Good Girl

by Golden Vision

Rating: teen
Tags: Tragedy
Length: 8974

A pony who suddenly finds herself preferring bones over oats, Screw Loose must make an important decision: is it better to suffer in truth, or to find happiness in a lie?

Screw Loose thought that she was normal—at least until she woke up one morning after a concussion and started barking like a dog. Now, Screw must find a way to steady her mental state before it disintegrates from equine to canine. But between a nurse dead-set on "fixing" her behavior and an empty apartment back home, she will have to make a final decision: is it better to suffer in truth, or to find happiness in a lie?

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-11-14 04:40:02 UTC

Good Girl

The hallway is white.

There’s a pony at my side, his hoofsteps echoing with mine. He’s talking—to me, I realize.

“—Just for now, you realize. For your own—”

I remember that he’s the doctor, though I can’t recall his name. I tune him out and look back at the walls.

They weren’t white before. Back in my room, the walls were baby blue, like the color of my coat. There were pictures of flowers on the walls and windows, sunlight streaming in through the glass.

There are no windows down here. There’s no sunlight, either—only the cold, buzzing lights. And the hallway is white.

I remember waking up. I remember shifting under my sheets, my head beneath my pillow and my mane over my face. The bed wasn’t as big as mine at home, but it was nice. It had a little bookshelf next to it, and a remote that I could use to change the height and incline of the mattress. I’d left it alone last night, though. I just wanted to sleep.

And then I woke up. Sunlight danced behind the curtains, and the nurse was walking in through the door. She had a tray on her back. I could smell oatmeal, and my stomach grumbled. She’d been talking, too, about get-well cards and visitors, and what did I think of the new curtains? I just smiled and nodded like I always did. I’d only been in Ponyville General for a few days, but I still couldn’t get over how nice everypony was.

Her back was turned to me. I felt something welling up in my chest—like a bubble of air, pushing against my throat. I opened my mouth and then shut it again as the nurse nattered on about how Daisy was going out with Roseluck, and how she wished that her paycheck could be a little bit bigger, but of course the doctor already had a tight-enough budget, but then again, she really did wish that she could afford that nice little love seat she saw in Quills & Sofas—

I opened my mouth, and I barked.

It wasn’t a loud bark. It was a nice, short one, and I liked how it echoed in the small room.

She turned around, frowning. “What was that?” she asked. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

I barked again. I decided that it felt right, in some way I couldn’t describe. I did it again, louder. Sharper.

She put her hooves over her ears. “Really, now. This joke isn’t funny anymore.”

I felt my eyes drift out of focus, and I smiled at her, gently, to make sure that she saw there was nothing to be worried about. I didn’t stop barking, though; why would I? It was fun, and I liked fun.

Her mouth opened wide, and she got real jittery. I caught the words “doctor” and “instability,” and then she fled the room with her long white coat flapping behind her. I stopped barking, staring at the door as it swung closed.

When they found me, I’d torn off my patient’s dress. It was in pieces all over the floor, and I was chewing on a hoofball in the middle of the room. It tasted good, and the dress had been too tight. I looked up, grinning at the doctor as he entered.

They took my ball away, put another dress on me, and led me down here.

I tune back in to the doctor.

“—concussions can have a ripple effect on a patient’s well-being,” he’s saying. “Some papers have recorded accounts of mental instability, especially in the case of skull fracture such as yours. So we’re just going to give you a room down here instead of up there; it’s for safety reasons, of course, so don’t be offended. I’m sure it’ll be even more comfortable than your old room.”

The doctor takes a right turn, still talking, and trots down some stairs. I follow him. Down here, the hallways look even whiter than before. I take a careful sniff. Nothing.

“Will there be bones there?”

“Bones?”

I’m keeping pace. His legs aren’t as long as mine, and so he has to crane his neck a bit to look me in the eye. “Uh-huh. Bones. I’m feeling kind of hungry.”

It’s the first time I’ve talked since last night. He seems surprised, and his hoof trembles as he adjusts his glasses. “See, this is exactly what I was talking about. Miss Loose, I’m sorry, but you don’t seem to have the firmest grasp on reality right now.”

I laugh, feeling it bubble up in my chest. “Doctor, I’m not crazy. I just want a few bones to chew on is all.”

He sighs and mumbles something under his breath. My ear twitches, but I can’t quite catch it. “Sorry?”

“It’s nothing.” He stops. “We’re here.”

I look around. “Where—?”

And then I notice it.

It is a door, and a tall one at that. It’s shiny, and I give it a careful tap to see—yep. It’s made of metal. There’s a little window on the top, with those little criss-crossing lines that you only see in hospitals and storage rooms. There’s a room number beside it: A04.

“It’s not the largest of spaces,” the doctor says, rifling through his coat, “but it’s cozy. I’m sure you’ll like it.” He seems to stand a little straighter as he pulls something from his pocket.

It’s a key, and it slides into the lock easily. One quiet click later and the door is open, the doctor’s hoof still on the knob. I step inside before him.

“You’ll find all the amenities, so don’t worry about that,” he says. “There’s a bed, and a toilet, and even a bookshelf! Just like your one upstairs.”

