Pinkie Pie died hungry.
She wanted a strawberry éclair, the one dripping in glaze that Mrs. Cake had baked right after Pinkie had finished her morning shift and had promised that she would give Pinkie any leftover éclairs if Pinkie stopped by at two. But it was too late for that; it was a quarter past three, and, even if time had decided to reverse itself two hours, she was in no position to partake in confectionaries.
Pinned to the floor under a bookshelf, Pinkie was slowly bleeding to death. Having been almost cut cleanly through by the edge of a shelf, she couldn’t feel anything below her waist and watched helplessly as more and more of her blood pooled around her while she grew weaker and weaker. The unfairness of the whole situation—the fact that she would never have the mass of sugar, flour, and frosting melting in her mouth—made her thrash about, trying to free herself of this prison. It was no use, and she gave up, closing her eyes and longingly licking the roof of her mouth; she could only tasted the coppery flavor of her blood intermingled with the staleness of expired milk.
The sound of something sliding in her direction broke her reverie, and Pinkie turned to see her savior.
Mustering her strength, Pinkie managed to breath out, “Oh, thank you, thank you for saving me. I was wondering when--”
One swift thwack with a meat cleaver silenced her.
