Finding Happiness

by Gh0stWrit3r

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life, Romance, Tragedy, Human
Length: 2503

A man becomes a pet pony.

You just wanted to live life on your own terms. You only had a few months left until you were free to do what you wanted. Funny how life loves to throw those wacky curve balls right at wrong times.

(There are some adult themes. As of this point, there is no explicit clop. That is not to say there isn't going to be.)

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-05-28 00:39:56 UTC

Another Day in Paradise

You gaze out the window lazily, your head favoring the support of your left hand.  You watch a couple of birds fly by, sighing to yourself.  Every morning at work was like this, or at least the mornings when you had to drive.

Hop in a truck, deliver equipment to an aircraft, then go to the equipment pad and daydream as you wait for the next call.  It was an easy job, paying particularly well for it’s monotonous taskings, but you yearned for something a little more you.

You shift so that you can get a better look at the bird that has landed on the stand just to your left.  The bird sings out, almost as if to taunt you.  You feel the envy bubble up beneath your skin.

“Why do you stay here?” you ask it.  It cocks it’s head to the side and for a moment you think that it might just answer.  You sigh once more.

“You could be anywhere you want to right now...”

You wish you had wings.  Hell, you wished for a lot of things.  While even you acknowledge that joining the military isn’t the worst decision you’ve ever made (remember that one time at Brad’s house?) you still regretted it more than anything.  Living in a cage, being told how to dress, even simple things like how to eat and how to live had all taken their toll on you.  You were a free spirit!

You shout out in frustration at the bird.  It cocks it’s head sideways.  How could it squander it’s freedom here?  A prolonged honk of the horn sends it flapping away.  You smirk.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, you manage to get enough calls to keep you from spending too much time zoning out.  The day passes much faster that way.

Before long, you find yourself back home in your apartment.  You kick your boots off before going to your bedroom to change out of your sweaty uniform that you’d grown to despise.  Some days you were proud of what you did.  This was not one of them.

You quickly change into your pajamas (they’re comfortable and you don’t have anyone to impress).  You collapse into your computer chair at your desk, one of the few pieces of furniture decorating your apartment.  You liked the freedom of space that few belongings provided.  That and it put a few extra bucks in your wallet, which you were all too happy to spend on other things (like your DJ PON3 hoodie).

    Your computer interrupts your thoughts with a jingle.  Someone’s calling you on Skype.  You recognize it as your best friend, Chris.  You put on your awesome 5.1 digital surround sound headset, clicking answer.

    “Sup?”  You say in your laid back demeanor.

    “Bro, do you even bro, bro?”  This was stereotypical Chris.  Completely random.  He was stationed in California, having joined the Air Force alongside you, after you talked him into it.  He still hasn’t forgiven you for that.

    “So life’s going that good then, huh?”

    “Fucking RIGHT!”  He screams into the mic.  Yep.  Just another average conversation with Chris.

    To be entirely honest, he had played a big role in what you were today.  He’d always had your back when you needed help, and you were truly grateful for that.  Sometimes, he was more like a brother to you than your own brothers (both of which whom hated Chris).

    The two of you spend the rest of the night harassing people on Omegle.  You get plenty of laughs out of it.  Most of them are trolls anyhow.  Before long, you call it a night, promising more wacky antics in the future.

    Your eyes fly open, your heart beating fast.  You look over at the clock, willing your eyes to focus enough to see it.  Two thirty-four AM.  You turn over, closing your eyes.  You’d woken up just about every night since you’d gotten to this base.  You hadn’t figured out why, but it was more than frustrating to you.

    A memory tugs at the back of your mind.  Were you dreaming?  You can’t seem to recall.  You do you best to jog your memory, walking yourself backwards.  No dice.  You give a huff before deciding it must not have been something important.

    You awaken to sunlight pouring through the window.  You’re sweating profusely, your sheets soaked.  You throw the blanket off yourself, the cool air a welcome relief.  You look over at the clock.  Seven-thirty.

    “Shit!”  Your heart starts racing.

    “I’m late for work!” You take off running towards the bathroom, deciding to work on your talking to yourself out loud issue later.  You cut yourself a few times shaving, but are too amped up on adrenaline to really care.  You quickly dress, snapping up your phone before taking off towards the front door.

    You nearly split your face on the ground as you trip over a small cardboard box sitting outside your door.  Fortunately, your reflexes kick in and you catch yourself on the railing.  You kick the box into your apartment through your open door, before shutting and locking it.  You leap down the stairs, turning the corner towards your car.  You’ve barely buckled yourself in when you’re struck with an epiphany:  It’s saturday.

    Your adrenaline drained, you trudge back up the stairs, re-entering your apartment.  You collapse into your computer chair, annoyed that you’re awake.  You kick your boots off, landing them by the door, next to the box.

