Chapter 1 - He Did Not Wear Cynicism Well
I was twelve years old at the time, but for all my naivety I could have been six. I had fluffy blonde hair on my head and a perpetual smile on my face. I didn't grow much, so I wore the same denim overalls that had been baggy on me when I was little. In fact, I always wore them. Every day, I was the kid at school who wore overalls. Little kids clothes. Tiny little Sammy. Sammy the baby. The names didn’t really begin to bother me until I reached age seven. First graders, I learned, could be cruel.
“What happened, Sammy?”my mother stared at me wearing a look of concern after I’d come home from school sobbing. I had crossed my arms over my midsection, which was screaming out in pain and terror. My mother gently pulled my arms apart and lifted my shirt, revealing a purple spot in the middle of my ribcage.
“Who did this, Sammy?”
I shook my head no, even though it wasn’t a yes or no question.
“Did some kids from school do this to you?”
I shook my head no again.
“It was kids from school, wasn’t it?”
I didn’t respond for a moment. Eventually, I nodded yes.
“I’ll call your principal. This kind of thing shouldn’t be happening.”
She walked over to the kitchen and picked up the cordless phone. I heard her dial the ten-digit number of the Valentine Hills Elementary School’s main office. When the call connected, she spoke calmly, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then it got louder. Eventually she was shouting. Beneath the rage that filled my ears, I heard the front door shut softly. I glanced over and saw my older brother, Ryan, stealthily tiptoeing into the house and past my mother until he got to the hallway. He waved to me silently and signaled for me to stay quiet.
It wasn’t like him to be home this late without forewarning. He was almost always home by three-thirty, and it was already well past five. Before I could ponder this too much, however, I heard a vague click as my mother hung up the phone. A moment’s pause, and then she dialed a new number.
“Hello? Is this the main office of St. John the Baptist? I was wondering if I might register my son to transfer...”
Congratulations, baby Sammy, your parents are transferring you to a Catholic School.
Oh no, oh no, oh god no. This was bad.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t so much mind church - it was just the sort of thing my family did, and I had no reason to complain really. But Catholic school meant a uniform, which would mean that for six and a half hours each day I would be without my favorite overalls.
No overalls.
This one bleak and bereft thought took centuries to finally run the course through my brain. What was I without overalls? Just a kid. Just some stupid, smiley kid. I was nothing but an idiot without my overalls.
I was going to hate my new school. I knew it.
* * *
I loved it. Every minute of it. The lack of overalls did bother me quite a bit, but I got used to it. I was still allowed to wear them at home anyway. I couldn’t be too upset for too long. It was a place where I seemed to fit in.
I loved to learn. I’d always enjoyed studying and proving how much I knew. Homework was one of my main passtimes, and I’d finally found a place where that sentiment was shared by my classmates. At my old school I’d been mocked and teased for my academic integrity and ambition. But here, everyone was inclined to succeed. I wasn’t alone anymore. I was among like-minded students.
I’d even taken a liking to a girl in my class. She barely noticed me, but I always noticed her as she walked into class and as she left to return home. Her name was Emilia, and she was absolutely beautiful and extremely smart. Not only that, but she lived just a few blocks away from me. Unfortunately, I had always been extremely quiet around girls. I didn’t know how to start a conversation with her without seeming like a total weirdo. I didn’t realize at the time that this was perfectly normal.
All in all, I liked my new school. For once, I fit in.
My academic success led to large gaps of time in my schedule in which I had caught up on all of my homework. This in turn led me to sitting myself in front of the television set for several hours each night. Saturday morning cartoons soon became my primary source of entertainment.
Little by little, my world became a peaceful one where kids never got hurt. Where the only bad people were the ones on television, who always got what they deserved in the end. Perpetuating this mentality for me were the pastel characters who painted themselves across the television screen. I watched every cartoon I could find, and loved them all. Every night, cartoons lit up my life. Laughing heartily as Bubbles donned a purple metal helmet and imitated Mojo Jojo. Tears rolling past my smiling face as Princess Yue gave her life to revive the moon spirit. Cartoons had become my entire world. What I saw on the screen before me became my reality and I thrived upon it.
