School Daze

I have hated my dad for as long as I can remember.

That sounds like the most idiotic statement that I could say since shooting a few ponies but it is true. The adults make this excuse that they are making the next generation better by being tough on the young kids; but it is just a lie. At least I think so. We made the I hate my parents shtick be as ridiculous as possible. I killed my parents? I take drugs? I am a sex addict? On and on the blame game goes. I think that you have a conscious decision to commit evil- even if like me you have a little crazy to back up that insanity.

So I hate my dad? At least its true. He didn’t even realize how much I hated him until I stood up for myself after I brained Theoretical Proof to the brink of Elysium.He knew then and he turned away from me in disgust. I had done that years ago.

To my father, life was a lottery. All down to chance. He knew the odds before it was even public knowledge. Oranges down on the stock market? Lie through your teeth and say everything is fine- even when true gangsters try to stop your business because of some back taxes. Fucking a whore? Make her your maid and raise your illegitimate child in the lap of luxury. Etc. Come up with your own examples, I am not a metaphor guru.

I was the bad lotto ticket.

Dad always hid his true emotions. When his friends came over, he always put on a mask of complete and utter calm. Everything had to go his way. He told a story to me once while he was drunk. Applejack came to Manehattan one summer and he wanted to die. Why? Because it wasn’t part of his plan. He put on a face though. He could fake being nice but he wanted her to leave. He was happy when she left his house with her cutie mark.

He celebrated her leaving with my conception.

He worked in Manehattan as a banker. Not one of those small time bankers; he controlled a good portion of the city’s funds and ponies went to him to make loans. He dealt with the mafia, prostitutes, drug lords, the whole black market. Just because he could. He became Arancio Fortunato in ,their circles. I guessed it once and he looked terrified because I knew his secret. There’s only so many Oranges in Manehattan. I followed him once to a drug deal and I saw more money being traded than I knew what to do with. Yeah, Lucky Orange my hoof. Moseley Orange was corrupt. I wanted to be different than my father and look where that vow has gotten me.

No, it all started with one day when I was little. I had this nagging idea that I should break a few windows cause I was bored. Boredom is like a small worm that eats away at your morals;before this I would never break a window. After- well- I am locked up for a reason. Well, It was a nice fall day, the leaves had just changed to browns, reds, and oranges and the smell of fall hit my nose full blast. Birds were leaving for the winter and I could smell the pies baking on oven racks everywhere. The farmer’s market near my house had its last gathering and it was closing up shop when I had this idea.

I sat perfectly still watching the carts full of farmers walk quietly back to their homes. Dad was somewhere. Somewhere far off on our property and my mother was humming some tune that I didn’t know. I liked the tune and I sat listening to my mother’s voice carry on the wind. She could sing only when both Valencia and my father were both out of the house. I dreamed that if she hadn’t been on the streets she could have being a singer of some repute. But she only had me as an audience on this fall day.

I sat and played Quiet and watched the carts roll on. Some carts were racing into the wilderness to hunt like my father did a few years before with me in tow. I listened to my mother singing without a care in the world. A bird flew down and searched for food. I loved how the birds could fly anywhere on a wing and a prayer. The birds were my role models. I didn’t have friends; I had acquaintances. Was I lonely? Maybe, maybe not.

And then I wanted to break all the windows. I didn’t feel like getting back at my father. That wasn’t even a thought of mine at all. I was young and I wanted to break some windows. Nothing more, nothing less.

I started hunting for rocks. Any kind of rocks: big ones, jagged ones, round ones, shiny ones. I wanted to fill my arsenal with ammo that would break as many windows as possible. I started daydreaming about me in a traveling show juggling rocks. Whenever I would seem to lose one, two more rocks would take its place. By the end of my daydream, I was juggling a few dozen rocks as my adoring fans stared on in wonder.

I broke out of my reverie and began causing terror and mayhem to the glass panes that looked at me funny. Since they didn’t have any eyes I just broke them cause I was bored. My mother was oblivious as I rampaged around. The crash and faint tinkle of glass shards falling in our mansion was like bells ringing in a heavenly choir. Sooner or later I knew I was going to be caught. It was just one of those certainties of life. Chaos could only exist for so long and then Order would have to come and smack some sense into it.

I felt a strong hoof upon my shoulder and I turned and saw my father’s face lit up with fiery vengeance. He had wanted the windows up today because winter was coming and we needed new windows. And I just broke every window in a good sized plot of land. He gripped me in his hooves and shook me while angrily blowing steam trails out from his muzzle. I began to quake in fear as I started to lose consciousness from my loss of air. Suddenly he stopped. I could only see a hint of my mother’s rust colored mane as she began to scream.

I collapsed in a heap when Moseley finally stopped choking me.”You shouldn’t have broken those windows. Cause I have had a really, really bad day and this was the final straw.” He spat out those words with venom dripping off each syllable. I slumped to the ground as I tried to regain the lungfuls of air that had so rudely left me. Coughing, I stood and noticed that I was bleeding. Looking back, I must have cut myself when I broke the windows.

My mother rushed up to me and started planting kisses all over my cuts, scrapes, and bruises. I started feeling a bit better as she glared daggers into my father. He didn’t give a shit though. He had just gotten off of work and had wanted to relax and I mucked all that up.

“Moseley, don’t hurt our daughter. I don’t think she meant to. Didn’t you, sweetie?” I just trembled as I saw my father’s face contort with rage. He knew that he was in a bind and since the lady of the house was out, ponies would gossip about the spectacle of him yelling at his mistress with their lovechild hiding her face. Or they would see him berating the maid since most ponies didn’t know that he was being an adulterous stallion in the eyes of the Princesses.

“Well if you weren’t so nice to the foal, she would learn some true manners and not break windows!”

“We’ll talk about this later. . .” My mare or the night turned maid of a mother tried to push me inside when she noticed that the commotion of the yelling had brought their neighbors ears to their juicy problem.She wiped my tears and kissed my forehead as we both entered the house.

That made everything better. It dulled the ache of my muscles and took the hurt away. Nopony knows the true power a mother has over the scrapes and bruises of childhood. One nuzzle and a few loving kisses and you feel like you could do anything.

“Thanks mommy.” I quietly said. She just knew what I meant. And we had hot chocolate and we talked. About hopes, dreams, fears, and how sorry I was.” And actually for one of the only times in my life, I was truly sorry.

And it was all  perfect until the night.

***

“Minute Maid, you know that I want to do better for Babs. . .”

“Next time she’ll break more than windows. If we don’t do something. . .”

So now you’re blaming me for what you did years ago? I remember you wanted money, , ,”

So what if I hurt her? That just teaches her a kesson?

“Well buck you too then. Next time that she does something like that you’ll be out of this nice job.”

I just heard my mother crying while my father went on and on. I just knew that the next day she was wearing makeup. A lot of heavy makeup. And in my childlike naivete, I started calling those days “Pretty Days.” Once I complimented my mom on how pretty she looked and she began to cry tears of joy.

Only later did I learn that she wasn’t.