Four of Oneby DivideChaptersYouIHeMeYouYou My day is completely and utterly filled with nothing but staring at a blank wall. I do not understand how the idiot does it: He ends up staring at this pathetically bare and uninteresting wall for hours on end, with no care for who visits us or what is happening beyond this godforsaken room. Ah, but perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. My name is Leth, and I live an intolerable existence. 'But what is so intolerable about it, Leth?' Thank you for asking. Why, my life is a living Hell because of who I am boarded with and the predicament that we are currently facing. You see, I am the only one here with a sense of urgency—that is, the only one with any sense of urgency who sits in the driver's seat with any regularity. The rest of them should be relegated to backseat driving: I harbour an extreme dislike for them, but wishing their pathetic little aspects away is nothing but a fantasy. And unlike a fantasy, I am living a nightmare. White-washed and padded walls. A concrete ceiling, painted white, but with not enough paint to cover the small but prevalent holes. Moderately blinding and headache inducing fluorescent lights that shine with a piercing—you guessed it—white light. Everything is white. I am absolutely exhausted and worn-out by this hue-less colour. I would give nearly anything for a nice, neutral grey or a common beige. 'Why would you not wish for another colour, Leth, such as blue or green?' First off, let me thank you for refraining from using the same first word in the beginning of your question twice in a row. People who do that aggravate me beyond words. Pertaining to your question—the reason I do not enjoy any of the more 'vibrant' and 'life-like' colours is because the idiot steals them all. Without knowing it, he has taken all colours and tones from me. I doubt that he is even aware that he embodies greed as well as all the other useless traits. Oh well. Do you see me complaining about it? I thought not. Now, on to— Knock-knock. ... Excuse me for a moment: I have company, the first that I will have spoken to in a very long time. Chance is fickle, and I have been on the receiving end of its capricious nature for quite a while. I assume that it's only fair for the scales to eventually balance out. Fair. As if life were fair. "Enter," I say, then cough directly afterword: my throat feels extremely dry. I suppose there was no reason for it to be used recently; the angry one only mutters and snarls, and the idiot mostly hums his gregarious tunes. Hardly exercise for the vocal chords. Whomever is on the other side of the door pauses, seemingly surprised: they must be expecting one of the others to be in control. I smile wryly. Like it or not, they are in for a conversation with yours truly. After the moment's hesitation, the heavy bolts are pulled aside and the white door swings open soundlessly, revealing two silhouetted pony-shaped forms. They walk in, revealing themselves, and I can feel my muscles start to ache as my grin expands: I recognize both of my visitors. Although they look grey to me, the Stetson hat on the earth pony and the hairstyle of the pegasus are both dead giveaways: Applejack and Rainbow Dash have come to see me. I decide to play a little game with them, to check if they are on the tips of their toes—hooves. Blasted ponies: the nuances a different biology plays in language still catches me, on occasion. With a purposeful jerky motion, I turn my head to stare at the two ponies directly, giving them my best unblinking stare. I am certain that with my already twisted smile prevalent, my ploy is complete. "L-Leo?" asks Rainbow Dash, her tone a combination of hope and doubt. "Is that you?" I say nothing, and continue burning a hole into them with my unending stare. Quietly, but not in a low enough voice that I could not hear, Applejack says, "Ah don't think that's Leo. This might be somepony new." Oh, how I abhor that southern drawl. It did not make any sense before, and it still does not now: Why was this atrocious accent relegated solely to the Apple family, and not to any other ponies? Her mannerisms of speaking, combined with her 'truthfulness' and lack of true personality make her my least favourite out of the six ponies that, for whatever reason, continue to visit us. "I must be losing my touch," I say with disgust, making both ponies jump. "Once upon a time—I loathe that term, yet it still applies—I could have convinced the supreme ruler of Equestria that I was the idiot, and she would be none the wiser. Instead, my ruse falls apart before you two. How far I have fallen." Their looks of curiosity change to poorly disguised contempt. "Oh," sighs Rainbow Dash. "It's you." "I have a name, you know. Or have you forgotten? I apologize: Perhaps I will use smaller words to better suit your intelligence level." I flash Rainbow Dash my trademark smile, and she nearly loses it then and there. "Easy there, Dash," Applejack says in a placating tone while simultaneously holding Rainbow Dash with a foreleg—the pegasus looks ready to pounce upon me. If she was a dragon, gusts of fire would be roiling out of her nostrils. "Remember that they all share a body: No matter how much ya'll hate one of 'em, they all pay for it equally." I chuckle darkly. "Oh, yes. We all pay." With shakes of their heads, Applejack and Rainbow Dash turn to leave. "Where do you think you are going?" I call. Rainbow Dash pauses and looks over her shoulder. Her eyes are burning with pain, hatred, and loss. She says with a dead voice, "Home. We're going home. There's no reason for us to visit with you here. "Maybe if you would go away, things would get better," Rainbow Dash continues. Her voice begins to rise in volume. "I know that you're part of the problem, Leth. I know it's you whispering defeat in his ear. Hay, for all I know, you're the one who broke him in the first place." She shuts her eyes and looks away, but not before I see the tears running down her cheeks. How adorable. Applejack consoles her, and together they move towards the exit. Right before they slam the door shut, I say something that he would say commonly, in his voice. "Have a good day, Dash." The door closes with a resounding clang, and the locks slide into place, enclosing me once more. I briefly ponder the loss of conversation, but I get over it quickly. I have myself to communicate with. 