Mending the Pieces

Day 11: Living in Denial

The music echoed throughout the bar, bouncing from the wooden walls to people and ponies' ears. Most ponies were stomping their hooves to the beat on the oaken floor, as they chug their drinks. Most humans whistled along, as they, too, slammed their beverages. To them, everything was just fine, and today was a day to celebrate, just like the song said. After all, it's the feeling they had!

Hah, you wished you could share that feeling.

The liquor burns your throat as it goes down, while you tune out the music. Sweet Celestia, that's the stuff.

No matter how much you drink, though, you can't forget what the news. The news that took your life, and crushed it, scattering the pieces every which way. Celestia damn it, why? Why you, of all ponies?

You were a mostly good pony. Although you've had many... relationships, that's not necessarily evil. Maybe it's a way of preventing you from having more happy fun times, considering that nopony loves a freak, or at least someone different. You were guilty of hating both before, well, the news.

...Maybe the entire "hating everyone who wasn't perfect" thing was your undoing.

You shake your head after downing all the whiskey, relishing the sensation. That, and you're trying everything to get rid of the memory of last week's news.

How did this even happen? Why you?

"Another round," you say, as you toss some bits.

The bartender, a human woman, a rather pretty one too(unless that's just the booze judging) slides you a half-filled shot. Scratch that, not even a quarter-filled. What in the name of Tartarus...?

"Fill 'er up," you tell the bartender.

"You've had enough," she replies.

"Look, here's the thing," you explain, taking the bottle and filling up your glass. "You're here to look pretty and serve drinks. Unless you don't want that tip. So how about you shut your mouth."

You receive your response by the glass's contents being thrown in your face, right when you're about to bring the glass to your mouth.

"How about you get the hell out of my bar?!" she snaps, clearly agitated.

Well, that's a crock of shit squared, multiplied by fifty, and added to infinity. In Laycolt's terms, it was a shitty situation.

"I hope you step on one of those plastic brick things my nephew keeps fucking around with," you mutter, "as you burn in the flames of Tartarus."

"I welcome that day," she replies, getting herself a drink.

You stand up, taking the bottle with you, before making your way out, before remembering. Damn, you forgot your bits.

You go back, and take the bits. At least, that was the plan.

As soon as you try to take them, the barkeeper tries to take them. What a thieving bitch! you think to yourself as you try to grab them first. Your hoof and her hand touch, and she flinches back. Given that, as the doctor said, you're not normal, you don't flinch. After all, it's what's expected of those like you.

You slip the bits into your money pouch, levitating it to your saddlebags, and putting it away, before you get in her face. "Don't even consider trying that again," you threaten.

"Or else what?" she asks, smirking.

"Ever wondered what the difference between choking and strangulation was?" you reply.

As she gains a look of mild fear, to your pleasure, you feel something touching your shoulder.

You turn around, and there's a hulking stallion glaring at you.

“She said, leave," he says.

Like those like you, you hate being told what to do now.

"Get bent," you reply, headbutting him. You knew you could get away with it, one of the few perks of... no, you don't even want to hear the name of it again.

He reels back as you walk out. Right before you're at the door, you hear rapid hoofsteps behind you. You turn around, and the stallion's charging at you.

Damn it, why did one of the many downsides of your diagnosis be impaired reflexes?

You fail to dodge, and he collides with you, and you are sent flying to the wall. Given your low pain tolerance (which you've always had, actually), you feel agonizing pain literally everywhere.

You growl in anger, hating the nerve of him physically assaulting you, a low you never stooped to, before levitating the bottle you dropped to the stallion, and before he can react, you smash the bottle over his head.

Booze and glass scatters, as the stallion falls to the floor, knocked out.

While everyone's still stunned at the scene, you get up, pain still searing, and trot out with a slight limp. "Pricks, the whole lot of them," you mutter.

You then realize the police, or whatever those human equivalent of Royal Guards are, would probably be dying for a case like this, and if they're anything like that Boxcars chump on TV? Yeah, you better run. Which you do.

As you make your way back home, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol, you start thinking, always a terrible idea with you. You're banged up, probably out of a job, given how the U of C hates different people and ponies, and are expecting a hangover. You only have one question, despite all this.

"How did I even get to this point?" you say to yourself,  the reality of the situation sinking in, as you feel a raindrop, then another, and two more, as a drizzle forms. Just your luck.

Your question, with that aside, is answered easily, for you remember the ten days before it all began...