SEAL IT OVER

My hoof grabs the cool handle. The faucet gives a loud creak. I cringe at the sound of rusty metal parts rubbing against one another. The water starts pouring out of the shower head above. My body instinctively pulls away as the cool liquid hits my skin. I inhale sharply and wrap my forelegs around myself. I start shivering. I look back at the two handles. The one for the hot water is turned all the way. I bite my lip and wait a few seconds to let it heat up. My hooves tap nervously on the wet tiling. Every passing moment is agony. I reach out and touch the water again. Still cold.

I can't take it any longer. I thrust myself under the shower head, crying out as my body is drenched by the ice-cold spray. I don't care anymore. I'm filthy. My smell is all wrong. My hair is a matted mess. I need to get cleaned. I start rubbing myself down. My breathing becomes labored. My arms are trembling uncontrollably. My teeth vibrate against each other, creating a horrible clicking sound. Pain shoots through my skin wherever I touch it. I start crying, but I cannot stop now.

I grab the sponge from the floor. The material is worn, small chunks of it breaking away. Its surface is rough. Artificial. Lifeless. It was meant to clean dishes. I start rubbing my belly with it. A burning sensation accompanies the cold consuming my flesh. I move on to my face. My eyelids feel like they're going to peel away from the rough treatment. My ass is next, then my crotch. I use the tip of my hoof to get a corner of the sponge into every orifice. I moan as I feel the material squirming inside me, then I yank it out. I don't enjoy this, but I need to be clean.

I turn the water off and step out of the shower. I walk in front of the mirror, hugging the towel around me. My lips are trembling. My eyes are red. The skin on my face is raw. My mane is a tangled mess of wet ropes, stuck to the surface of my head and neck. I smile as I inspect myself. I am clean. I am ready. I can take on anything now. All I have to do is get myself cleaned, and nothing can harm me.

I open the door and trot out of the bathroom. The sound of my hooves on the bare concrete echoes off the walls. I lie down on my bed and stretch my legs while I wait for my mane to dry. I stare at my hooves, searching for any imperfections. Their surface is smooth and clean. The soft, white fur is without any flaws. I feel proud of my work. I need to take care of myself. My body is all that I own. I work hard for it every day.

When my mane feels dry enough, I grab my comb to get it straightened out. I wince when it gets caught and pulls at my scalp. I waste five minutes struggling with just one hoofful of it without getting anywhere. In my frustration, I start reaching for the scissors again. I stop myself when my hoof touches the metal. There is a slight tingle at the end of my spine.

No. I cannot do that to myself again.

I put the comb down and lie back on the bed. My hoof brushes through my mane. It feels good. I imagine that it looks good on me. I want to look good. That's all that matters to me now. I fantasize about those magnificent purple locks. Those elegant curls I used to shape them into. My mane needs to be as sophisticated as I am meant to be.

I think about you again. The way you looked at me the last time. Your gaze caressing the surface of my skin. The warm feeling it gave me when you said my name. It brings a smile to my face. Dreaming about the two of us is one of the few things I have left to enjoy. I long for you. It becomes a pull that I do not want to resist. It drags me off the bed and onto my hooves. It makes me trot out the door. I can barely contain myself as my hooves pick up the pace. My body wriggles from the excitement, and I even giggle slightly. I can't wait to see you again.

The mannequin was a pale silhouette against the darkness. It stood silently, motionless, head trained slightly downward, like a condemned prisoner waiting for the executioner to carry out the sentence. She obliged. The fabric slowly wrapped itself around the pony-shaped statue, slithering around the outstretched limbs and torso that were a part of its eternal pose. It concealed the blank shape under multiple layers of colorful material, arranging itself according to the seamstress' vision.

She sometimes wondered whether it could feel any discomfort, as she imagined any of the beings that it resembled would if they were petrified in such a way. But the faceless creature did not complain. It bore witness to and endured the birth of every single one of her creations without any response. There was no reason to respond. No amount of exotic fabric could change what was underneath, and it all came off just as easily as it was attached to it.

The door bursts open as I slam my entire body against the handle. I collapse against the side of the bed. My face melts together into a nauseating mix of tears and mucus. I bury it in the mattress as I cry and howl and choke at the same time. The muffled sound this creates resembles an old machine ripping itself apart at the end of its life, the steam and fluid keeping it in motion bleeding out from every portion of its surface.

My whole body is shaking from my sobs. My face hurts. My lungs and throat are burning. The smell hits me again. I taste it in my mouth. Through drowned eyes I look down at my hooves, staring at the layer of filth sticking to them. My stomach twists around in my belly. I retch. All over my body my muscles tense up as they try to pull me apart in every direction possible. I want to rip myself out of my own flesh.

I stumble into the bathroom, throwing my limbs around as if they were dead. I grab and twist every handle as far as my strength will allow. The old pipes rattle and whine, but nothing comes out. I scream at them, pounding my hooves on the rusty metal until they become covered with bruises and cracks. The filth all over me is burning into my flesh. I collapse onto the floor, wrapping my legs around myself.

I could see it the moment I walked in. Your sluggish motions. Your low voice. The slurred, half-formed words. Your eyelids losing the struggle against gravity. Your musk tainted by that awful smell. I tried to ignore it all. I still tried to make you happy. I tried to comfort you. Embrace you.

You grabbed me. Forced me to the floor. Your hot, putrid breath was in my face. I could feel something warm and damp against me, exploring my rear. I screamed. I began struggling. My legs pounded against your belly. You tensed up, then collapsed onto me. A gurgling sound. My face consumed by that burning smell. Something warm flowing all over me below.

I ignore the scissors this time. I reach for the knife. The cool metal presses against my skin. It penetrates. I grind my teeth together. The blade trails around my midsection, cutting deep. Warmth trickles down to my legs. I howl through my closed jaw. My horn can barely hold on to my tool. It nearly lets go when I reach my spine. Metal scrapes against bone. My bladder releases. The foul odor makes me gag.

The incision is complete. I drop the knife. My tears flow as a continuous stream now. I feel exposed. Naked. I want to seal myself away. I grip my own skin this time, then take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I pull. The burst of agony destroys every conscious thought. My voice nearly gives out. It takes all of my effort to focus. The fleshy fabric slowly peels away. A thousand tiny, red-hot ants are squirming under my hide. They bite and scrape it off of my flesh. I keep pulling. My breath releases with another long howl. My voice is hoarse now, my throat finally strained to its limit. I struggle to take another breath. A white veil begins to obscure my vision. It crawls up from below at an agonizingly slow pace. I raise my trembling forehooves. I curl them up above my head.

My skin wraps around my upper half. My vision is now a dull, reddish haze. My breathing is shallow and labored. I sit there, my face hidden under the obscene veil. The air is licking at my exposed flesh. I feel nauseous. Every heartbeat is a thunder in my ears.

I can hear hoofsteps. You are approaching me. I try to turn around. Pain rips into me from all sides, making me scream. I stop. I can't see you.

Something punctures the skin above my head. I can no longer feel it directly. The tugging against my grip is all that I can sense. Another puncture. Something dragging in between. A pull against my skin. Pain. The veil becomes tighter.

The process repeats dozens of times. The tightness increases every time. Then you stop all of a sudden and step back. I let go of my grip. The veil now stays in place.

My heart is beating faster. The air is heavy. Warm. I can only smell myself. My own blood. I feel your hoof caressing my side gently. I hear you whispering my name.

My stomach finally empties itself.

Author's Note

This one made me a bit nervous...