    “Oh yeah...” you say aloud.  Really gotta stop doing that.

    You scoot your chair over to it, leaning down and picking it up, before returning to your desk.  It’s not terribly big, and you notice the distinct lack of markings anywhere on it.  You look it over, trying to make sense of it.  You shrug.  Must be from the apartment management, you think.

    You cut it open with a pair of scissors you keep handy, peering inside.  Squished inside is a small plush toy.  You reach in to get a better look at it.  Static jumps into your hand, causing you to reel it backwards in pain.  You reach in again, a little more tentatively this time, scooping the plush out.

    “A pony?”  You ask yourself.  It didn’t look like on from the show, or at least not one that you’d recognized.  It was a white pegasus, with a blue two-toned mane and tail.  It’s bangs flanked either side of it’s head.  You note a snowflake on it’s flank.  It’s eyes are gold and seem almost lifelike.  For lack of a better term, it look “adorable”.  You turn it over in your hands, the plush soft to the touch.  You find yourself unconsciously stroking it.

    Setting it on your desk, you look in the box to see if there’s anything else.   A small folded note sits inside.  You pick it up, unfolding it.

Please take good care of SnowStorm.

    You turn the paper over in your hands, looking for any kind of clues.  The message is typed, so you won’t be able to try and trace the handwriting.  You bring it to you nose, seeing if there’s any kind of familiar fragrance that adorns it.  It smells like printer paper.

    You look back at the plush pony.

    The only person here who knows about your little obsession is your supervisor.  That’s only because his wife is a Brony.  He didn’t particularly care for the show, but he enjoyed to tease you about it.  When she found out you were into it, she added you as a friend online.  You two became fast friends over the show.  She must’ve made this, you rationalize.

    “Well, I can’t reject such an awesome gift,” you tell the plush, smiling.

    “Welcome to your new home, SnowStorm!” You pick up the plush, nuzzling it against you face.  It feels so soft.

    “Man, i’m a loser,” you laugh at yourself.

    You leave a message on Facebook, thanking your supervisor’s wife for the gift, along with a promise to one up her.  Yawning, you realize that there’s no real point in being awake this early.  You strip down, collapsing into your bed, before you feel like somethings missing.  You dash from your bedroom, scooping Snow off the desk, before diving back into the warm embrace of your bed.

    You’d never been one for stuffed animals, or cuddling really, but something about her just felt right.  You drift off to sleep, your little pony in your arms.

    You hate waking up.  You can’t remember the last time you ever woke up and just felt well rested.  You’d somehow managed to turn sideways in your bed, the blanket twisted around your body.  Snow had migrated to the pillow, where she seemed to be watching you from.

    “G’morning, Snowy,” you groan to her.  She just remains with her perpetual smile, staring back at you.

    You pick her up, stretching and finding your way back to your computer.  You see Chris is online, so you decide to hit him up.

    “Hey bro,” You yawn groggily.

    “Whaaaaaaat?” he replies, seemingly annoyed.

    Oops, must’ve caught him at a bad time.

    “Just bored and seeing what you’re up to.”

    “...reading a webcomic,” he replies after a moment.  You hear skype boop, before seeing the link he sends you.  You click it, sighing to yourself.  You had a lot of similar interests, but his taste in webcomics differed greatly from your own.

    “It’s about this dude who wakes up as a chick,” He explains.

    “Sounds meh” you offer back.

    “Just fucking READ IT!” he shouts.  You rub your temples.  He is your best friend, but that doesn’t stop him from getting on your nerves.

    You spend the next few minutes clicking through it idly.  Just as you thought, it doesn’t really catch your interest.  Occasionally, you hear Chris laugh at the stupid comic.

    “So...” you interrupt his reading, “I got a pony today.”  You hear him sigh.  He wasn’t fond of your pony addiction.  You bring up the webcam, stick Snow’s face in front of the camera.

    “Isn’t she sweeeeet?” you taunt him.

    “Dude, you’re fucking gay,” he counters.

    “Awwww.  I don’t think he likes you, Snow.”  You pull her back from the camera.

    “You named it?”

    “Oh.  Well kinda; it came with a name.”  You picture him shaking his head.

    “Uh huh.”  You hate that stupid condescending tone he takes.

    “What’s up with the contacts?” he asks.

    “Contacts?  What contacts?”  You don’t even wear glasses.  Perfect 20/20 vision the eye doctors always tell you.

    “The colored ones in your eyes, stupid.”

    You maximize the window, so you can see yourself.  Sure enough, you’re eyes are no longer the deep blue that you loved.  They had become a soft gold.

    “What the hell?” You say to yourself, rubbing your eyes.  Still gold.

    “Bro, you might want to see a doctor,” Chris offers sarcastically.