The bed is small, but I agree—it looks cozy. There’s a little wool comforter on the top, and a teddy sitting on the pillow with a smile on its face. I trot toward the bookshelf and lean down, inspecting its contents before wrinkling my nose. My shelf upstairs was filled with architecture magazines that my friends had bought me, as well as a few books on poetry that I’d been meaning to read. These books are all old and leathery, with long, boring-looking titles on their spines.

I inspect one of them; it’s called The Unconscious Stallion Mind, by G.E. Freuwhinny. The next one is You and Your Conscience: A Study In Psychosis and Emotional Stability. There’s no author on its spine.

I chuckle and turn back to the doctor. “Doc,” I say, smiling again, “you do know I’m not crazy, right?” I know the smile doesn’t touch my eyes. I don’t want him to say yes.

He takes a deep breath, licking his lips as the clock on the wall ticks away the seconds. I can feel my heart beating, and I smile even wider.

“You’re going to be perfectly fine,” the doctor finally says. “Please—this is only temporary. We know that you’re usually a very well-adjusted individual.”

“Usually?” I shake my head and take a step forward, lowering my voice. “Doctor, why am I here?”

His lips draw tight. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “It’s for your own well-being,” he finally says, pushing his glasses further up his snout. “Miss Loose, we only want what’s best for you. While your concussion may be close to healed, we’ve decided it to be necessary to move you down here—to the psychiatric ward—for the time being. As I mentioned before, I’m sure that it will be quite the abbreviated stay. You’re quite the hardy mare, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Psychiatric ward. The word sends shivers down my spine, and I grit my teeth. “Is...is there something wrong with me?” I ask. “Doc, give me a straight answer. Please.”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he only averts his eyes, staring at the floor.

I swallow. “Oh.”

At long last, he sighs, and meets my eyes again. “Please, make yourself at home,” he says, taking a step back. The key comes out of his pocket again. “We’ll send some dinner down in a few hours. In the meantime, feel free to entertain yourself with a few of those books.”

“And the bones?”

The door stops just short of closing entirely. The doctor’s voice echoes, hollowly, throughout the room once more.

“We’ll get back to you on those.”

A few hours later, somepony knocks on the door. I go to open it, and realize that I can’t. It’s locked.

I hear a click again, and there’s a stallion standing there.

He’s a big one: well-built, with a greyed mane and dark eyes. He could be one of my workers back on the Projects, for all anypony could know. I recognize him as the security guard here, and give him a wave as I step back from the door.

“Good afternoon,” he says. There’s something on his back, I realize, and I can smell freshly steamed carrots from here. My stomach rumbles. “I’ve brought you lunch.”

I smile. “Do you know when the doctor will see me?” I ask.

He just shakes his head and sets the plate down on the night table beside my bed. I watch him, frowning, as he makes his way back toward the door.

“The doctor will see you when he’s ready,” he finally says. “Enjoy your lunch.”

I watch him as the door swings shut, and then make my over to the tray. The carrots taste stale.

The rest of the day is boring. So is the next day, and the day after that. Three times a day, the security pony comes in bearing a tray of food, and three times a day, he rests it on the table and leaves. A few times, the nurse comes in. She asks me some questions—how am I feeling? Does my head hurt? Is there anything that I need?—and writes my answers down on a clipboard. I’m feeling fine, I tell her. My head doesn’t hurt. I don’t need anything, but some bones, and something to play with would be nice. I’ve tried the books, and I can’t seem to get past the first page without wanting to rip the whole thing apart.

I toss my head back and laugh at that last one, a guffaw deep in my chest. It’s a joke, of course—what kind of dull-minded stallion would waste his time putting five pounds of medical jargon into a two-pound book?—but she doesn’t seem to get it. Instead, her mouth only thins into a short line, and she asks me how my stomach’s feeling. There are creases on her forehead, and a squint in her eyes.

My stomach’s feeling fine. She clicks the pen shut and leaves. I hope she’ll come back tomorrow.

I’m lying on my bed on the start of the fourth day, staring at the ceiling. My stomach rumbles, but I don’t feel hungry. I’m bored of carrots, bored of stale celery, and bored of staring up at these same fifty cracks in the paint day after day.

The door opens, and I look up. The security stallion is back, but this time, he doesn’t have a tray. Instead, the nurse is by his side.

“Come along,” she says. I’m having breakfast upstairs today.

A grin spreads across my face. Eating upstairs! Outside! Away from my bed! I haven’t had the chance to eat at a proper table since before I was checked in. I trot along, not even caring about how white the walls are, or how dull the nurse’s voice sounds, because I’m already picturing heaps of pancakes and waffles and toast, done up with so much butter and syrup that it’s leaking onto the floor.

But breakfast is oatmeal again. They’ve got brown sugar this time, though, and bananas and raisins. Up here in the dining room, even the normal gray mush seems a little brighter, like it’s been prepared with the conversation and laughter of the dozen other ponies whose utensils clink in the room around us.

I pick at my oatmeal, and then decide that I want to try the raisins. They’re sweet, and I add in the sugar as well. I’m about to ask if there are any apple slices instead of bananas when somepony taps me on the shoulder from behind. I turn around, mouth still full of oats.

It’s the nurse, and she’s holding a plate in her mouth. She sets it down on the table beside me, and I hear the thud of plastic against wood.

There are two pills on the plate: one half yellow and half red, and the other long and thin and green. I blink down at them. Where’s my painkiller—the little white one?