'You do?' I smile. Of course: After all, it is just me, myself, and I. If only my hand—hoof, dammit!—didn't ache with searing pain, I would almost be comfortable... II There is a knock on my door. I don't move; I like it here, where it's safe and secure. The floor and the walls and the ceiling all stay the same, and if I move, they will leave and not be the same. Another knock. I wonder when they will realize that doesn't work on me. Not anymore. Finally, the door slides open with a soundless scream, the hinge yelling and complaining, but with nopony to hear it but me. I want to help it, but I can't. Not anymore. Not after last time. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. A pause. The door swings shut, and the ones outside lock it behind. I smile, remembering that I was the one who made them put a lock on it. I wonder who came to see me. I'm curious, but not stupid: I know that if I turn and look, observe with my eyes, the floor and the walls and the ceiling will move. They can't move if I keep staring at them, so I endure the burning desire to move and look and see and instead look straight ahead. Step, step, step. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the colours of yellow and pink. A nice colour, yellow. Soft and mellow, relaxing, calming. But pink? I don't like pink. No, pink is bad. Pink is sickly sweet and syrupy; is influenza and sickness. Badness. More steps, and a pivot-twist that makes whoever is there—don't look!—face me. They are close, but not too close: Just the right distance away. A comfortable distance. A familiar distance. I can see—still not looking!—soft, relaxed wings and a sick curled mane. Two sad eyes look at me. They're blue and deep and crying and— No! I looked away! How could I do this? How could I let the ideas and the colours and the feeling and the ceiling go away, never to come back! Whywhywhy! I turn and look at this newcomer. They have ruined everything that I was striving to achieve in one fell swoop; I might as well give them attention, since they so desperately want it. "What do you want?" I ask, my voice cracking with disuse. I don't remember the last time I spoke. My voice bounces off the walls, and comes back like a faithful boomerang, telling my ears what I said. I may have lost my ideas and creations and the walls, but at least I have my voice. Instead of answering me, the newcomer sniffles and cries and tears roll down her two cheeks only to reunite with each other like long-lost twins at the bottom of her chin and drop to the ground, together. I watch all this and know. "I-It's me. Fluttershy," the newcomer says. The name, calling is familiar to me. I think. Did I make that name up? It gets so hard to remember after so long without having my walls and floor and ceiling to store my ideas and feelings and thoughts and memories. "Do I know you?" I ask impatiently. I'm impatient because I want to begin sweeping up the pieces and scraps. If they collect dust for too long, I won't be able to retrieve them and they'll be lost, forever and ever and ever. I don't want them to be lost; I want to give life unto them, breathe them, live them, pretend and play, then forget to remember to forget. The newcomer swallows, their throat muscles constricting and loosening and constricting again. Like a snake. Oh, that's brilliant! Like a snake, slithering and worming their way up and down a tunnel— "I don't know if you remember me," the newcomer says, "but me and my friends knew you for while. You literally popped into our lives. You were different then; you didn't have hooves, or a tail—you weren't even a pony." A... pony? I was a pony? I glance around at myself, and notice that I have hooves and a chest that rises and falls and is covered in fur. I guess that I am a pony, then. The more you know. "You're... sick. Problems arose, and you lost control," the voice continues. Who did they think they were? I wasn't sick! They're the one who's sick, what with their sweet and nauseously pink mane. I'm not sick! ... I'm not sick. Please don't tell me I'm sick. I'm not sick, right? Right? "I'm not sick, right?" I ask. The newcomer looks away, with shame and pity and other things on their face. It makes me feel sad that they're feeling like this: I want to make them happy, to laugh, to gasp and be in awe, but I can't because my walls and the floor and the ceiling are gone! Gone! I stamp a hoof in frustration, and it makes a soft clunk before the sound falls and gathers dust. Suddenly, I realize that I can make music with these hooves. I begin to tap them at regular and irregular beats. The music is sound to my ears; it bounces of the walls and comes back and bounces and comes back and then starts all over again. I like the music—I can feel it in my bones, my muscles, my sinewy tendons that run up and down and all around my body. The music is alive. It's a sea serpent that crashes out of waves of seething foam, an eagle that folds its wings and dives through the wind, a pony that jumps and frolics and trots on a familiar path, happy to be alive and happy to see that everything else is vibrant and full of life. A pony that flutters and is shy. The pony keeps going and going, feeding the hungry animals and enjoying life. The pony sees the place it calls home, and the other ponies that it calls friends, and it's happy and loved and wanted. I don't see it, but the newcomer walks away with their head down and tears still streaming down their calm, yellow cheeks. I don't see the other sickly, pink pony either: I pay it no attention, because my walls and the floor and the ceiling are back, and I can start dusting off the ideas and creations that are my pride and joy. HeMe Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crack. I step back, and admire the damage. Amongst the blood, I can see that the wall has a new crack in it. So does my hoof, but that doesn't matter. I haven't felt anything for a long time, and it's starting to grow on me. Except for anger. I still feel that. The red-hot, burning, pulsating, adrenaline-filled feeling of rage is still alive and well, for I keep the flame burning like a hand cupped