This lasted for five full years, possibly the best five years of my life.
Then when I was twelve years old, a new cartoon found its way onto a channel I rarely visited. The channel was called The Hub, and the show was called My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I wasn’t old enough to remember older incarnations of the show, so the concept was entirely new to me. Of course, I knew it wasn’t for me, but I couldn’t resist. I wanted to know what it was about and what kind of joy and adventure this new show could bring me.
It didn’t disappoint.
I was there from the start, watching as Twilight Sparkle met her new friends in Ponyville. The week I had to wait before I could see the six friends confront Nightmare Moon was probably the longest week of my life. Every week, this show gave new life to the smile on my face.
However, had I known what was simmering just below the surface of my happy household I might not have been smiling so much. That particular chain of events is what I’m here to tell you about, so before I go any further, let me fill you in on some details.
There had been some strange things going on in my house for a while. Remember earlier when I mentioned Ryan coming home late? Well, for those five years he’d started coming home later and later with each passing night. Of course, being parked in front of the TV in the living room ensured that I saw everyone who walked through the front door and when. Ryan was no exception. By the time I was twelve years old, Ryan was staying out later than I was staying awake. One Friday night in mid-April of 2011, I decided to stay up and wait for him.
He didn’t come home.
Nor was he home the next morning, or by that Saturday evening. By Sunday evening my parents had called the police. I listened cautiously from my bedroom hideout.
“Hello, um,”my mother stifled a tremble and continued, “I’d like to report a missing person, Ryan Mathisson. Yes. Uh-huh. Nineteen years old. Alright...”her tone became more unsteady and she had trouble controlling her pitch. “Yes, alright, I can be there in ten minutes or so.”
I peeked through my bedroom door and saw my mother walking towards my room. She carefully and slowly nudged the door open. Her face was red and her eyes were puffy but she made every attempt to fake a smile.
"Alright, Sammy. I'll be back, er...soon, okay? Now be a good boy and do your homework."
It was several hours before she returned, well into the night. I stayed out of her way, pretending to be asleep, but nevertheless I heard it all. I heard her enter the bedroom next to mine. I heard the light flick on and I heard the mattress squeak as my father sat up to comfort her. I heard her crying through the paper-thin walls. And through it all I heard a pulse, a sort of throb, and it took me several moments to realize that it was coming from within my head.
I couldn’t sleep at all with the adrenaline of sudden worry pulsing through me at the sound of my mother’s muffled sobs. On an impulse I got out of bed and went over to my desk. I flicked on the lamp, pulled out a pencil and some paper, and just started writing. Every little thought that ran through my mind came out through my hand, through the pencil, onto the white surface between blue and pink lines. After about fifteen minutes of writing I picked up my paper and looked at it. I didn’t even remember writing half the words I found on the paper. I read the first paragraph aloud to myself, in a soft whisper so as not to wake my parents.
Most of it was redundant. I was just talking in circles, chasing my thoughts around as I made sense of the situation. But I had apparently asked some good questions. It took me a moment to notice that I’d accidentally skipped the first line on the paper. I thought for a moment before deciding to add the words “Dear Princess Celestia”to the empty line. At the end, after the three paragraphs I had written, I added “Your faithful student, Sammy Mathisson” I didn’t know what compelled me to do this. Perhaps it made me feel like someone, or somepony, was listening? At one-thirty in the morning, my decisions were difficult to explain with logic and reason. But somehow, it made me feel better. I rolled up the letter, tied it up with a spare string, and placed it in my backpack.
My head was still throbbing as I returned to my bed and pulled the covers tight over myself, but at least my thoughts had stopped racing around. I shut my eyes and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
The following Monday had apparently decided not to go so well. It began doing so as I walked out to my bus stop. There, I ran into two of my former classmates, or rather, they ran into me. One of them was Martin, the kid who gave me the bruise all those years ago that led my parents to send me to a Catholic school. The other kid was a friend of Martin’s named Jacob. Equally tough. Equally unkind.
Jacob bumped into me very roughly and very deliberately as he walked past. It took me a moment to notice that my paper from the previous night had just fallen out of my backpack.