“The doctor’s decided to take you off of that for now,” she says. There’s a frown on her face, but it’s not an unkind one. She pushes the plate toward me, the pills jostling on its surface. “These are your new prescriptions.”

One of them is a “mood stabilizer,” she tells me. It’s supposed to keep me happy—in the right frame of mind, she says. I want to ask her what the “right frame of mind” would be, but then I look in her eyes, and I decide not to ask. I take the pill.

The second one—the green one—is apparently a ”stimulant.” I ask if it’s to make me energetic, and quietly chuckle as she cracks a grin.

“It’s just to keep you focused, Miss Loose,” she says. She nods toward my glass of water. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking the other one too?”

I take the second pill. It’s not as thick as the first one, so it’s easier to swallow. “Pills taken,” I say, setting the glass back down. “Maybe your patient can get a treat for that?” I waggle my eyebrows in what I can only assume to be a convincing manner.

That gets a laugh out of her, and she pats me on the shoulder. “We’ll see about getting you something. In the meantime, after you’ve finished your breakfast, the doctor’s got an appointment with you.”

“He does?” My heart rises in my chest. Maybe I’ll be released soon. Maybe my head’s gotten better, and he just needs me to sign a few forms. My grin spreads even wider. Maybe he’ll give me that treat, too—a biscuit? A few bones?

I wolf the oatmeal down in under a minute. The nurse seems impressed, if a bit disturbed. She hoofs me a napkin, helps clean me up, and leads me out of the room.

We don’t meet the doctor in the normal waiting room. Instead, I follow the nurse down the hall, past the lounge where I hear the other nurses and staff laughing while they’re on break. We pass by the vending machines, by the potted plants, and soon enough I find myself in a warm, well-lit room, with a couch beneath my back and a glass of hot cocoa at my side. I like hot cocoa. I told the doctor that the first time I’d met him.

He’s sitting across from me, those thin-rimmed spectacles pulled down low over his eyes. His dark brown bangs sometimes fall over his face, and he has to pause in his speech to brush them away, curling them behind an ear. I shift on my couch, trying to get more comfortable as I look around the room. The wallpaper is a soft shade of brown, decorated with pictures of autumn leaves. A few pieces of paper dot the walls; I squint, but I can’t make out the scribbles on their surfaces.

His hoof comes up again to brush his mane away from his caramel-yellow face, and I snap to attention. A blush comes to my cheeks when I realize that I’ve been dozing off.

“...and so again, I hope that you’re adjusting well. We don’t usually do this for patients, so have no fear that you’re receiving the best treatment possible.”

He smiles at me, and I decide that I should respond somehow. “It’s great,” I say. I flash my teeth. “Just like you said. Very cozy.”

That seems to satisfy him. “Good, good. Now, on the subject of medications…”

He starts rattling off a list of facts about those two pills I took: side effects, purposes, chemical agents. I would tune him out, but it actually sounds interesting, in some morbid, stomach-turning way. I never realized that taking a pill could result in impotence—in a mare, even!—severe nausea, or a heart attack.

He winds down with an assurance that these effects are all, of course, very rare, and the pills temporary, and that I shouldn’t worry myself about it.

“The pills are fine,” I say. “As long as you know what you’re doing, then I’ve got my full faith in you, Doc.”

That wins a smile from him.

“So,” he says. “To go on a short tangent, is there anything that you need in your room? I know Nurse Redheart has been doing her best to help you, but the poor mare has so many patients as it is. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay here more comfortable, then feel free to let me know.”

“Well,” I say, drawing out the word. “I wouldn’t mind some walks outside.”

“Excellent. I’m sure that something can be—”

“And some treats, too.” I purse my lips, scowling up at the ceiling. “I’m still waiting for those bones, you know.”

The doctor blinks.

“Maybe a biscuit with breakfast? A chew toy?” I rub my hooves together, salivating. “Maybe even a friend to play with on those walks. If you’d be okay with that, of course,” I assure him. I don’t want him to think that I’m greedy.

There’s a long pause after that. It seems to hang in the air in a very unsilent way, though, like a giant mosquito buzzing over my head.

The doctor sighs, and I turn to face him. He’s pushed his glasses back above the top of his snout, and he’s massaging his eyes like he’s got a headache.

“Screw Loose—may I call you that?” I nod. “Screw Loose, I’m afraid that this is the current root of our concerns. Physiologically speaking, you’re fine. The damage to your skull has mostly healed, and, barring some sort of freak accident, I would be happy to discharge you.

“I would be,” he says quickly, watching my mouth open, “if it weren’t for the rather disturbing revelation that you seem to have developed...well, some sort of complex from all this.”

I tilt my head. “Huh?”

“You’re a pony,” the doctor says firmly, “and it would be best if you remembered that.”

I laugh; I can’t help myself. “Of course I’m a pony,” I say, picking up my right forehoof and wiggling it about in the air. “I have these, don’t I?”

“Most ponies don’t ask about biscuits, or bones, or treats.” The doctor shakes his head. “Nor long walks with ‘friends’ to play with on the way—not unless you’re a filly, anyway.”

“And?”

“And I would be remiss in my medical duties were I to discharge you in your current state.” His eyes flash, glasses reflecting the light. “I’m sorry, Screw Loose, but you seem to have a form of psychosis that may have been unlocked by the fall.”

