Uptight

by psp7master

Rating: mature
Tags: Dark
Length: 1102

Oh! You talked to me. Nopony talks to me. Do you want to hear a story? I have a story to tell. It's about a magical land called Equestria, a hectic city called Canterlot, and an uptight mare called Octavia.

Oh! You talked to me. Nopony talks to me. Do you want to hear a story? I have a story to tell. It's about a magical land called Equestria, a hectic city called Canterlot, and an uptight mare called Octavia.

/Inspired by the song of the same name, by the official DJ P0N-3
Cover art by Sad Pegasus

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-01-16 21:10:05 UTC

The Story

When they say 'instantly made a name for herself', they mean me.

That's what I did - no, we did. Together. That's the key word here - you get it? You get it. Together. Me and Tavi - the great duo of modern music. Of course you've heard of us. Classical, dubstep - choose your pick, don't be a prick. Why choose when you have both? We created a new genre. That's gotta amount to something. Yes. Yes.

I met her at night. You always meet those kind of ponies at night - the ponies who shape your life. It's the night. It lures us with tales of dark medieval magic and the reality of alcohol-soaked bedroom fun. It breaks the city walls till the gates wouldn't open, it barricades the windows till they wouldn't close, it pushes us way above the dirt and dust of the ground.

That's my Tavi. She's the night - you get it? You get it. We met at that one bar - whasisname - and we got drunk, likely story. Only we didn't end up together just yet. She went her way, and I went mine. But - you know? - we kinda walked two different roads, but at the same pace. Together.

I loved her at once. I just fell in love - no, I collapsed into an abyss filled with liquid love, transparent fluids of deep, mutual affection. Mutual. I loved the way she walked, the way she talked, the way she laughed, the way she loved, the way she chuckled, the way she brushed her hoof against her brow when it itched. The way she graced the ground beneath her hooves with her holy, divine, sacred presence. She was so different. From me. From everypony. So prim. So proud. So uptight. You get it? You get it.

I visited her every concert. I sat in the front row. I feasted on her music. I gulped down notes and passages, devoured melody and rhythm, licked off the tendrils of structure, chewed with vigour the dusty roars of her bow. And after each concert, I was there, in front of the stage, with violet roses. A rare find. Her favourite.

We started dating. Not at once, of course, but eventually. It was good. In show-biz, nopony cares. No, actually, they do care; but it even made a name for us. It made us more popular. Confusion, support, disdain: it was all good. All publicity. You get it? You get it.

We became the ones. Album after album - right after we discovered the sound. The Sound. Together. You get it? You get it.

But sound is an elusive substance. It mocks. It haunts. It escapes. It makes its presence known and then vanishes, leaving you broken and useless musically - and, you think, in life. And no amount of alcohol can drown that.

But then I helped. The one thing I did alone. I found it. The magic powder, the ooze of sound, the home of confidence. The mother of all inspiration. I showed it to her. She was reluctant at first: she was so uptight. But the powder was uptight too. Just as she could manage to put me all around her, the powder could as well. We just had to unite it. And so we did. Together. She gave in, and the powder gave us power. To write. To be inspired. You get it? You get it.

But the powder was a tricky mistress. You snort it up, and you can write wondrful, beautiful, haunting music. But without it, you mean nothing. You have to take more. Magic has its requirements. Sound takes its toll.

It was all perfect. Every day, I would get home, bringing her those violet roses that she loved so much, having roamed the whole of Canterlot for them; and we would snort up the powder, and we would gaze out of the window, bathing in the scent of midnight Canterlot, the boozy odour of the air and dirty plaster of the buildings, weakened by the ages, and we would look at the newly-built skyscrapers like ours, and beautiful houses of the old, and we would write, compose, create!

But then she betrayed me.

She came home later than usual, when I was making dinner. She talked to me. She talked to me! She told me she was moving away. She told me she could not live a life of lies and addiction. She told me she had found managers who would help her pursue her career. Alone.

I tried to stop her. I tried. I tried so hard. But the shadows concealed her. She became a thin, vanishing silhouette. Even the powder, copious as it was, could not help me see through them. I stabbed through the shadows, I ran after her, but I never caught her. She left, and I could not bring her back.

Then they came after me. So, now I'm here, in this-

No! Where are you going? Don't leave! I have a story to tell. It's about me and Tavi - what we did tog- Where are you going?!

No!

***

That's it. I am sending a letter to the Royal Court. This patient, Vinyl Scratch, is utterly hopeless. Every time I try to talk to her, she tells me the same story. She does not realise that she murdered her marefriend, Octavia Philarmonica, nor does she realise that she is in a mental facility and that I am her doctor. She is suffering from a deep anxiety disorder that is prompting her to clarify very often whether the listener understands her. Moreover, for some reason, she has panic attacks when she sees violet roses. I have tried various stimuli, but it is this particular breed that scares her so much. The medication I have tried has not helped in the slightest. Her cocaine addiction has been cured, but I believe that, in her current state, she does not even realise she has ever been addicted.

I will suggest putting her to rest. Move her to Los Pegasus, where euthanasia is legal, and put an end to her suffering. In such a state, she is way too astray and dangerous to the society to be let free, and too incurable to be held here any longer. I have other patients to deal with, the ones with whom, I feel, there lies hope.

I will be sending the letter tomorrow.

~Doctor Rosehoof, December 25th

***

...And now that the doctor has left, I am once more stuck in this prison.

Alone.