My Final Confession: Relapse

The camera can’t pick up much light as it sways back and forth, but occasional glimmers from the moon’s light on dew outline several species of plant life. A wall appears and disappears between lurching, awkward swings. Pinkamena can be heard grumbling, but it seems to be gibberish.

The lens focuses in and out on a cobbled path that gleams like pearls in the moonlight. The swaying motion ceases as the camera is hefted onto what appears to be a wrought-iron bench. Directly adjacent is another bench of similar design. Fireflies twinkle as they fly among thick trees in the background. A small garden lies just inside the frame with a bald spot in the center surrounded by dark flowers. Pinkamena staggers into frame carrying a tall bottle of unknown liquid. It sloshes as she nearly falls onto the bench.

“I had to keep her here for nearly two whole years, Twilight! That sweet foal ... two years ... without moving or speaking … or doing anything while the magic bled off. And … I-I forget how long she was in Canterlot before I could … I could save her. From you.” It is apparent that Pinkamena has been drinking and she shakes her head, taking it in her forelegs and growling, struggling to maintain a sitting posture.

“I grew … I grew up on a rock farm. I’ve talked to more rocks in my life than ponies. They don’t … they don’t judge me. They don’t make … lies, like you do. I talked to her every day until the stone was thin enough for her to break free.” Her eyes wobble and fidget in their sockets when she stares into the camera. “I guess you and your precious teacher didn't figure on some pony leaving her in an Old World nexus. You’re not … not so smart, after a-all.”

The bottle comes up and swishes the dark liquid around within as Pinkamena swallows another mouthful. “I told her all of my pain and she listened, not like you. She was a-a rock and I kn-ow how to talk to rocks. She … doesn’t judge me. She’s just a filly and you hurt her.”

“Rocks … they are better friends. Than you’ll ever be. You did this to me. I… I asked for help after I got hurt. You remember? When we were the … the elements of harmony. You said we were friends, all of us. I got hurt and everyone thought I would die. Pinkie sense failed ... cracked my melon.” She demonstrates her words by bringing the bottle of wine against the side of her head hard enough to resound a deep, dreadful noise.

The mare’s foreleg comes up and rubs absently in her thick mane as if nursing an injury, but not in the place she just smacked with the bottle.

“When a melon cracks, it rots. What's a mare supposed to do when all of a sudden ponies crying ... ponies screaming are just as funny as rubber chickens? You were the smartest pony in Ponyville. The smartest in Equestria, and … m-my friend. So I came to you ... I wanted to … to hurt others. I came to you for help. You aren’t my friend, Twilight. I was stupid.”

She turns the bottle and draws the undulating, abyssal liquid down her throat. Gleaming silver lines like lightning bolts catch and disappear on the mare’s cheeks in the moonlight.

“I can’t forgive you for laughing at me … I wasn’t joking! You said it was a joke! I ki-killed Dash three days later. I cut her up! She was m-my first, Twilight. You! You could have stopped it! You should have helped me.” The mare lays down on the bench with her eyes clenched closed and breathing erratically. Her back heaves in gouts of air.

Fitfully she struggles to rise from the bench but gives up, collapsing back down into the cool iron. “I’ll never f-forgive you for that. You said I-I could have another life … I hate you. It was a lie.”

“ ... and I think you knew it.”

Pinkamena goes still except for a ragged breathing. The battery indicator light flickers and the video dies.