“Come on, Doc.” I give him a weak smile. It’s got to be a joke. “Psy—something? Psy-cho-what?”

“Psychosis,” he says. He adjusts his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his snout. “It’s not unknown for certain kinds of mental trauma to release behavioral disturbances that may have otherwise gone unseen. Some ponies have reported a tenuous grasp on reality, or an inability to control their actions.”

“I’m sane,” I blurt. “I promise.”

“I certainly hope so,” he says. “In the meantime, though, your recent shifts in behavior are...troubling. So, until such a time as I see that they have been resolved, I’m afraid I’m going to have to…”

I look up at him, quirking an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“With your leg. You’re scratching the back of your head with your hind leg.”

My eyes swivel to the side. Sure enough, I’ve shifted upright on the couch, with three of my four hooves folded beneath me and the fourth—a back hoof—behind my head, scratching at my ears.

“I had an itch,” I say. I shrug. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“But you’re using your back leg.”

“And?”

His voice is flat. “Screw Loose, most ponies use their front legs to scratch themselves—ponies such as yourself when you were first admitted here.”

My leg slowly comes back down to the cushion. “And?” I say again. “Maybe I felt like a change.”

His mouth twists to the side. “I don’t believe so,” he says. He takes out a small sheet of paper and attaches it to his clipboard. He takes a pen from his pocket into his mouth, and scribbles something on the top of the page.

“What’s that?”

“I’m upping your medication,” he says around the pen. He carefully clicks it shut again and deposits it on the table beside him. “Put your tongue away.”

I whimper, my ears going back. “But it’s hot in here.”

“Then I’ll see about adjusting the thermostat. In the meantime, however, you are a pony with sweat glands, and I’ll expect you to act as such.”

My tongue goes back into my mouth. “Fine.”

I don’t say much else after that. He asks a few more questions, I grunt a few times, and soon enough the nurse is there to lead me back to my room.

I don’t see the doctor for another few days after that. Instead, it’s once again the nurse’s job to deliver my food, as well as to ask about my health and my “mental state.” Before, she usually came alone, but now the security guard is always at her side.

She comes in some days with a stack of flashcards at her side. She points to the first one: it’s a silhouette with a long face and mane. “What is this?” she asks.

A pony. I tell her. This is an easy game.

She holds up another one. This time, it’s the shadow of a much smaller, thinner creature. It’s got perkier ears, and stubbier legs with smaller paws. “And this?”

It’s a dog.

“What kind of dog?”

I shrug helplessly. I was never much of an animal lover.

“But you see,” she continues on, holding up both flashcards together, “they’re different. One is not the other. A pony eats hay and oats, and the dog eats kibble. A pony plays with other ponies, and a dog plays with sticks and balls. A pony is a pony, and a dog is a dog.”

She makes me repeat it. “A pony is a pony, and a dog is a dog.” Again. “A pony is a pony, and a dog is a dog.”

The words feel strange on my tongue. I’m not sure why I need to say them, but I say them anyway, if only to make her happy. She seems to approve, and I take a few more bites of the potato soup she brought with her. Then—

“You do know that you’re a pony, right?”

I hesitate, spoon halfway up to my mouth. “...Yes?” She seems to like that answer, and leaves me to finish the soup in peace.

The next night, I decide that I want to finish my soup without a spoon. She doesn’t like that, and she makes me eat it with a full set of silverware and cloth napkins. When she’s not looking, I take the napkin in my mouth and rip it in half, throwing the pieces on the floor.

When she finds that, she likes it even less.

Things settle into a routine. I wake up and eat breakfast, which I’m not allowed to make a mess of. Then I lie in bed, staring at the cracks in the wall until my eyes go numb. Then there’s a knock on the door, and the nurse comes in again.

No matter what I do, though, she never gets angry. She’s disappointed, sometimes, with her lip curling and her eyes scowling, but she doesn’t get angry. She never raises her voice.

And then one day, she smells something.

It’s when she first walks in, tray of hayfries and carrots balanced on her back. “Good afternoon, Miss Loose,” she begins. “How are you—”

She stops in place. I can see her eyes watering.

“Hello,” I offer.

Her nostrils flare, and my ears go back over my head. “What is that smell?” she asks. “Is there a sewage leak in here? A problem with the plumbing?”

I shy away, leaning against a wall. “N-no.”

She looks around suspiciously, eyebrows furrowed—and then spots it. It’s a little pile in the back corner of the room that I’ve done my best to cover up with books. Some of it shows through, though: a big lump of brown, and some of the pages of the books colored a sickly yellow. “My goodness, please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

I want to, but no words come out. She stalks over, inspects the pile for a moment, and then stalks back to me. There’s something burning in her eyes, and when she speaks again, her voice is deadly.

“Screw Loose,” she says slowly. “Would you care to tell me why there is a pile of what I’m going to assume is your own feces sitting in a corner of this room?”

“The toilet’s cold,” I offer timidly. I try to shrink back a little more. “Didn’t want to use it.”

“But to go all over the floor?” she growls. “And to destroy these books trying to cover it up?”

My hooves are trembling, my ears doing their best to burrow inside of my skull. “Sorry—I’m really sorry. Please.”

She catches herself. Her voice comes back down to a normal level, and the fire in her eyes recedes. She takes a deep breath before speaking again. “What am I supposed to do with this, Miss Loose? Won’t you even try to cooperate with us? We’re just trying to do what’s best for you.”