“Well,”said Martin in a smarmy and self-assured voice, “what do we have here? A cute little note? I guess you won’t mind if I read it.”He held the note up mockingly, pretending to use the sunlight to see the letters through the paper. We both knew he didn’t need to do that in order to read it. For the record: Martin was nearly twice my height. It really, really sucks to be short. Obviously, telling him to give it back also didn’t help me any.
“You want it back that badly, huh? Well, now I have to see what it says!”
He pulled lightly on the string and the letter fell open. His eyes fell upon the page and I felt my heart sink as his face turned into a twisted smirk.
“Who the hell is ‘Princess Celestia’?” He pronounced ‘Princess Celestia’ very slowly and deliberately, and loud enough that everyone else at the bus stop could hear, including the bus driver who had just pulled up. Behind him I saw Emilia. She stared in my direction with disgust. My face flushed. One of her friends grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her onto the bus, leaving me to deal with Martin, who had just finished crumpling up my letter. With a flick of his wrist he tossed it at my forehead. As he walked away he muttered something under his breath. I didn’t hear what he said but it sounded like it rhymed with ‘bag’. I silently made my way onto the school bus and took a seat at the back.
That evening, when I returned home from school, I got up the nerve to ask my parents what was going on with Ryan. I didn’t know why hostility had entered my voice at that moment, especially when my parents were not to blame for what had happened at the bus stop, but I was mad and I wanted to know.
“Why didn’t Ryan come home with you last night?” I asked harshly.
In a very rehearsed-sounding tone my mother replied, “he needs to do some community service. The police are keeping him overnight.”
Somehow I didn’t quite buy it, but I forced myself to let it go. I was having enough emotional problems without being mad at my parents. I made a quick retreat to my room where I began writing another letter. Unlike my first letter, this one was filled with venomous hatred and spite. All the feelings I felt in my heart that I refused to let cross my face. My loathing for Martin and my depression from Emilia’s betrayal of our imaginary friendship. I’d become so delusional that I’d confused my feelings for her with an actual two-way relationship, leading me to somehow forget that we weren’t actually friends. Watching her walk away from me at the bus stop had been a harsh awakening for me, and I wasn’t ready to take it in. The paper and pencil sure heard about my feelings though.
It took me several hours to finish my letter, which eventually totalled just over five pages. I looked it over for a moment before impulsively tearing it to shreds. It was worthless, absolutely worthless, and I knew it. I’d wasted an entire evening on that drivel, completely ignoring the homework I’d been assigned that day. With no sympathy towards my own emotions and no leniency on the state of my homework, I forced myself to stay up until I finished all my work for the next day. It was well past midnight before I was caught up.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. All I could do was think about was the lie I suspected my parents of telling me. There was something just the slightest bit weird about their story. It was vague. They were giving as few details as possible. Not only that, but it was so well rehearsed. Even a simple twelve-year-old like me could tell that my mother had spent hours repeating that line to herself so she’d have it just right. She didn’t sound like herself when she said it.
I knew. I could tell she was lying. But why? Did she think I couldn’t handle the truth? Did she think I was just some small child? Was I nothing more than Sammy the baby to her as well? This brought me back to the question that would answer them all: what was so bad about what happened to Ryan that she couldn’t tell me?
I just wanted to know where my brother was. I lay awake the entire night asking myself those questions repeatedly, talking myself dizzy as my thoughts ran circles around my cranium. No sleep for little baby Sammy tonight.
Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday must have been in cohorts with Monday, because they too decided to make my life miserable. The air outside was nasty. Hot and humid all day, and our school’s air conditioning was broken. Great, just great. The heat and sleep deprivation were making me paranoid, too, because when Emilia didn’t even look at me, I thought it was deliberate, even though this was no different from any other day. I was seriously going out of my mind.
Fortunately, there was no school on Friday, so I was able to reclaim a tiny bit of my sanity. For the first ten hours of the day I sat in front of the air vent, smiling in a sea of bubbly euphoria as waves of cool air washed over me. I became more confident. My will grew stronger within me. I was going to ask my parents what happened to Ryan. That night, that Friday night, I was going to make them spill it all. I wanted to know. This weight on my mind was causing me problems in other parts of my life and I needed answers. I was tired of not knowing.
