothe her troubled thoughts. Here, the frigid drops strike her over and over, leaving her vulnerable to the wind. The razor-sharp icy blasts cut through her coat, chilling the skin underneath.
It would be so nice to take that bath, to just slip under the water and stay warm and safe in its embrace, she thinks. All she has to do is turn around. She doesn't though, though she does glance behind her. While there might be many things envious ponies might call her, one thing they wouldn't is quitter. She has a drive that would put a locomotive to shame. And her motion only propels her onward, ever onward. And if that isn’t enough to keep her focused on her goal, out of the corner of her eye, she catches a glance of him inside. She freezes, watching as he drags himself up the stairs to his tiny room on the second floor.
He doesn't bound like normal. No skipping every other step, somehow managing to not trip over his ungainly legs as he blitzs up the stairs. Instead, he walks… No, that isn't the right word. He trudges, moving listlessly. His head hangs limp, bobbing up and down just above the steps, a balloon grasping at the last of its helium life.
They will pay, she thinks, but even as she does, she knows it isn't truly their fault. She'd lied. She never did that. Well, not about important things anyway. Little things like denying putting catnip on the homework she hadn't quite gotten finished to encourage its accidental destruction? That, she could and would deny to her grave. But important things? She never lies about those.
The only recompense she can take is that she hadn't known she'd been lying at the time. A small recompense, since he hadn't known it either. She'd believed it, so he had. As the last vestiges of his tail slipped out of sight, she knew she'd lost him She'd shattered him His best friend had warned her not to, but she'd done it anyway. And so she doesn't take the recompense. She doesn't deserve it. She brings a hoof up to her eye and, taking care to use a clean part, brushes away some of the rain.
"No," she says aloud. It will not end like this. She will not let it. She will tell him the truth, the truth she now realized, and he'd give her that dopey grin and all would be right in the world again.
But what if it wasn't? a doubt whispers softly, drowning out the driving rain. What if he says no?
A shiver racks her body, and the world turns colder. She squashes it ruthlessly. He will believe it. It is the truth, after all. She can't bear it if it turns out any other way, and so she won't let it turn out otherwise. Besides, she is the best thing he could ever hope for. Way out of his league. What else would he do? Settle for that blank-flanked unicorn? That would be like voluntarily choosing to eat third-rate hay not even fit for yaks when one could have grade-A alfalfa. No, there is no way he'd reject her explanation. They both had too much to lose.
She feels her body continue its trek toward the door and smiles, not the happy, bursting out from within sort of smile, but rather one brought about by the realization that if she doesn't this, she will suffer in limbo, never sure one way or the other. This way, she will know. It might be painful, but it would be done and over with. One quick pull, like a bandage, and it would be over. She knows she is brave. After all, didn't her parents always tell her that whenever she had awoken due to a bad dream and crept into bed with them? Yes, she is brave, brave and fearless like a manticore. A manticore who took really good care of her claws. One with a perfectly coiffed mane and glistening white teeth. A manticore who only ate at the finest restaurants. Exactly like such manticore.
"Just hear me roar, world," she says, blinking at the door inches before her.
Out of habit, she searches for the knocker, stopping herself when she remembered there isn't one, nor a doorbell either. Such things are seen as unnecessary extravagances for this family. She brings up a hoof to knock on the door itself but halts, lest she smear it with the mud oozing off her hoof. Yeah, that's the reason. It certainly has nothing to do with the fear of rejection. ‘Hear me roar’, indeed, she thinks. Just the same, she does her best to wipe off her hoof on a nearby patch of grass before rapping on the door.
Last chance to turn tail and run, she thinks, but this time, she doesn't look behind her. Her heart pounds, her breaths shallow and fast. You're strong. Stronger than anypony, she tells herself. It sort of works. She breathes easier at least, anyway.
Then the door opens. She looks up into the eyes of the mare staring down at her. The filly blinks, shivers, but says nothing. Just looks up at the mare. The equally silent mare, who just stares back, judging, condemning, weighing the filly's soul.
The filly does her best to stay on her feet under the weight of the stare. At last, it lifts, as the mare steps aside, beckoning the filly in. The filly still stands, unmoving, her eyes now down on the ground, watching the water carry away the mud that had been on her hooves. It swirls, the stone beneath her hooves slowly coming clean. If only it were as easy as that, to just stand there and be cleansed.
"It's my fault," she says instead, stepping just far enough inside for the mare to close the door behind her. She stands silent, unmoving, as the mare brings over a towel and rubs her dry. The towel is rough, bordering on coarse. At her own home, it would have been burned long before it got to this state. But she isn't home. She is here, on the wrong side of the tracks, because...
