Growing up, my heart was as much of a lump as the rocks that were scattered around my home. I came to fear my name being screeched across the barren acres, the obnoxiously orthodox name echoing in every valley, preaching how simple I was. That name could paralyze me with fear from a young age, no matter what context it was being used it.
“Pinkamena Diane!”
This time, it was my father’s cold voice calling for me. I was just a filly, but I’d already tired of the family trade: rock farming. During the work days, I’d kick my hooves at the rocks and see how much of a dent I could leave. That’s the thing about growing up on a rock farm: you farm rocks. Not gems, not stones, not anything even the slightest bit interesting. I just couldn’t see myself as Pinkamena Pie, the rock farmer. Every day, my world was grey, from my sister’s hair to the hue the wallpaper in my house had started to take on. Grey, lifeless. Just like I felt every day.
Fast forward a few more dull months to my youngest sister, lying on her bed, staring at my other sister and I. Tears had been falling from her eyes for at least an hour as the yells of our father bounced around our combined room from down the hallway.
“Please, just calm down,” I heard my mother say before a horrible clang interrupted the yells. When you grow up on a rock farm, you knew things, and I knew that noise was a rock being thrown against our living room wall.
“Mom,” I warbled softly, looking away from my sisters and throwing my face into my grey pillow. “Father’s not really trying to hurt you.” I closed my eyes and rolled on my back, keeping the pillow pressed against my muzzle. He wasn’t going to hurt her. He loved her. He really did.
Bam.
My father had walked out of the house and slammed the door shut, leaving me to listen to the ebbing cries of my family, each pony stifling their sobs. He’d never tried to hurt my mom, or even ever argued, and all I could hope is that they weren’t fighting about something that I did.
I felt a nudge at my side and opened my eyes to see one of my sisters poking me with her hoof, trying to see if I was okay. Her hair fell into her eyes, and I knew that they must be puffy and red like mine. I sat up and rolled off of my bed, slowly walking down the hallway to the living room.
My mother was a proud woman, a strong lady raised on generations of farm wives and strong backs. She’d always taught me to enjoy the little things and focus on them, but with a dent in the wall that acted as a scarlet letter, I didn’t know how she’d be able to focus at all tonight.
In fact, I didn’t know how I’d focus at all tonight. But I knew that I had to try and cheer my mother up, to make her smile. So with a deep breath, I asked, “Mom? Y-you’re okay, r-right?”
She looked down at me and said a quiet, “Yes, Pinkamena. I’ll be fine.” She walked to the door and peered out. “We do love each other. But these past few years, nobody’s come to buy any rocks. Up in Canterlot, they’ve got bricks and gem-encrusted stones, and that’s what every pony wants. Nobody wants rocks anymore. Your father’s taking it rather hard. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him smile.
“Maybe we should have just sent you three away to school,” she continued solemnly. “You’re our priorities.”
“Mom, you’ve done a great job, really,” I encouraged, trying to coax a smile to her muzzle. “Rocks are cool, really. Really.”
She looked at me with honesty and gave her eyes a slight scrunched-up appearance. “Thanks, Pinkamena. Go back to bed with your sisters now.”
I headed back to my room to my fear-struck sisters with a big smile on my face. “Mom’s okay, girls. Go to bed.” My sisters looked at me happily and I saw them smile their first smile in ages. My heart flipped, finally moving, turning into something different than the rock that I thought I’d been born with. I trotted to my own bed and leaped in, laying on my back in the dully lit room. Something by my head caught my eye and I grabbed it quickly, twisting it between my hooves.
A curl. In my hair. In my stick-straight hair. I’m so much more interesting like this, I thought resentfully. I was going to get off of this farm if it killed me. The last time I’d said something like that out loud, my sisters had laughed and said, “Yeah, when sonic rainbooms happen!” But I’d find a sonic rainboom if it meant me leaving the farm and enjoying life, doing interesting city things like making cupcakes.
I was going to make everyone smile. I’d spent too much of my life with grey faces to live the rest of it the same way. I wasn’t going to be Pinkamena. As soon as that urban legendary sonic rainboom happened, I was going to always be Pinkie Pie.