“I—I could go outside,” I say. “In the yard. That way, it wouldn’t mess up the carpet.”

She snorts. “Ridiculous. No—I’ll just have the doctor up your medications. I’m sorry, Miss Loose, but this is your responsibility. We can’t help you if you refuse to work with us.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Really, I am. I’m trying.”

“If you’re sure,” she says.

An hour later, two stallions with mops come and escort me out of my room. The nurse guides me to the cafeteria in the meantime. It’s empty—lunch was an hour ago, and dinner isn’t for another four—and very quiet. I don’t dare to make any sort of noise. Thankfully, she doesn’t, either.

She leads me back to my room when the stallions are done. The pile is gone, and the room smells like lemons and soap. I wrinkle my nose, but I don’t object. She leaves only after extracting a promise from me to “use the facilities” properly.

I keep my promise for two days. I know I’m supposed to use the toilet like a normal pony, but it’s so cold—so hard—and it feels so wrong beneath my haunches. So on the third day, when she comes into my room with a bowl full of oats, it’s only seconds before she smells it again.

This time, she screams herself hoarse for at least five minutes.

The third time, she screams for another ten. Why can’t you even make an effort? Do you want to be a troublemaker? Why, she seems to be asking, is this her fault?Why can’t I take the blame, like an adult? Like a normal pony?

I don’t know.

A week later, I’m standing outside in the backyard. I’m crouching down near the rusty iron fence, my hooves flattening the dead grass as I do my business. The air is chilly and bitter; there’s a dumpster by the back door, and the pipes running back here are old and covered in moss.

The nurse keeps her back to me as I finish. When I’m done, I trot back toward her and wait for her to open the door.

By the time I’ve trotted inside, it’s become hard to ignore her glares.

I’m running through a field. The grass brushes against my fur, my paws sinking into the dirt. The sunlight is warm, and the breeze whistles between my ears. I bark happily, loving the way that my claws poke into the earth.

My ear twitches, perking up. I’ve heard something—a soft whine, far off in the distance. I wait, and sure enough, I hear it again. I bark in reply—a sharp woof!—and get a quick response. That’s enough for me, and I set off through the tall grasses.

They whip across my fur as I go, leaving bristles and bits of chaff with each bounding leap. I don’t care, though; it’s like they’re hugging me, caressing me as I run. It’s strange to be so much closer to the earth, but it feels...right.

The grass bends down around me, like it’s melting into the earth. I keep running, my tongue hanging out of my mouth, and my tail wagging behind me. In the distance, I can see a dark shape, and I let out a long howl. It howls back, and I redouble my pace.

With each step, the ground becomes firmer beneath my paws. My ears flop across my face, and I bark again and again, begging my target to come a little closer, to wait and play with me. Soft dirt becomes harder clay, which then becomes gravel. Soon, I’m running on hard cobblestone, my claws going clickity-tickity-rickity-tack as they alight upon the ground.

I let out a high-pitched whine. Why won’t my new friend stop? Why doesn’t he want to play? I get only a playful bark in response, and I throw back my head and howl once more. It’s the thrill of the chase, and it’s filling my bones.

My paw pads thump against the stone as I see my target turn a corner. There are no more trees; instead, masses of stone and wood tower into the skies. I take a moment to search for the word. Buildings, I decide, a smug look on my face. Houses.

I somehow know that it’s a dead end. Panting, I turn the same corner, expecting to see my friend waiting there for me.

My mouth falls open, my eyes going wide. Not one, but five shadows are there waiting for me, their ears perked straight up and their tails wagging as fast as mine. I see a flash of golden fur—a twitch of a brown ear—the stare of bright blue eyes—and then they vanish around a corner, barking madly. It’s as if they’re laughing.

I laugh too, my barks and yelps echoing off of the walls as I resume the chase. Their shadows dart and dance away from me, and try as I might, I can never quite catch up. I growl, snapping at the air as one of the smaller ones leaps away. I turn another corner, ready to catch them—

—and see nothing but the flickering of shadows. There’s nothing there, and the only sounds are the echoes of barks on hard brick walls. Soon enough, that too fades.

I take a step back. The cobblestones hurt my sensitive paws, and it’s only then that I realize that I’ve got blisters there: big, throbbing red ones. The back of my neck prickles and a growl wells up in my chest. Something isn’t right.

I turn around and freeze.

A final shadow towers above me. It has four legs, just like me, but where mine end in paws, its turn instead into wide, hard hooves. Slowly, it reaches toward me, and my hackles come up as I give it a snarl in warning.

It stops. I bark, my voice echoing off of the sides of the alleyway. That seems to give it pause for a few more seconds.

I start to back away.

The effect is lost. The shadow blurs, and I find myself running, adrenaline flooding my veins. I take a left. I take a right. My feet burn with each step I take, and my chest feels like it’s going to burst.

But it’s not enough. I can feel that shadow following me, getting closer in its chase. I whimper, darting around a corner—

—and it’s there, waiting for me and towering far above my head. I collapse, my paws on fire. I can’t run anymore.

There’s a pressure on my neck; I can’t breathe—

Good morning, Miss Loose.

My eyes open.

“Good morning,” the nurse repeats. She’s holding something beneath my nose.