over a lighter to keep the wind from extinguishing it. It's well I do, too. Who else is going to keep the fury alive? Leth is too weak. He is nothing but cheap talk, the meaningless words before a satisfying brawl. Were he a separate entity, I would show him what I do to lazy, slothful bastards filled with enough hot air to fill up a zeppelin. And Leo? Don't get me started on him. All play and no work. He sits there, lost in memories and pretends that everything is fine when it's clearly not. Fool. Damaged. Broken. I wouldn't even feel bad about hitting him, as he's as much a part of me as my cracked and bloody hoof. Masochism is generally frowned at, but I don't care; he's me, and I'm him, and I can do whatever I damn please when I'm in control. And I want out. I look back at the wall, and hit it as hard as I can. Both cracks enlarge, and the colour red becomes more prominent. It won't be long now. The times I have control are few and far between, but when I do, I don't squander it. Soon, I will be free of this room. And if my plan works, I'll be free of this body, too. Just as I'm about to put all of my weight behind another crushing blow, I hear the telltale sounds of the locks undoing. Confused, I halt before my shredded stump makes contact. Was I mistaken? Surely they wouldn't make my escape this easy... ...Perhaps they are. The last of the locks are sliding out of their sheaths, scraping along like a sharpened blade. I slowly creep over to the wall that the door resides along. Out of sight, out of mind. I know they're watching me, even when I can't see them. But if they can see me, why are they opening the door? I don't know, but I don't question it: If they want to make my escape easier, than I shall let them. Sliding against the wall, closer and closer to my freedom, I wait just before the doorway. At the first instance of the door opening, I will escape, and no one can stop me. I don't pity anyone who stands in my way—in fact, I can't. The door opens, and I'm gone faster than a bullet. I shoulder it the rest of the way open, and barrel into someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They fall down, staggering, and try to trip me with their legs, but I anticipate the movement and jump. I land beside them, untouched, and deliver a quick blow to the head—not hard enough to snap the vertebrae, but enough to knock them out cold. One less combatant, one less problem. A shriek spikes my ears, and I jerk my head towards the sound. Standing stock still, but vibrating with fear, is a white pony with a sharp horn, mouth locked in a screaming position. Female, if the tone of the scream was any indication. A little voice inside my head thinks they're familiar, and that hurting them is a sin, but I squash the voice like an ant beneath my boot. Sin? Hardly. Nobody was innocent, and everybody deserves what's coming to them. Even if that thing is me, they deserve it, deserve every second of pain that I shall wrought upon them. I smile, but it's not a smile. It's more than that. It's a predatory instinct: I am the prey, and this pony in front of me, cowering in sweet, pungent fear is my prey. I grind my teeth, and regret that my sharp canines are but flat molars, but I don't regret for long. Regret is not me. I am fear, wrath, and instinct. I am the boogeyman that someone thinks they see before they go to bed, the avenging angel that smites the impure with cold justice, the inner animal that attacks with tooth and claw, fighting for food and shelter and mates. I am everything that has been lost, reborn in a body that cannot hold my purity of form. I see all this, and more, in the blink of an eye, the exhalation of a single breath. I taste the terror of the pony in front, hear the shallow breathing of the unconscious pony behind, and feel the power that courses through my, admittedly, frail container. I eye the horn again. Very sharp. I must act, and quickly, before— The sound of a solitary, echoing step from far behind me is all the warning I receive before I drift away from the ground, uncontrollably. A green sheen slides over my and encompasses my vision, and I struggle and strain to free myself from the tightening, constricting light. No. No! My chance, gone. I punch and kick and bite and tear, but it's no use: I may as well have been trying to push my way through unbreakable cellophane. I slump slightly, to give the false impression that I was defeated, while still scanning my surroundings, looking for some way out. I know when something is a lost cause, and this wasn't. I could still escape, earn my freedom with blood and sweat... My vision darkens, and I hear the sound of gentle sobbing. I feel a flutter of... something within my chest. I almost feel bad for what I did... ...And then I realize that, in actuality, I don't. I can't see, but I smile like a shark anyway. I am myself, and there's nobody who can take that away from me. I finally succumb to the darkness, and I await the next time it's my turn in the driver's seat with zeal. I can't wait to keep working on that cracked wall. MeMe I open my eyes. That in itself surprises me. My heart is a beating a mile a minute, I can feel spittle on my face, and I can feel hatred and fear around me. I try to take steady, even breaths and calm down as best I can. I touch a limb to my face—and it comes away dry. Just like that, the illusion shatters, I know I'm alone, and my heart resumes its familiar ba-dump, ba-dump. I slowly look around, eye sockets rolling like magic eight balls, from my position on the soft floor. Ten seconds of observation when you don't know where you are can save your life—or so I heard. Regardless, I observe until the allotted time expires. I'm in a cell. A white cell. A white, padded cell with the smell of cleaning supplies prevalent throughout the stuffy air, to be exact. My teeth grit and my eyes narrow. Who did this to me?! Where am I?! I don't remember how or why— Wait... Yes, I do remember. Flashes; tiny, microscopic pieces of information line up like so many pawns on a chessboard, all different colours. It forms a picture, one seen through my own eyes. Six happy looking ponies, all laughing at the same bad joke, with a solitary dragon trying to suppress his laughter in the background. Then the picture