If only this mentality had lasted. By that evening I had grown uneasy. Fortunately, after making such an unflinching promise to myself that morning, I could do nothing but follow through that evening, no matter how much my mood changed after I left the air vent. I had developed a slight sinking feeling in my stomach - complemented by a stomachache from that morning’s Reece’s Puffs Cereal - that told me I already knew what the story was and that I should be very scared of it. But I ignored it, like I ignored every other sign of danger. I had to if I ever wanted the truth.
“Where’s my brother?”I asked that evening over dinner. My inquiry was met by a terrible, ominous, silence, caustic and sharp. I already knew the answer, and I knew I wouldn’t like it, but still I pressed further.
“What happened to Ryan? Where has he been?”
“Sammy, he’s doing community service. We told you that.”
“Okay, now what’s the real story?”
My parents both shifted in their seats. They clearly didn’t want to tell me. This was bad.
“Did he die?”
No response.
“Was he killed?”
Still nothing. Even in the dead silence, each passing moment spoke volumes.
“How did he die?”
My mother opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, which disappointed me. I just wanted the truth. I was tired of being protected. I was tired of being sheltered from the bad in the world. Something was going on and I wanted to know what it was. What had happened to my brother, and why couldn’t my parents tell me?
“How did he die?”
“I think you should go work on your homework, Sammy,”said my father.
“It’s past your bedtime,”said my mother.
I was sick of this. I was sick of being treated like I wouldn’t or couldn’t understand the truth of the matter. Like I was so fragile and so helpless that my parents wouldn’t allow me any closure with my brother. I was beyond tears at this point. I just wanted the truth.
“Tell me what happened to my brother. Tell me everything.”
My parents said nothing. Only silence. Dreadful, painful silence. For the first time since I was seven years old, I cried.
“Nothing happened to your brother, Sammy. Please, just go to bed.”
"Why do you keep lying to me?! What's so awful about how he died that you can't tell me what happened?"
"Don't take that tone with your mother!" my father shouted at me. I stared back at him, at both of them in horror, tears still streaming down my chin and staining my favorite overalls. I flung my chair away from the dinner table and started running. I ran out the front door and out into the night. I ran without stopping, ran for longer than I ever thought myself capable of. It took me a several blocks to realize I was slowed down because of the toys in my pocket. Plastic figures of different pony characters. My good luck charms. Some good luck they brought me, I thought darkly. Still I kept smiling, creating a look that screamed of disbelief and horror across my upset face.
Then the rain started.
I stopped and looked up at the clouds for a moment, letting the rain cool my face; unfortunately, it didn’t do any good. I was still miserable. I still hated my parents. I stood there, fists clenched, tears still running down my chin and mixing with the rain. After a moment I heard footsteps. I looked up and saw Emilia standing just outside her house holding two umbrellas, one open over her head and the other wrapped up tightly in her hand. We stared at each other for a moment before I began running again. For a split second I thought I had seen her hold the umbrella out to me, but that couldn’t have been right.
I didn't stop running until I reached downtown, where I cut back into an alleyway. I slipped and fell on the wet tarmac and crawled over to the dark, filthy corner, still sobbing endlessly. My hands were scraped up and bleeding from the stumble, but I couldn’t feel the pain. I tried to wipe them off, but the blood kept flowing. It mingled with the rain, drip drip. All over my overalls. My favorite faded blue denim overalls stained crimson by my bitterness, fury and rash action. A few scarlet spots. Then entire patches. Then almost everywhere. As the blue pigment left my overalls, the undying smile left my face.
All I could do was cry.
One by one I pulled the small pony toys out of my overalls and threw them against the brick building across the alley from me, my teeth gritted and my eyes shut tight. Some of them broke upon impact while others simply ricocheted off. By the end only Fluttershy, my first and favorite of the toys, remained in my hands. I held it close to my chest as I curled up in my dark corner of the alley and cried myself to sleep.