It’s a bowl, with four pills in it. The “mood stabilizer” is there, along with two more stimulants. There’s something new, though: a little purple pill that rolls around the bottom of the bowl. I ask what it is.

It’s an antipsychotic, she tells me. I don’t ask what it’s for, and she doesn’t tell me.

I take the pills, take a gulp of water, and then, when she’s not looking, spit it all out into the toilet.

An hour later, I’m sitting outside the doctor’s main office. I haven’t been back to the room with the couch in over a week. The chairs in the waiting room are hard, and I fidget around to try and get comfortable. It doesn’t work.

A mare sitting across the room looks at me oddly. She has a small colt on her lap, and I bare my teeth in an attempt at a smile. Her glance turns into a glare, and my ears go back as she scoots her chair a few inches away. I close my unfocused eyes and brush my hair out of my face; it’s all frizzy, and the normally silver color is speckled and grey. I can’t remember when I last took a shower. I don’t like the water anymore. It’s too cold, too wet, and it leaves my fur smelling like the dumpster out back.

A secretary calls a name. Apparently, it’s the mare across the room, and she leads her son out of his seat and toward the receptionist’s window. She makes sure to give me a wide berth. Another pony comes out of the doctor’s office, and I freeze.

My nose twitches at the familiar scent, my eyes widening in shock. It’s a little collie, trotting happily beside her master. Her tail wags happily behind her, and her paws make sharp sounds on the tiles.

I let out a little whine, fidgeting in my seat. I feel a weight on my shoulder.

“No,” the nurse says from the seat beside me. She’s seen her too, and there’s a warning in her eyes. “Stay put. Your appointment is in ten minutes.”

I whimper, my tail curling around my leg. Her frown deepens, and the weight of her hoof on my back increases.

I hear voices. The receptionist is chatting with the mare, and the son is playing with his action figures on the floor. The nurse is muttering to herself, and the doctor is talking loudly to somepony in the back room. The front door opens, and the dog follows its master out the door—

My ears perk up. My haunches tense. Before the nurse can even react, I’m dashing across the floor, my paws pounding on the tiles as my tail wags behind me. I can see the sunlight stretching across the hard ground, inviting me outside, the other dog’s scent clinging to my nose and welcoming me outside this cold, dark place—

Something hits me in the side, and I go down. Everything is wild, my hooves are thrashing. Why, I want to scream. Why won’t you let me go outside? Why won’t you let me play? I twist my neck around, teeth bared. I hear raised voices: the mother is shouting, the colt giggling madly, and somepony is screaming. The weight is overpowering and I can’t see; my hooves are thrust beneath me, and I snarl. I’m barking, my throat seizing up as I take in more and more air before biting down on the closest thing that I can find.

My teeth meet flesh. Somepony screams again, louder this time. There’s something in my mouth, a bitter, coppery liquid that I spit out to the side. I bare my teeth and growl, my hooves flailing from side to side. I manage to see out of the door—the other dog is long gone, and the door is swinging closed, the sunlight disappearing—

Something long and sharp pierces my side, and slowly, everything goes dark.

When I wake up, it’s in a cell.

There are bars on the door. That’s my first hint. The second is that my legs are bound, held tightly around my chest. I growl as I try to pull them away, wiggling my paws from side to side.

“That’s a straightjacket. You’re not going to escape that.”

It’s the doctor’s voice. I ignore him, and instead latch my teeth onto the edge of the “jacket.” I overbalance—only two of my paws are free, and I can barely sit up, let alone stand—and fall to the ground with an oomph.

I hear the padding of hooves toward me. The floor is a cushioned fabric. It sinks beneath my weight as I struggle to get up.

A shadow falls over me. It’s the doctor. I refuse to meet his eyes; instead, a low growl builds up in my chest.

“Get out,” I snarl. “Let me out of here. Don’t want this.”

I hear a sigh, and then the scribbling of a pen on paper. “Patient… displays… animalistic… tendencies,” the doctor murmurs as he writes. “Further...investigation...is…”

My hackles come up, and I bare my teeth. I can just barely turn my head around to face him; it’s a struggle to move anywhere else. “You’re stupid,” I say. “Let me out of this thing! Now!”

The doctor’s eyebrows rise up into his forehead. “Now, now, Miss Loose,” he says, tucking his clipboard under one leg. “I can’t speak in barks and woofs. Would you mind speaking properly, so that I can understand you?”

“Screw you,” I say, and spit onto the ground at his hooves. “You never even got me those bones.”

His lip curls, and he straightens back up. “Should you wish to communicate, then I will be here again tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll instruct the nurses to up your dosages—we’ll see about that extra antipsychotic. You’re the first patient bad enough to force us to go to these levels—I’ve not had to use that straightjacket in over fifteen years—but I’ve got a few ideas in mind.”

He turns to go, and I hear the door swinging open behind me.

“Goodbye.”

The door swings shut.

The cell is dark.

I’ve been sweating. The straightjacket is slick against my fur, and my tongue hangs out as I try to cool myself down. The ponies outside have decided that it’s nighttime, and so they’ve turned off the only light in here.

I don’t want to sleep. I can’t sleep. Not like this, trussed up like some flightless bird—like some limbless freak—unable to run or jump or play.

I nearly whine, the air leaking out of my lungs. Why won’t they let me out? Why won’t they set me free? “Please…”

My barks are absorbed into the plush walls of my cell. There are no echoes here.