is gone—whisked away only to be replaced by another just like it, only different. Instead of six happy looking ponies plus one dragon, I see two regal faces, one of dark blue, and one of white. Their faces are wearing the politely detached look they always wore in public, but I could see the suppressed amusement beneath the mask as I gestured wildly with my hands, trying to make one of many failed attempts at storytelling as detailed as possible. Then that one is gone, too. All gone so fast, fleeing faster than a cheetah with its tail caught on fire. I see with my mind's eye enough pictures to fill a museum, an art gallery—all gone so fast that I can't keep track. But that was the test: I wasn't supposed to be able to keep track. I didn't have to save each and every memory like it was precious. Each one was precious, in its own way, but there would always be more, always be others. I didn't have to save them; hoard them; treat them like they were bedazzled golden jewellery. No, I could afford to let some go. In fact, I probably should let some of them go: If the state of my memory tells me anything, it's that some extra room won't hurt. All of this takes less than a few seconds. Or at least, what feels like a few seconds. Time can be rather finicky while in a white box with nothing to measure it by. How do I know that? I sit up straight, and ponder my own question in depth. Still revelling from the shock of experiencing my memories for a second time, it takes me longer than I'd like to admit to realize that something tragic must've befallen me. I must be suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder, or something of a similar vein. I also feel very tired, as if my body wasn't quite resting while my brain did. I look around some more, and am forced to squint my eyes against the blinding glare of the walls. There's no windows, but a section of the wall that's sunken attracts my attention. Upon closer inspection, the indentation is revealed to be a door. Now, if only I could make it there. I start to move, but stop when a wave of lethargy comes over me. Why should I bother? I was obviously placed in this... cell for a reason—why should I be let out on a whim? I glance back at the wall with tired eyes. I shouldn't try anymore; instead, I should sit here and do nothing. Attempting to do something was what placed me here in the first place, so why bother? Why bother? Why bother. Why. Bother. I turn back towards the door. I know why I should bother. I should bother because, like it or not, I got myself into this mess, and sitting around doing nothing isn't going to solve the problem. No matter how easy it was to sit and ponder the why's... no matter how infinitely easier that is, there are some things that just have to be done. Taking a deep breath, a deeper one than I could normally take, I attempt to stand—attempt being the key word. I fall flat on my face because my limbs don't seem to be responding to my commands. One of them hurts—hurts quite badly, actually, and I don't know why. I manage to sit back up, then I look down, and find another slightly unnerving fact to add to my ever-growing list. Instead of pale skin and toes, I see golden fur and hooves. I'm nearly paralyzed in shock—with one exception of a hoof slowly turning this way and that to be meticulously scanned by my eyes, and another of my chest slowly rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths, my body is as still as the statues in the Canterlot garden. My subconscious acts entirely of its own accord and sends me a quick video, one of extremely high quality, nearly indistinguishable from true reality. The audio starts a second before the picture kicks in. "And you're sure that this won't somehow backfire?" I hear myself ask as if I was actually there. It's even said exactly how I would say it. The colour bleeds in like an old television set, and I see a purple unicorn looking directing at me, wearing a smile that contains equal parts exhaustion from being asked the same question repeatedly and true excitement from the circumstances. "Yes, I'm sure, Divide," the unicorn replies in a familiar female tone. I let out an involuntary shiver upon hearing my name. Yes, that was my name. Divide. Simple and surprisingly appropriate. Why was it appropriate? I feel like I should know... The unicorn resumes speaking, and I listen politely. "I've done hundreds of tests across dozens of test subjects. Believe me, I've never been more sure of something working exactly like it's supposed to—which would be a nice change of pace." I almost frown with concern until I realize she is poking fun at her own, admittedly, failed scientific pursuits. I smile with complete certainty, and try to show that I have faith in the project by saying: "You're right: We should probably get this over and done with." I don't think it worked. Knock knock knock-knock knock. The sudden rapping at my chamber door startles me out of my memory. Shaking off my inner vision, I look at the door. A faint, new memory stirs in the old one's place; a memory of a pattern, a familiar repetition. A jingle. I carefully shuffle towards the door on unsteady legs. What am I supposed to do? What happens next? My hand—hoof, rather—reaches out of its own behest and answers the call from muscle memory. Knock-knock. Silence. A painfully loud silence follows. Gulping down a feeling of dread, I slowly push myself away from the door. I stare at it for what feels like hours before the sound of metal grinding against metal grates my ear, making me jump backwards and push myself flat against the far wall. I don't move a muscle while the door opens, but my eyes are fixated on the dark silhouette standing in the light. It feels like the image is burned into my retinas. I blink, and I see who is in front me, clearly. "Twilight," I say, voice broken. "You finally got your wings." I wake up, and the thought fills me with absolutely nothing at all. I make myself stand, and walk over to the solitary window within the clean, shadowed room. Through the looking glass, I see my sight fluttering wildly, with flashes of purple that, only upon closer inspection, happens to be my once-friend of Twilight Sparkle. I hear a tortured sound of one using my throat, but not with my voice. I look away.
