Pace of Only

Positioned stage right lies Fluttershy, abandoned carcass to the ground. Still stirring. She looks to the right, let her look to the right. No right left. Fluttershy stares for what is left. Her fur is left, stringy and matted, eyes on the right. Especially on the right, she wrinkles her nose. Floor is increasing shade. There was a time light had been brighter. She likes to lay face to the floor, but there was a time the room had been better illuminated. Her hoof scrapes against the hardwood to remember.

A sound, a knock at the door. Sometimes she hears knocks at the door, she’s learned it’s best to pretend not. Only scaled meddlers there, reaching their deathdying claws toward her. A breadth of opportunity. She decides not to raise up to open the door.

On the ground, next to Fluttershy, lays a can. Tin etched rim, she feels the grooves. Sometimes a glance is given inside but she knows there will be no lentils. It is empty, she ate all her lentils a far time ago. Never did enjoy the mush taste anyhow. Yet she clutches the can to chest and sheds a few tears. In salute to the past. Fluttershy considers that important, it is why she bothers agitating the mind. Routinely she dredges the mind and pulls out a small count of fragments. Nothing much, certainly no smiles, no naivety for that. But a small count that contribute to the notion of better times time ago. Filthy fur and wretched accomplices. Scolding mother points toward dinner plate. Squinting unicorn stitches the hide. Frowning tiara. Row of rotted teeth. Blackening hooves. She spends little wonder on them, there’s no truth to any of it. Unless there is. No truth unless there is truth, she doesn’t know. She’s only Fluttershy. Only a pony. Meaning, worthless. She remains on the floor and shuts her eyes.

Dark nothing. There’s a stretch where she does not move or think. It is preferred. Then her eyes open, the usual regret. Usual ashes, with belly on the floor she stretches the limbs. Shut them up, the ingrates. The itch of fleas is ever present. Her animals were so kind as to pass on all manner of illness decay. She’d been so kind as to let them rot. That explains the stench, somewhat. A moment of honesty, she confesses to being the prime culprit, laying in waste. Too general to carry meaning. The pegasus means, lying in her own waste. The shit she casts onto the world has returned, give a hug and warm meal. In some aspect seems fair, that matters little to her. All or rather all things she’s yet to encounter matter little to Fluttershy. This is why she lies in her waste.

Again a knock at the door. Blackening claws rapping. Never a care for salesponies, living or dead. She will not answer. Again she pretends and dwells on soiled floor.

As to why she produces waste, Fluttershy has no explanation. Or none satisfying if any time spent devising. But her lentils are gone. Dried up and choked down, she’s eaten them. That was a while ago. Drool spills from her mouth, leaks from both ends. Fluttershy is a pony that leaks from both ends.

The light continues to dim. She congratulates herself on noticing. Here down and wasting, she takes the time to observe the light is going. Insignificant accomplishment, darkening being the natural course. She admonishes herself for boasting. Light fades at regular pace and soon will be absent.

Fluttershy scowls and squints at the floorboards. Not angry, simply bitter as always, but devising faces for the floor is sufficient fun. A small pleasure to crease eyes and wrinkle the mouth for such unwilling unreceptive audience. A small progress her shyness no longer extends to the floor. Does not matter that is so exposed. Making faces at the floor will occupy her until the light goes out.

There is no knock at the door. Light not yet out but only pained scratching behind the door. Gnarled ill claws meddling on wood, on the other side and irritating the wood. Her as well. Genuine scowl on her face now, this is worse than the knocking. Prolonged meddling, much longer than the knocking had been. Fluttershy turns her head but it remains. Reminds her of the piss, worse yet the drool, she leaks from both ends. Spilling her insides out from both ends as always. What a saint. Can she die now? Ah no, Fluttershy doesn’t end so remains on floor with a foul expression.

The occasional drip before her right-turned face. Fluttershy is not the only thing that leaks. Muddy liquid drips from ceiling every some minutes, distanced enough as to make no difference. Surroundings now difficult to discern in muck. Dark, ever darker, light unable to endure. The drips endure, adding to noise.

Noises from the door increase, the shuffling and rattling. Rattling, the door moving and knob jerking. Irritating and intruding her silence. It only increases and won’t stop. The door shakes harder, ruffling her feathers, her silence. Fluttershy raises her head and barks, “This isn’t your house, it is mine.”

Nothing stops. The scratches go on, the drips, the dimming light, all goes on. She’s never been paramount to anything.