"Can I? Please," the filly asks. "I've got to see him. It's… it's all my fault. I said something I thought was true, but it wasn't. And now I think I might… I think he might..." She lets the sentence hang there, unfinished. Voicing her fears might make them real.
The mare glances behind her. The filly follows the gesture, her eyes and head drifting toward the rickety stairs that lead up to the second floor. There was something heartfelt in the mare's gesture. Something the filly isn't familiar with. Could it be pity? she wonders.Had she fallen so low? Did she even deserve it? Did it matter?
She steps onto the towel, drying off the bottoms of her hooves, then begins the journey upwards. She can almost hear the pounding of the drums, the beat marching the condemned toward her fate. As she climbs, the court of her mind tries her. Her words, the prosecutor screams. Her fault, the jury says. Her fate, the judge decrees. This close, she can not turn back. Not with the mare's eyes upon her, pushing her toward her rendezvous with destiny. And so, step by step, to the beat, she marches upwards, turns the corner, and raps upon the door of the arbiter of her doom.
Her hoof, heavy with the chains of guilt, struggles upward, and she knocks. Once, twice, and the weight drags her hoof back down the ground.
His voice calls, muffled through the door, but she cannot make it out. It matters not. There's only one thing he would say. But she won't, cannot, give him the solitude he asks for.
"It's me," she says, so softly he can't possibly hear. A second time, louder, she repeated her words.
No answer comes from within. She almost turns toward the stairs, but something inside her gives her pause. She does not fail. Her mother had taught her that, to never fail. She isn't going to start now. Her hoof lifts, turns the knob, and the door creaks open. She peeks her head through the gap. She sees him lying there upon his bed, his head turned away.
Slowly, she pushes her way past the door, sitting down upon her haunches as the door closes behind her. She joins him in the silence, watching, her eyes tracing the lines of his body, unwilling to destroy the silence. Thoughts race within her head, all the things she might say, all the things she must say. At last, she starts.
"I-I know everypony thinks I'm perfect, but they don't realize the burden that is." She looks away from him for a second. "Being right so often makes it hard to realize when I am, like, wrong. And it's so hard sometimes to not say something to somepony when they literally wear last year's dress." Her confidence builds, and things start to flow. "And then there's all those ponies that are just oblivious to how pathetic they are. I mean, I know it isn't easy to be as perfect as me, but at least they could try, right?"
She looks at him, hoping for a sign, but he still lies still. She sighs. So stupid, to just ramble.
"Sorry," she mutters. "That's not really what I came here to say. Though, I am right, right? Seriously, who wears bows at our age?"
He does not laugh at her joke. He does not react at all. No more jokes, she decides. No more speaking off the cuff.
She ponders her next words carefully. "I guess, like, what I'm trying to say is that it won't always be easy. I'll say stuff without thinking. Some of it will be hurtful. I might not even mean it, but it'll just come out. I might even take after my mom and throw some dinnerware. It's in my blood. That's what my dad always says. But if you can handle that, then I'm totally worth it, because nopony is better me. Nopony. And anypony should be glad to have me." The words had rushed out of her. Now she slows. "But I don't want anypony. I want you.
"Without you, I'm less. I didn't realize that, but I do now. I need somepony who sees the good in me underneath it all. I need somepony like you. I don't know how you did it, but you did. You got in. I think I l—- I lo— I like-like you, okay? And I shouldn't have said what I did. I know I don't deserve it, but…
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I said those hurtful things. I'm, like, sorry I even thought them." She lowered her head to look at the floor underneath her. "I'm sorry I'm dripping water all over your floor, even after your mom tried to dry me. I'm just sorry. So, please…" —her voice is barely more than a whisper— "Please, don't leave me."
Silence again fills the room, other than the sound of the rain upon the roof and window. Her head sinks low, her eyes locking onto the ground. He doesn't utter a word, doesn't move, not that she can hear, even though she is done speaking. Is he still angry? Is he just going to point toward the door to let her know to leave? Or would there be no reaction at all? Silence. Until it is disturbed by a soft rustle. Ever so slowly, she turns her head toward him.
And there it is, what she has been dying to see… that stupid grin of his. Her eyes widen, her heart leaps with joy, and she takes a step toward him. Gently, she rubs her cheek against his. When he returns the gesture, she closes her eyes and sighs in contentment, oblivious to the pony that sits outside in the rain, staring from the distance at the window on the ground floor, unmoving.
A single filly sits outside in the rain, staring at a ramshackle, little house.
It'd be so easy, she thinks. All she has to do is take a step forward, then another, and just keep doing that until she stands at the door. A knock and the door would open. It could all come true.
Pulling herself to her feet, she begins to move.
At the corner, she takes one last glimpse toward the window and its solitary candle. "You coward, Di," she mutters, before rounding the corner.