YouYou My day is completely and utterly filled with nothing but staring at a blank wall. I do not understand how the idiot does it: He ends up staring at this pathetically bare and uninteresting wall for hours on end, with no care for who visits us or what is happening beyond this godforsaken room. Ah, but perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. My name is Leth, and I live an intolerable existence. 'But what is so intolerable about it, Leth?' Thank you for asking. Why, my life is a living Hell because of who I am boarded with and the predicament that we are currently facing. You see, I am the only one here with a sense of urgency—that is, the only one with any sense of urgency who sits in the driver's seat with any regularity. The rest of them should be relegated to backseat driving: I harbour an extreme dislike for them, but wishing their pathetic little aspects away is nothing but a fantasy. And unlike a fantasy, I am living a nightmare. White-washed and padded walls. A concrete ceiling, painted white, but with not enough paint to cover the small but prevalent holes. Moderately blinding and headache inducing fluorescent lights that shine with a piercing—you guessed it—white light. Everything is white. I am absolutely exhausted and worn-out by this hue-less colour. I would give nearly anything for a nice, neutral grey or a common beige. 'Why would you not wish for another colour, Leth, such as blue or green?' First off, let me thank you for refraining from using the same first word in the beginning of your question twice in a row. People who do that aggravate me beyond words. Pertaining to your question—the reason I do not enjoy any of the more 'vibrant' and 'life-like' colours is because the idiot steals them all. Without knowing it, he has taken all colours and tones from me. I doubt that he is even aware that he embodies greed as well as all the other useless traits. Oh well. Do you see me complaining about it? I thought not. Now, on to— Knock-knock. ... Excuse me for a moment: I have company, the first that I will have spoken to in a very long time. Chance is fickle, and I have been on the receiving end of its capricious nature for quite a while. I assume that it's only fair for the scales to eventually balance out. Fair. As if life were fair. "Enter," I say, then cough directly afterword: my throat feels extremely dry. I suppose there was no reason for it to be used recently; the angry one only mutters and snarls, and the idiot mostly hums his gregarious tunes. Hardly exercise for the vocal chords. Whomever is on the other side of the door pauses, seemingly surprised: they must be expecting one of the others to be in control. I smile wryly. Like it or not, they are in for a conversation with yours truly. After the moment's hesitation, the heavy bolts are pulled aside and the white door swings open soundlessly, revealing two silhouetted pony-shaped forms. They walk in, revealing themselves, and I can feel my muscles start to ache as my grin expands: I recognize both of my visitors. Although they look grey to me, the Stetson hat on the earth pony and the hairstyle of the pegasus are both dead giveaways: Applejack and Rainbow Dash have come to see me. I decide to play a little game with them, to check if they are on the tips of their toes—hooves. Blasted ponies: the nuances a different biology plays in language still catches me, on occasion. With a purposeful jerky motion, I turn my head to stare at the two ponies directly, giving them my best unblinking stare. I am certain that with my already twisted smile prevalent, my ploy is complete. "L-Leo?" asks Rainbow Dash, her tone a combination of hope and doubt. "Is that you?" I say nothing, and continue burning a hole into them with my unending stare. Quietly, but not in a low enough voice that I could not hear, Applejack says, "Ah don't think that's Leo. This might be somepony new." Oh, how I abhor that southern drawl. It did not make any sense before, and it still does not now: Why was this atrocious accent relegated solely to the Apple family, and not to any other ponies? Her mannerisms of speaking, combined with her 'truthfulness' and lack of true personality make her my least favourite out of the six ponies that, for whatever reason, continue to visit us. "I must be losing my touch," I say with disgust, making both ponies jump. "Once upon a time—I loathe that term, yet it still applies—I could have convinced the supreme ruler of Equestria that I was the idiot, and she would be none the wiser. Instead, my ruse falls apart before you two. How far I have fallen." Their looks of curiosity change to poorly disguised contempt. "Oh," sighs Rainbow Dash. "It's you." "I have a name, you know. Or have you forgotten? I apologize: Perhaps I will use smaller words to better suit your intelligence level." I flash Rainbow Dash my trademark smile, and she nearly loses it then and there. "Easy there, Dash," Applejack says in a placating tone while simultaneously holding Rainbow Dash with a foreleg—the pegasus looks ready to pounce upon me. If she was a dragon, gusts of fire would be roiling out of her nostrils. "Remember that they all share a body: No matter how much ya'll hate one of 'em, they all pay for it equally." I chuckle darkly. "Oh, yes. We all pay." With shakes of their heads, Applejack and Rainbow Dash turn to leave. "Where do you think you are going?" I call. Rainbow Dash pauses and looks over her shoulder. Her eyes are burning with pain, hatred, and loss. She says with a dead voice, "Home. We're going home. There's no reason for us to visit with you here. "Maybe if you would go away, things would get better," Rainbow Dash continues. Her voice begins to rise in volume. "I know that you're part of the problem, Leth. I know it's you whispering defeat in his ear. Hay, for all I know, you're the one who broke him in the first place." She shuts her eyes and looks away, but not before I see the tears running down her cheeks. How adorable. Applejack consoles her, and together they move towards the exit. Right before they slam the door shut, I say something that he would say commonly, in his voice. "Have a good day, Dash." The door closes with a resounding clang, and the locks slide into place, enclosing me once more. I briefly ponder the loss of conversation, but I get over it quickly. I have myself to communicate with. 'You do?' I smile. Of course: After all, it is just me, myself, and I. If only my hand—hoof, dammit!—didn't ache with searing pain, I would almost be comfortable...