    “Dude, this is serious!  I’m not wearing contacts!”  You start to panic a little.  Did you have some weird eye disease?  Were you going to go blind?  Fortunately, Chris knows you well enough to know when you’re joking.

    “Seriously.  Maybe you should go to sick call.”

    “Yeah.  Except they’re closed on friggin Saturday,”  You respond bitterly.

    “I don’t fucking know then!  Go to the ER!” He shouts back.  You sigh.

    “Screw it.  I’ll just go to sick call on monday if it gets worse.”  You hated hospitals, doctors and medicine.  You figured your body was designed to take care of itself.

    “Riiiiiggghhtt.  Don’t come crying to me when you’re eyes are fucking exploding out of your head or something then.”  You glare at the camera, hoping he can feel your gaze.

    “I’m late for the golf course though, so good luck with that.  Buh-Bye!”  The window closes.  You sigh to yourself.

    “Be right back, Snow,” you catch yourself saying before you get up.  You decide to go to the bathroom to get a better look at your eyes.

    Your eye color had definitely changed to gold.  It was kind of cool, if you weren’t so worried about going blind.  They were almost mesmerizing...  Still, spontaneous eye color changing was not something you’d ever heard of.  There was something familiar about the color too, but you couldn’t place it.

    “Whatever.” You say exasperated.  Best not to think about it for now.  Your stomach takes this moment to remind you that you’re hungry.  Oh yeah, haven’t eaten yet.

    Like most mid-twenty year old bachelors, you kept a barely stocked kitchen.  You’d ordered out most of your meals, you’re disposable income allowing this.  Fortunately, you kept a small stockpile of Ramen noodles in case you didn’t feel like ordering out.

    A few minutes in the microwave and your breakfast is ready to eat.  You greedily slurp up the beef flavored noodles, noticing a minor off taste to it.  Can Ramen go bad?  You finish the bowl.  That would be future you’s problem.

    Future you was pissed at past you.  You’d been bent over the toilet for the last 5 minutes, evacuating the contents of your stomach.

    “Fuck you Ramen!” You curse an imaginary god.  He seems to smite you with another wave of nausea.  You lean back into the bowl, vomiting some more.

    You sit back up, feeling a tingling in your scalp.  You notice that something at the edge of your vision, blocking your peripherals.  You brush it away.  It falls back into place.  You grab it, pulling it into your vision for a closer look.  It’s your hair.

    What.  The.  Fuck.  You get up and look at yourself in the mirror.  You have to bangs symmetrically framing your face.  You were definitely out of regs.  The military had a very strict policy regarding hair.

    You notice one bang seems to have dark blue hairs running through it, the other having light blue.  You stare in disbelief, feeling light headedness creeping up.  So long, your brain seems to say, a strange calm sweeping over you.  You feel extremely apathetic as you return to your computer to pick up your phone.  You scroll through your contacts until you find Chris.  You type up a small message (Skype.  Now.) sending it, before staring at your screen.

    You’ve no idea how much time has passed, when you’re knocked out of your daze by skype ringing.  You notice you’re holding Snow in your hands, stroking the soft plush fur again.  You set her down before picking up the call with your webcam.

    “This better be fucking g-whatthefuck?!” Chris yells out.  He composes himself.

    “Uh.  Nice hair.”

    “That’s it?” you fume.

    “Nice hair?!”  You were getting emotional, which was incredibly unusual considering how laid back you were.

    “Dude, calm down.  It’s all good.”

    “HOW?!  HOW IS THIS GOOD?!” you shout venomously.

    “I can’t go to work like this!  I don’t even know how this is possible!”  You grab Snow, stroking her again.

    Chris pauses for a moment.  You can feel the sting of tears building in your eyes.  Not good.  You haven’t cried in years, and you’d never cry in front of your friends.  What the hell is wrong with me?!

    “Hey,” Chris speaks up, “Hold that thing in front of the camera.”

    “What thing?” you ask.

    “The fucking pony.”  You hold it where he can see it.

    “Uh-huh...”  He scratches his chin.

    “What?”  you ask, quickly becoming flustered.

    “Really dude?” He responds incredulously.  You’re starting to get pissed.

    “Yes.  Really.  WHAT!” You demand.

    “Look at the fucking plush, Jackass!”

    You turn Snow to face you.  Suddenly it clicks.  The mane, the eyes.  Were you... turning into a pony?

    “What the fuck?”  You catch your normal aversion to that word slipping.

    “You can’t tell me you just fucking noticed,” He chides you.

    “It’s been a jacked up morning,” you defend yourself.  Still, it wasn’t like you to miss out on such obvious logical deductions.  The Air Force preached observation.

    Suddenly, you hear your front door open.  You turn to see what appears to be a man in a ski mask standing in your doorway, a pistol in his hand.  You hear it click as a sharp pain spreads into your chest.  The world begins to spin and whirl around you, fading into darkness.