The routine starts up again. Three times a day, the security guard comes in with a bowl of oats and a hoofful of pills. I refuse to swallow them at first, and then he calls in the doctor, and they hold me down while they stuff the pills down my throat. Their voices are reassuring, but I can’t make out the words. I try to vomit the pills back up, but with my two front hooves bound, I can’t do anything beside gag meaninglessly at the floor. I don’t see the nurse again.

Then one day, I find it. A loose stitch in the straightjacket. I poke my snout beneath it, maneuvering it as best I can. There’s a broken seam there—something torn, something snapped that the doctor didn’t quite catch. Carefully, I nuzzle closer, taking it into my mouth, and—

There’s a click in the door, and I freeze. It must be dinnertime already. I yank my face away from my shoulder and do my best to look as innocent as possible.

It’s the security guard again. This time, the doctor isn’t with him.

He grunts to me as he sets the oats down. I refuse to look at him as I lean down, doing my best not to fall face-first into the bowl as I eat.

“It just isn’t natural,” he mutters, watching me with a wary eye. “Can you even hear me in there?”

I ignore him. His words don’t mean anything to me. Instead, I just eat faster. I hadn’t noticed before, but I’m hungry.

He sighs. “Pony that thinks she’s a dog... I haven’t seen anything this crazy since that monster got loose from Canterlot.”

He’s shaking his head as he retrieves the dish, and he’s still shaking it, muttering under his breath, as he leaves the cell and shuts the door behind him. I wait a few minutes, eyes peeled at the door to make sure that nobody is coming back in.

Five minutes later, the light goes out, and I get to work.

The straightjacket is tight against my muzzle, but I manage to get it into my teeth. It’s already torn, already open to my touch. I clench my jaw and slowly pull away, savoring the ripping noise it makes. It’s slow going, but eventually, I manage to get a piece off, the threads popping free one by one.

There. One paw free.

I hold it up in the air, squinting to make it out in the dim light. It feels strange—I know I should be able to see it, but it’s only a shadow to me. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m half free, and there’s only one more leg to go.

Within another hour, I’ve escaped the straightjacket entirely. It sits on the floor, discarded and unwanted. It’s still dark, and I have no idea what time it is, so I settle in to wait.

I can't tell how long it is before the lights come back on. It might be hours, or it might be five minutes. My eyes are drifting closed, my ears falling back over my skull—but when that cold yellow light flickers on, I'm back on my paws, poised at the door.

Not thirty seconds later, I hear it: the click. Just like every morning, I picture the guard outside, tray resting on the floor as he fiddles with the key. Maybe the doctor is with him. Probably not. He hasn't come in since last week.

A tiny sliver of light seeps in past the door, and I set my shoulders. Every nerve in my body is screaming to jump, to run, to go, but I wait. I hold off. There's a perfect moment for this, and it's not now.

The door opens a little bit more, and I can see the security guard's graying mane. I can make out his dark brown muzzle above the glint of silver in his mouth that I know is the key. One more second...one more moment...one more heartbeat. My tail is held straight out, my spine singing with tension and irritation. I'm ready.

I see his eyes, and spring into action.

He never knows what hit him. One moment, he's opening the door to a cage that he believes to be empty, delivering food to a prisoner that might as well be dead—and the next, he's on the ground, my paw pushing into his skull. He lets out a grunt of surprise and then says no more. His watch shatters on the tiles. Beside him, my leg catches on the bowl of oatmeal and shoves it over. Glass shatters, tinkling down the corridor as the water for my pills spills out across the floor.

I keep running, and I don't stop. I remember these corridors from my visits back upstairs—visiting the doctor, the backyard, the cafeteria. The halls down here are empty, and I run up the stairs and onto the main floor.

I can hear voices: laughter, conversation from the cafeteria's double doors. I growl, my eyes swivelling back out to the main hallway. I know where I'm going.

But I'm not alone. There's someone else here. It's a young mare, her coat purple with a small red cross on her flank. I haven't seen her before. Her jaw drops, and for a moment, we just stare at each other with eyes wider than dinner plates.

I growl, and she screams. I make a dash for the door.

My heart is pounding in my chest. The corridor blurs past me, the wallpaper streaming into one giant mess of color. Ponies jump out into the hallway and I dodge around them with ease—they seem to make little effort to actually catch me.

I turn a corner, my chest heaving. There are shouts behind me—angry voices, with hooves pounding on the floor. I hear one shout, but I can't make out the words. My tongue hangs out of my mouth and I want to laugh. This is the chase—this is the game—and I'm finally going to be free.

There it is. The door. Ponies leap out of my way, screaming and shouting, and behind me, I hear the others getting closer. One ahead of me reaches out, a hoof batting uselessly against my shoulder. I shove her off, my hackles coming up as I bark at her. She flinches away.

It's the nurse. Her eyes are wide, confused, afraid.  I redouble my pace, claws clicking and clacking against the ground.

The front door swings wide: it's the doctor, and he's got a bag held under his leg. His eyes widen as I approach, and then everything slows down. His hooves come up, his mouth moving in slow motion. I leap—

And then I'm out.