II There is a knock on my door. I don't move; I like it here, where it's safe and secure. The floor and the walls and the ceiling all stay the same, and if I move, they will leave and not be the same. Another knock. I wonder when they will realize that doesn't work on me. Not anymore. Finally, the door slides open with a soundless scream, the hinge yelling and complaining, but with nopony to hear it but me. I want to help it, but I can't. Not anymore. Not after last time. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. Hoofstep. A pause. The door swings shut, and the ones outside lock it behind. I smile, remembering that I was the one who made them put a lock on it. I wonder who came to see me. I'm curious, but not stupid: I know that if I turn and look, observe with my eyes, the floor and the walls and the ceiling will move. They can't move if I keep staring at them, so I endure the burning desire to move and look and see and instead look straight ahead. Step, step, step. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the colours of yellow and pink. A nice colour, yellow. Soft and mellow, relaxing, calming. But pink? I don't like pink. No, pink is bad. Pink is sickly sweet and syrupy; is influenza and sickness. Badness. More steps, and a pivot-twist that makes whoever is there—don't look!—face me. They are close, but not too close: Just the right distance away. A comfortable distance. A familiar distance. I can see—still not looking!—soft, relaxed wings and a sick curled mane. Two sad eyes look at me. They're blue and deep and crying and— No! I looked away! How could I do this? How could I let the ideas and the colours and the feeling and the ceiling go away, never to come back! Whywhywhy! I turn and look at this newcomer. They have ruined everything that I was striving to achieve in one fell swoop; I might as well give them attention, since they so desperately want it. "What do you want?" I ask, my voice cracking with disuse. I don't remember the last time I spoke. My voice bounces off the walls, and comes back like a faithful boomerang, telling my ears what I said. I may have lost my ideas and creations and the walls, but at least I have my voice. Instead of answering me, the newcomer sniffles and cries and tears roll down her two cheeks only to reunite with each other like long-lost twins at the bottom of her chin and drop to the ground, together. I watch all this and know. "I-It's me. Fluttershy," the newcomer says. The name, calling is familiar to me. I think. Did I make that name up? It gets so hard to remember after so long without having my walls and floor and ceiling to store my ideas and feelings and thoughts and memories. "Do I know you?" I ask impatiently. I'm impatient because I want to begin sweeping up the pieces and scraps. If they collect dust for too long, I won't be able to retrieve them and they'll be lost, forever and ever and ever. I don't want them to be lost; I want to give life unto them, breathe them, live them, pretend and play, then forget to remember to forget. The newcomer swallows, their throat muscles constricting and loosening and constricting again. Like a snake. Oh, that's brilliant! Like a snake, slithering and worming their way up and down a tunnel— "I don't know if you remember me," the newcomer says, "but me and my friends knew you for while. You literally popped into our lives. You were different then; you didn't have hooves, or a tail—you weren't even a pony." A... pony? I was a pony? I glance around at myself, and notice that I have hooves and a chest that rises and falls and is covered in fur. I guess that I am a pony, then. The more you know. "You're... sick. Problems arose, and you lost control," the voice continues. Who did they think they were? I wasn't sick! They're the one who's sick, what with their sweet and nauseously pink mane. I'm not sick! ... I'm not sick. Please don't tell me I'm sick. I'm not sick, right? Right? "I'm not sick, right?" I ask. The newcomer looks away, with shame and pity and other things on their face. It makes me feel sad that they're feeling like this: I want to make them happy, to laugh, to gasp and be in awe, but I can't because my walls and the floor and the ceiling are gone! Gone! I stamp a hoof in frustration, and it makes a soft clunk before the sound falls and gathers dust. Suddenly, I realize that I can make music with these hooves. I begin to tap them at regular and irregular beats. The music is sound to my ears; it bounces of the walls and comes back and bounces and comes back and then starts all over again. I like the music—I can feel it in my bones, my muscles, my sinewy tendons that run up and down and all around my body. The music is alive. It's a sea serpent that crashes out of waves of seething foam, an eagle that folds its wings and dives through the wind, a pony that jumps and frolics and trots on a familiar path, happy to be alive and happy to see that everything else is vibrant and full of life. A pony that flutters and is shy. The pony keeps going and going, feeding the hungry animals and enjoying life. The pony sees the place it calls home, and the other ponies that it calls friends, and it's happy and loved and wanted. I don't see it, but the newcomer walks away with their head down and tears still streaming down their calm, yellow cheeks. I don't see the other sickly, pink pony either: I pay it no attention, because my walls and the floor and the ceiling are back, and I can start dusting off the ideas and creations that are my pride and joy.
