They wake up.
Everything seems normal to them, the world is still turning, the sun is still shining. Maybe they think that there is nothing that could go wrong with the world, maybe they just think that they're hungry and they want breakfast.
Sorry, sorry, wrong tone...
Anyway, they emerge from their houses, maybe they notice something a little off... maybe they notice that there is something wrong, or maybe they’re still insistent that everything seems normal.
But sooner or later... someone notices. Maybe a few someones for that matter. They'll ask their friends, then the ponies I know. They’ll ask if they've seen me around anywhere, if they know what's taking me so long to join them...
The reply would be the same though... or I imagine so, ‘Sorry... haven't seen her today. I’m sure she’s around somewhere.’
That's when the questioner would nod understandingly and give up, accepting the response for the truth. It wouldn't matter really, I was beyond suspicion, no-one would expect me to ever leave. ‘Not in a million years’ they’d say...
If only they knew...
After a day or so, they’d start to worry again; there was still no sign of me, none of my usual calling cards anywhere and a complete lack of my fantastic wit. My colleagues would shrug off my absence as a well-earned break that I’d simply forgotten to call in.
But my friends would be worried... they’d be the ones that would visit my home and knock on the unlocked door. They’d enter the silent hallway, sharing anxious looks before they called out for me, hoping against hope that I’d simply passed out without locking my door. But of course... there'd be no answer.
A search would reveal only what they already knew by that point. That would be the turning point... they’d search my house again, this time for a letter, a note or a sign. A reason for the madness that was reality. But again... it would have been fruitless. There would have been no sign, no reason for my absence and no explanation.
The five of them would gather in a room, possibly my lounge, and talk in hushed whispers, even though there was no-one to hear them.
‘Where is she?’
‘Where did she go?’
‘Why isn’t she here?’
‘Are you sure we didn't miss a room?’
‘Pinkie can you please stop bouncing.’
Sorry...
Against all probability though... they’d agree to give me another day, just in case I was taking a break from my normal life, to cool down or cool off. They’d nod grimly, none of them believing it for a moment, before leaving the house. Maybe they’d lock the door, maybe they’d leave it as they found it... prediction is always iffy.
But the certainty is that they’d all leave my house, to go home and pray to a god that none of them believed in, and hope that I was simply taking a break and that I’d be back in the morning, as spritely and insufferable as ever. None of them would sleep that night, each of them tossing and turning as they tried to puzzle out where I’d gone and why.
Then the morning would come, and the alarms would be raised. Missing pony posters would be hung and a search party would be organised within hours. You and I can probably guess the result of them... but those involved would retain hope, they’d keep searching for me until the light ran out, then they'd keep searching.
They’d only get more tired the longer they looked. But... sooner or later... the search would be called off. They’d shake their heads in weary acceptance before trudging home, thinking me lost. That’s the majority anyway... the ponies that know me by name and reputation alone. The ponies that were there because Pinkie asked them to be.
Five ponies would have an all-together different reaction though. The night after the search is called off... they’d gather in the library and have a sleepover. It wouldn’t be a happy sleepover though... the five of them would stay up and try to figure out my mind and motives. I very much doubted that they'd be successful though.
It was that which had led to me leaving them.
Maybe they’d curse me? For leaving them without a by-your-leave. For not wanting them to follow me.
Maybe they’d make promises between themselves? To not take me for granted anymore.
Or maybe they’d just sit there in the tree where I’d spent time... maybe they’d just lament my departure and fall asleep, crying silently into each other’s shoulders.
But no-one grieves forever. Sooner or later, they’d rise from their beds, greeting one another with silence. Sooner or later, they’d all leave for their own respective homes and get on with their lives. That was the way the world worked.
It wouldn’t stop turning because of me, nor would there be a cataclysm in my wake. Another pony would fill my hooves at my job. There would be someone else that would live in my house.
Eventually, the only ones that would remember who once lived where I did would be the five friends I’d kept. Of course… they wouldn’t let my memory die, they’d try to keep it alive in small measures.
I knew of one certain picture that would be treasured by them all, along with a few memento’s that I’d left in my house for the taking. In hindsight… I should have taken them, to throw them away later.
I should have visited all their houses with a match; I should have burnt my face from the pictures and memories. I should have melted the trophies and medals with my name. I should have simply left with no trace of my existence behind me.
I’m not a callous pony; no matter how much satisfaction may have laid in the trauma caused by leaving the memories in front of them... it wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t in me to wish them the same emotional harm they’d laid on me. I wanted a clean break. Let the only memories of me be in their minds so that they’d never again look at a photo of me and think of the pony that was.
But… maybe that would never happen.
In front of me, a bored-looking stallion glanced up at me, briefly registering my appearance before speaking.
‘Destination?’
‘Manehatten airport.’
Bits and tickets were exchanged. Then I turned and strode onto the platform where a train waited patiently. I had no baggage on my person, nothing to bring with me to remember my life here.
If the conductor was asked about me, about a pegasus with rose eyes, he’d shake his head, remembering only a sandy-grey pegasus with a blue-grey mane that shared that description.
Of course… none of the above could happen, it was just as likely that they’d keep searching for me, after years had passed. Maybe they’d enlist the help of the princesses… maybe not.
But only time would tell…
When the morning comes.
Author's Note
Why is it always the last two or three lines that I'm happiest with?
I swear down… everything else in the story is cut and dry, but it's always the last paragraph which seems to resonate with me as the author…
New idea, make a story where the whole text is made up of final paragraphs.
P.S. This is why writing when you've just a) drunk a very potent Irish Coffee, and b) returned from a run, is a very bad idea.
