My Final Confession: Relapse

The familiar, cold walls of the basement are washed in amber light. Rocking and swaying, the camera is placed hard on the floor and the microphone picks up the grinding scrape of concrete against plastic. Hooves scratch and clack in the gloom to the rhythm of an epileptic seizure. A bottle swings into frame, the gold and black label identifies the beverage as a mid-tier wine from a local vineyard. The rose-colored substance inside fills only half of the clear bottle. Pinkamena walks out to the middle of the basement floor, cradling the bottle like an infant. There’s a slight wobble in her hip but she appears not to notice or care.

“Hi… today on the Cozy’s Cooking Corner I’m going to serve a chunk of myself.” It’s evident that she is intoxicated. Words slither from her more than fall from the slur. Her locomotion and balance do not appear severely affected but her eyelids weigh heavily over the cold pools of ice below. “As you can see, I’ve been out stealing food again. Fortunately for me, I found a couple bottles of wine. Cozy’d be mad, I bet. I had to hide them from her… but she’s upstairs sleeping and I’m back down in this damn dungeon.”

Surveying the basement, Pinkamena’s lip quivers. “This place … I can’t stand it and yet I love it. There’s just so many memories. Lifetimes of memories. Some ponies believe that a home can absorb the energy of those who live within it. Kind of take on a life of their own." She holds the bottle high and shakes her head with frustration. "Sugar Cube Corner used to be a place of joy and happiness. I’d wait on customers, bake, and spend time with my friends here. The Cakes were my second family and I loved them, all of them, so much. My heart was always full.” She presses a cracked and damaged hoof into her breast and shakes her head pitifully.

“Sugar Cube Corner doesn’t deserve this. I remember how vibrant and colorful it was. Not just because I was happy here but because all of my friends were happy too. This old place shared their love and was beautiful because of it. Sugar Cube Corner is as much a part of this world as any of us were and it had its own way of presenting its affection and happiness. Sugar Cube Corner was the source of my life, my heart. Each beat propelled me to heights of joy and mirth I'd never imagined. Now it’s dead … just like me. Two old husks pretending there's any hope left within our hollow, forgotten walls.”

Pinkamena pauses to take a heavy swig from the bottle. A short stream of liquid dribbles unnoticed down her chin and to the floor. “After I was hurt, I had such weird thoughts. I used to believe that I was the only real pony and all the others around me were just … I don’t know … shadows of my consciousness? It was hard to be happy with them once that thought got into my head. How could they really make me smile when they were just parts of me? I … I spent enough time in my own head when I was little and living on my family’s rock farm; it was crushing. I was so different from my sisters and parents that I always felt alone. I was never happy there.”

Touching a wall with one hoof, Pinkamena goes quiet. After a moment she presses her forehead to it and a shimmering tear drips from her clenched eyelid. The bottle comes up again and she sucks down almost all of the liquid inside. The bottle clinks sharply as it hits the floor, released from her hold. “I came to Ponyville and I found what life was--what happiness was. I had friends, I had a purpose. I wasn’t wasting my time anymore and it filled me up inside with such a warmth that I sometimes thought I would explode. And then it all stopped after my skull cracked. They weren't my friends; they were me. They had never existed and it was just me playing games with myself to stave off the loneliness. Just like I used to on the farm.”

“Figments … just pretend games that silly fillies play. I was so angry, not at them but at myself for being so lonely that I would dupe myself into believing that I could be happy. That anypony else was real. There was only one answer: I had to kill them all. I’d strip them apart one by one until I found another real pony. Until I could find a real friend. I wouldn’t be picky about it, as long as they were independent of me, I’d be happy if I could just find one other spirit like me.

And I did … trapped in stone. After decades of cutting my way through what I thought were fakes, I found my Cozy. We spent years together and my bloodthirst was slated. I didn’t want to hurt anypony else because I was finally happy. She was with me and I loved her. Cozy saved me from myself.”

Pinkamena snarls to herself, “And Twilight ruined it. I think I was happier than I had ever been in my whole life and it all ended. She took my Cozy from me and placed her back in the garden, leaving me alone once more.”

The alcohol seems to affect the mare as her knees buckle and only the wall holds her up. Sliding down to a sitting position. Her speech begins to slur. “At least she fixed me. My injury was gone. I know I was mentally ill. When my skull cracked, something changed and filled me with strange perspectives. But at least that was an excuse. I couldn’t control those thoughts. I couldn’t fix what had hurt me permanently. Now what’s my excuse? Because I knew everyone had a soul again, it made me hate them for locking my sweet filly. I had to save her … had to get back to her the only way I knew how.

Before, I didn’t care when I killed; they didn’t matter because they weren’t real to me but now I know I am robbing them of their lives and their happiness every time I kill them. I’m … I’m sorry. But how else can I get back to Cozy? I can’t abandon her. It takes a piece of me to hurt others now. Death by a thousand cuts. I don't know how many more cuts I can take before my black heart just gives up.”

Pinkamena wipes at her eyes, her jaws unzip upside down into a frightening frown. Her jaw shakes and she begins to sob in heavy, wet heaves. Flooded eyes pop open and search the rafters of the basement. “Rainbow Dash, Berry Punch, Derpy, Miss Cheerilee, everyone else … I’m sorry for what I’ve done! Sugar Cube Corner … you’re still my home and … I’m so sorry for the things I’ve done to you.”

The weight of Pinkamena’s head threatens to topple her forward as she begins to pass out. Just before her forehead touches the floor and she eschews a steady, rough snore, she squeezes out a few weak words, “Please … forgive me … everyone.”