HeMe Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crack. I step back, and admire the damage. Amongst the blood, I can see that the wall has a new crack in it. So does my hoof, but that doesn't matter. I haven't felt anything for a long time, and it's starting to grow on me. Except for anger. I still feel that. The red-hot, burning, pulsating, adrenaline-filled feeling of rage is still alive and well, for I keep the flame burning like a hand cupped over a lighter to keep the wind from extinguishing it. It's well I do, too. Who else is going to keep the fury alive? Leth is too weak. He is nothing but cheap talk, the meaningless words before a satisfying brawl. Were he a separate entity, I would show him what I do to lazy, slothful bastards filled with enough hot air to fill up a zeppelin. And Leo? Don't get me started on him. All play and no work. He sits there, lost in memories and pretends that everything is fine when it's clearly not. Fool. Damaged. Broken. I wouldn't even feel bad about hitting him, as he's as much a part of me as my cracked and bloody hoof. Masochism is generally frowned at, but I don't care; he's me, and I'm him, and I can do whatever I damn please when I'm in control. And I want out. I look back at the wall, and hit it as hard as I can. Both cracks enlarge, and the colour red becomes more prominent. It won't be long now. The times I have control are few and far between, but when I do, I don't squander it. Soon, I will be free of this room. And if my plan works, I'll be free of this body, too. Just as I'm about to put all of my weight behind another crushing blow, I hear the telltale sounds of the locks undoing. Confused, I halt before my shredded stump makes contact. Was I mistaken? Surely they wouldn't make my escape this easy... ...Perhaps they are. The last of the locks are sliding out of their sheaths, scraping along like a sharpened blade. I slowly creep over to the wall that the door resides along. Out of sight, out of mind. I know they're watching me, even when I can't see them. But if they can see me, why are they opening the door? I don't know, but I don't question it: If they want to make my escape easier, than I shall let them. Sliding against the wall, closer and closer to my freedom, I wait just before the doorway. At the first instance of the door opening, I will escape, and no one can stop me. I don't pity anyone who stands in my way—in fact, I can't. The door opens, and I'm gone faster than a bullet. I shoulder it the rest of the way open, and barrel into someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They fall down, staggering, and try to trip me with their legs, but I anticipate the movement and jump. I land beside them, untouched, and deliver a quick blow to the head—not hard enough to snap the vertebrae, but enough to knock them out cold. One less combatant, one less problem. A shriek spikes my ears, and I jerk my head towards the sound. Standing stock still, but vibrating with fear, is a white pony with a sharp horn, mouth locked in a screaming position. Female, if the tone of the scream was any indication. A little voice inside my head thinks they're familiar, and that hurting them is a sin, but I squash the voice like an ant beneath my boot. Sin? Hardly. Nobody was innocent, and everybody deserves what's coming to them. Even if that thing is me, they deserve it, deserve every second of pain that I shall wrought upon them. I smile, but it's not a smile. It's more than that. It's a predatory instinct: I am the prey, and this pony in front of me, cowering in sweet, pungent fear is my prey. I grind my teeth, and regret that my sharp canines are but flat molars, but I don't regret for long. Regret is not me. I am fear, wrath, and instinct. I am the boogeyman that someone thinks they see before they go to bed, the avenging angel that smites the impure with cold justice, the inner animal that attacks with tooth and claw, fighting for food and shelter and mates. I am everything that has been lost, reborn in a body that cannot hold my purity of form. I see all this, and more, in the blink of an eye, the exhalation of a single breath. I taste the terror of the pony in front, hear the shallow breathing of the unconscious pony behind, and feel the power that courses through my, admittedly, frail container. I eye the horn again. Very sharp. I must act, and quickly, before— The sound of a solitary, echoing step from far behind me is all the warning I receive before I drift away from the ground, uncontrollably. A green sheen slides over my and encompasses my vision, and I struggle and strain to free myself from the tightening, constricting light. No. No! My chance, gone. I punch and kick and bite and tear, but it's no use: I may as well have been trying to push my way through unbreakable cellophane. I slump slightly, to give the false impression that I was defeated, while still scanning my surroundings, looking for some way out. I know when something is a lost cause, and this wasn't. I could still escape, earn my freedom with blood and sweat... My vision darkens, and I hear the sound of gentle sobbing. I feel a flutter of... something within my chest. I almost feel bad for what I did... ...And then I realize that, in actuality, I don't. I can't see, but I smile like a shark anyway. I am myself, and there's nobody who can take that away from me. I finally succumb to the darkness, and I await the next time it's my turn in the driver's seat with zeal. I can't wait to keep working on that cracked wall.
MeMe I open my eyes. That in itself surprises me. My heart is a beating a mile a minute, I can feel spittle on my face, and I can feel hatred and fear around me. I try to take steady, even breaths and calm down as best I can. I touch a limb to my face—and it comes away dry. Just like that, the illusion shatters, I know I'm alone, and my heart resumes its familiar ba-dump, ba-dump. I slowly look around, eye sockets rolling like magic eight balls, from my position on the soft floor. Ten seconds of observation when you don't know where you are can save your life—or so I heard. Regardless, I observe until the allotted time expires. I'm in a cell. A white cell. A white, padded cell with the smell of cleaning supplies prevalent throughout the stuffy air, to be exact. My teeth grit and my eyes narrow. Who did this to me?! Where am I?! I don't remember how or why— Wait... Yes, I do remember. Flashes; tiny, microscopic pieces of information line up like so many pawns on a chessboard, all different colours. It forms a picture, one seen through my own eyes. Six happy looking ponies, all laughing at the same bad joke, with a solitary dragon trying to suppress his laughter in the background. Then the picture is gone—whisked