Lost in Translation

The knife pulled out of her stomach again. The stainless steel blade was drenched in her dark red blood. There was nothing she could do. Her lungs were void of air, her abdomen in excruciating pain. Holding a grimace as a facial expression, she looked up to the one who had stabbed her. Whoever it was, they were hidden in shadow. A blink of the eye, and the person quickly and unceremoniously slit her throat.

-

Nightingale Freesoul woke with a start. She'd fallen asleep on the couch again, that was for certain. Two reasons she could tell; the bottle of vodka in her hand, and the fact that she still wore the same, long scarlet dress from the previous night. "Fucking hell....." She muttered to herself. Lightly spinning the glass bottle, she noticed that there was still a little bit of alcohol left inside. Shrugging, she wrenched her eyes shut, downing the miniscule amount of liquid. That dream put her out of it.....and the ones before that.

The knife, rapidly plunging inside of her stomach.....

Just the thought of the dream....no, nightmare....made her cringe. She glanced sideways, seeing a picture of her old friends and herself, back in college. She'd changed a lot since then. Instead of the punk look that she'd managed to keep together, she'd changed it to a sophisticated look, even dying her fur red and black to match most of her current clothes.

The thought of her friends ached. A few years back, everyone in her little circle had lost touch with one another. Music Note, who'd found a stallion, moved away to Cloudsdale. The only Earth pony out of the group, Steel Wire, was killed after a murder spree he'd commited a few months out. The rest of her friends, unicorns and pegasi, either lost touch or vanished. There wasn't anything she could do about that. People were people, and had their own wills. Shaking her head, she leaned over into the adjacent cabinet next to the couch, and pulled open the drawer, revealing a faded old newspaper, dated ten years ago, and a small, six bullet chambered revolver. The headline of the paper, which stated "SERIAL KILLER SHOT AT SCENE", reminded her that no one stayed the same for long.

Her hands caressed the gun, the sleek metal cool to the touch. Her tail flicked in aggravation. "This may be Manehattan....but I really don't need this...." She said to herself, biting her lip in slight aggravation. Tossing the gun into the drawer haphazardly, she shook her head, trying to clear her mind.

-

Wrapped up in a long black trench coat, her shoes echoed, clapping against the pavement slowly. One of her friends from work, Golden Silence, walked alongside her.