My hooves hit dirt. I can smell grass, touched with dew and soil. I can feel sunlight on my face—real sunlight, not the pale, filtered shadows of the backyard—and I want to laugh. I'm laughing, the doctor is on the ground, and I'm running, with a warm breeze behind me, my paws hitting the ground and a song in my heart—

I feel something hit my rear. It's barely noticeable, like a mosquito's bite, or a tick’s. I keep running—I don't look back—but my pace slows. It feels like I'm running through mud. My vision clouds over, and my blood turns to ice in my veins. I snarl, struggling to keep moving. Can't stop. Can't wait. I need to keep going—

But my hooves are falling out from under me. Darkness is flashing across my eyes like the deepest night, and my heart is slowing in my chest. With horror, I realize that I can't feel the sunlight anymore.

I crash into the ground, my snout digging deep into the dirt. I whimper, watching the grass blur across my face. Two shadows stand above me, and I can barely muster up the strength to snarl up at them.

They take me by the neck, and my eyes close. I'm falling, my paws flailing beneath me, and darkness is all I can see.

I sleep, and I don't wake up for a long time.

When I wake up, the ground is soft.

I squeeze my eyes shut. No, I want to say. No, I won't go back there. Not to the room, to the cell, to the cage, never to be free again.

And then I open my eyes, and I see dirt.

It's dark brown: rich and loamy, with pebbles scattered in it. I take a cautious sniff, my eyes widening as I recognize the smell of clay and wet grass. My heart rises in my chest. Can it be...?

I hear a bark. It isn't mine.

My ears perk up, and instantly, I'm on my paws, growling playfully. I can feel the sunlight—the sun! the sun!—on my face, and it's warming my fur, and I close my eyes to bask in it for just a little while. The cold, white lights are gone, and the sun is singing to me from its place in the sky.

I hear the bark again, and my eyes snap open.

There's another dog standing there, right across the field. He raises his head high into the air and barks a third time, even louder. His tongue lolls out of his mouth. He wants to play, and he wants me to come with him.

Without hesitation, I'm off, running toward him. My paws sink into the dirt below me, the nettles catching on my fur and the crickets chirping in the tall grasses all around.

He paws the ground, clearly eager to be off, and I bark in return.

He turns to go, and I give chase. We’re yelping as we run across the field, chasing each other through the brambles and tall grasses. High in the sky, birds call to one another as they weave through the clouds, the wind whistling between their wings.

I finally catch him, holding his tail between my teeth. I don’t bite down hard, though I give him a playful nip. He yelps and jumps back over me, tackling me to the ground. We roll through the dirt, tails wagging beneath us as we battle for dominance.

I pin him to the ground, growling down at him. He nips at my paws, but I don’t let up. A shadow falls over us, and I look up.

It’s the silhouette of a pony: tall, with a bright red coat. I feel like I should be angry, but I can’t remember why. Instead, I wag my tail, panting up at him as my new friend gets up from the ground.

The pony turns back, rifling through a pouch that I can’t see. When he turns back, there’s something in his mouth: a ball. I let out a high-pitched yelp and crouch down to the ground, wagging my tail behind me.

Do you want this ball? he seems to ask me. I bark excitedly.

I’m ready to go. Throw the ball, I want to say. Throw the ball. I’ll catch it, and kill it, and bring it back to you.

He throws the ball with a long, powerful whip of his neck and I’m off, dodging between the grasses as I try to follow its shadow across the sky. I can hear my new friend behind me, barking as he tries to catch up.

The ball bounces on the ground, and I stumble, my paws scrambling over the dirt and the grass catching on my fur, but I manage to snag the ball with a tooth. It feels right in my mouth, and before my friend can catch me, I’m off again, dashing through the field and back to the pony.

Barking fills the air behind me: deep barks, high barks, and growling barks that make the air hum and jump. I glance over my shoulder and there at least a dozen other dogs following me, their excited yelps filling the air. I want to laugh, to call back to them, but I don’t want to drop the ball, so I keep running with my paws pounding against the ground.

I drop the ball at the pony’s hooves, my tail wagging behind me. He looks surprised, and then there’s a smile on his face. He reaches back into his pack and pulls something else out, which he drops on the ground beside me.

Good dog, he says. Have a biscuit.

I give the new object a cautious sniff. It smells good, and I give it a lick across the top. In the blink of an eye, the whole thing is in my mouth, and I’m wolfing it down like I’ve never eaten before. This isn’t oatmeal. This is something much, much better.

He laughs, and offers me another one. I take it.

By now, my friends have caught up, and they’re begging for treats. They’re pulling on my fur and ears, nipping at my tail, and I’m growling back at them—not too loudly, but playfully, letting them know that this is my biscuit, my pony, and that I’m not giving either one up. One of them tries to take my ball, and I snap right back. He yelps, but keeps his distance.

I look back up; the pony has a stick, and he’s pulling his neck back again. The ball is forgotten, and my legs tense up, and now it’s in the air and I’m running, my pack beside me. Our yelps and howls fill the sky, and I can feel their fur against mine as we rush through the field after our new prey.

I’ve found my pack, and they’ve found me. Their scent mixes with mine, and I raise my head high and howl to the sun above. The air is warm and light, and the wind rushes through my fur.

My pack howls with me, and I feel something swelling in my chest. I’ve found my home, and I’ve been welcomed with open paws. We howl together, our voices singing across the fields.

I’ve found my home, and I’m never going back.