away only to be replaced by another just like it, only different. Instead of six happy looking ponies plus one dragon, I see two regal faces, one of dark blue, and one of white. Their faces are wearing the politely detached look they always wore in public, but I could see the suppressed amusement beneath the mask as I gestured wildly with my hands, trying to make one of many failed attempts at storytelling as detailed as possible. Then that one is gone, too. All gone so fast, fleeing faster than a cheetah with its tail caught on fire. I see with my mind's eye enough pictures to fill a museum, an art gallery—all gone so fast that I can't keep track. But that was the test: I wasn't supposed to be able to keep track. I didn't have to save each and every memory like it was precious. Each one was precious, in its own way, but there would always be more, always be others. I didn't have to save them; hoard them; treat them like they were bedazzled golden jewellery. No, I could afford to let some go. In fact, I probably should let some of them go: If the state of my memory tells me anything, it's that some extra room won't hurt. All of this takes less than a few seconds. Or at least, what feels like a few seconds. Time can be rather finicky while in a white box with nothing to measure it by. How do I know that? I sit up straight, and ponder my own question in depth. Still revelling from the shock of experiencing my memories for a second time, it takes me longer than I'd like to admit to realize that something tragic must've befallen me. I must be suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder, or something of a similar vein. I also feel very tired, as if my body wasn't quite resting while my brain did. I look around some more, and am forced to squint my eyes against the blinding glare of the walls. There's no windows, but a section of the wall that's sunken attracts my attention. Upon closer inspection, the indentation is revealed to be a door. Now, if only I could make it there. I start to move, but stop when a wave of lethargy comes over me. Why should I bother? I was obviously placed in this... cell for a reason—why should I be let out on a whim? I glance back at the wall with tired eyes. I shouldn't try anymore; instead, I should sit here and do nothing. Attempting to do something was what placed me here in the first place, so why bother? Why bother? Why bother. Why. Bother. I turn back towards the door. I know why I should bother. I should bother because, like it or not, I got myself into this mess, and sitting around doing nothing isn't going to solve the problem. No matter how easy it was to sit and ponder the why's... no matter how infinitely easier that is, there are some things that just have to be done. Taking a deep breath, a deeper one than I could normally take, I attempt to stand—attempt being the key word. I fall flat on my face because my limbs don't seem to be responding to my commands. One of them hurts—hurts quite badly, actually, and I don't know why. I manage to sit back up, then I look down, and find another slightly unnerving fact to add to my ever-growing list. Instead of pale skin and toes, I see golden fur and hooves. I'm nearly paralyzed in shock—with one exception of a hoof slowly turning this way and that to be meticulously scanned by my eyes, and another of my chest slowly rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths, my body is as still as the statues in the Canterlot garden. My subconscious acts entirely of its own accord and sends me a quick video, one of extremely high quality, nearly indistinguishable from true reality. The audio starts a second before the picture kicks in. "And you're sure that this won't somehow backfire?" I hear myself ask as if I was actually there. It's even said exactly how I would say it. The colour bleeds in like an old television set, and I see a purple unicorn looking directing at me, wearing a smile that contains equal parts exhaustion from being asked the same question repeatedly and true excitement from the circumstances. "Yes, I'm sure, Divide," the unicorn replies in a familiar female tone. I let out an involuntary shiver upon hearing my name. Yes, that was my name. Divide. Simple and surprisingly appropriate. Why was it appropriate? I feel like I should know... The unicorn resumes speaking, and I listen politely. "I've done hundreds of tests across dozens of test subjects. Believe me, I've never been more sure of something working exactly like it's supposed to—which would be a nice change of pace." I almost frown with concern until I realize she is poking fun at her own, admittedly, failed scientific pursuits. I smile with complete certainty, and try to show that I have faith in the project by saying: "You're right: We should probably get this over and done with." I don't think it worked. Knock knock knock-knock knock. The sudden rapping at my chamber door startles me out of my memory. Shaking off my inner vision, I look at the door. A faint, new memory stirs in the old one's place; a memory of a pattern, a familiar repetition. A jingle. I carefully shuffle towards the door on unsteady legs. What am I supposed to do? What happens next? My hand—hoof, rather—reaches out of its own behest and answers the call from muscle memory. Knock-knock. Silence. A painfully loud silence follows. Gulping down a feeling of dread, I slowly push myself away from the door. I stare at it for what feels like hours before the sound of metal grinding against metal grates my ear, making me jump backwards and push myself flat against the far wall. I don't move a muscle while the door opens, but my eyes are fixated on the dark silhouette standing in the light. It feels like the image is burned into my retinas. I blink, and I see who is in front me, clearly. "Twilight," I say, voice broken. "You finally got your wings." I wake up, and the thought fills me with absolutely nothing at all. I make myself stand, and walk over to the solitary window within the clean, shadowed room. Through the looking glass, I see my sight fluttering wildly, with flashes of purple that, only upon closer inspection, happens to be my once-friend of Twilight Sparkle. I hear a tortured sound of one using my throat, but not with my voice. I look away.
