Carousel of Ponyville

by Namara

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark
Length: 1164

I love him. But he's never... well, there. He's always with those other mares, those... traitorous ponies. I'll make sure he notices me again. Somehow. Somehow I'll make him remember.

He's never home, that stallion. Though he's my husband, he never comes home or even acknowledges my existence. He's always with… them. Those hopeful suitors to him- don't they know he's mine? Don't get me wrong, I'm not a possessive mare, but seeing him… with them…. it just sends waves of envy down my spine. And I know I'll do anything to make sure he's mine.
First in the Seven Deadly Ponies series

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-11-17 18:50:03 UTC

The More You Sharpen

I run an alabaster hoof over the cold, damp windowpane. My hooves click a fast tempo against the wood floor, scuffing my fresh hooficure. I had purchased it in hopes of him complimenting me on them, but it seemed he never returned home anymore. He's always with those mares. The trifecta of ponies always hanging around him like tramps- I can hardly even think about them without clenching my teeth in anger.

Although he has an ever-faithful wife like me —not an envious mare at that— how he never returns home worries me, especially with those ponies hanging about.

I turn away from the dreary window, the lighting near the back of my boutique casting ghostly shadows across my pale face. My deep violet mane obscures my eyes as I walk to the lightswitch near the stairs leading to my living quarters, hesitantly shutting the lights off before going to my room in the dark.

It’s easy enough.

I saw him with her today. Flirting with each other like lovesick puppies- doesn't he know that’s against the rules? He's my husband, after all. We pledged our love on our wedding night. He is mine and always will be.

I nip through the thin cream thread. I would use my scissors, but they are busy with other tasks.

He bought her a elegant lunch today.

If he likes her color so much, then I should wear it. But what if I can’t get the right shade? No, I must have it exactly like what  she wears. That is the kind of mare he likes.

I set my horn aglow in a soft blue luminescence and lift my scissors from across the meticulously lit table. I inherited them from my grandmother, so I must take very special care of them. But they are best suited for this job.

I bring them too close to my face, cutting my cheek just below my eye. I give a start and wince in pain as I draw my hoof to my cheek and rub the wound. It’s a tiny cut that will go away within days, but it still hurts.

It’s hard to distinguish my own blood with the subject in the dim lighting. Despite the pain, I continue cutting, the thick material clogging the blades. Like when somepony tries cutting too many sheets of paper at once, the oozing red material bunches between the sleek blades. The subject shakes, a soundless scream echoing in the small room. I tsk, mostly at myself; prying the scissor blades apart could potentially ruin both the material and the scissors. Never mind the damage my ears could take from my most unwilling subject. I grab the handles and slowly pull them apart, wincing as the silence was momentarily pierced by a screech, swiftly cut off as soon as the scissors were free.

My scissors are getting dull. It wouldn’t have pinched if they were sharpened how I would like them. The more you sharpen them, the better they cut.

I silently curse myself for my carelessness. I have to focus on my work, not on anything else. But the hard part of my work is finished.

I gently run a hoof over it as I start tailoring the soft yellow dress.

I saw him again today. I was at a little cafe near my shop, drinking hot lavender tea and puzzling over the daily crossword.

He was with a mare wearing a most delightful shade of lavender. He seemed sad; she was comforting him.

There was a crime last night.

He looked up and smiled sadly at the mare, tracing hairline. What are you doing? It’s supposed to be my job to comfort him, to have my mane pushed back behind my ears by his gentle hooves.

So that’s the kind of mare he likes.

The neighborhood was uneasy today; ponies were talking of a crime. I don’t involve myself with the chatter, I just keep my sharp sapphire eyes trained on him.

I’m careful to not cut my cheek again tonight; to pinch the material between the blades, lest it screams. My grandmother’s scissors are sharper than yesterday and worthy of the task. I carry them in one swift movement as I pace the back room of my boutique, working. I have to concentrate. I have to concentrate. I need to- he needs me to. My eyes are red and swollen as I nip through a lavender thread, tailoring my new collar to fit me. It’s still a bit small to fit my neck; the dress hadn’t needed as much work done to fit me. Red liquid leaked from the side of the silent subject’s top half, red liquid from where I pried it off it.

I begin to fix my collar.

The neighborhood is growing more and more restless; it seems there was another crime yesterday.

I saw him again today in front of a the market. I know the filly who was next to him. The traitorous filly who goes behind her own sister's back for a stallion... she’s too young to be talking with him. Especially while fidgeting with her cape. What on earth was he doing with her? She was so young... he's become so terrible, really. But I still love him.

The subject’s struggles were erratic, and quite frankly, harder to conceal than the others. It hurt a bit, making my new addition to my ensemble, what with the material. I expended much energy on keeping it down, so that I may tailor the new articles of clothing. I must concentrate. I shake my head to prevent my thoughts from trailing off tonight. My grandmother’s scissors, I know, were perfectly suited for this.

That’s strange. Were they always this color? I examine them closely, seeing my reflection in the once-silvery scissors. Now my haggard reflection is tinted red. Isn’t it just the sharp edge? I can’t tell anymore.

I finally finished what I’ve been working on for tonight. And so if he's not coming to get me, then I guess I’ll have to go confront him myself.

I tie the dress myself.

I secure the lavender collar tightly around my neck.

I pull on my new, perfectly tailored knee socks.

They are all the exact shade you would like most.

Now I’m the kind of mare he likes the best.

How am I?

Aren’t I beautiful?

The neighborhood is in an uproar.

It seems another crime took place yesterday.

Now it’s a stallion who’s been murdered. An four deaths in a week —how tragic is that?

But he was being so despicable.

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” he said.

It’s like he forgot who I am.

How could he?

I loved him.

As always, I must concentrate on my project. My grandmother’s scissors are stained a deep, glistening red from the new project I’ve taken up.

After all, the more you sharpen them, the better they cut.