Octavia Hates Her Toothpaste
Seriously, A Lot
There are very few things in this world that frighten Octavia Philharmonica. After having to deal with a band of egotistical maniacs, everything else in life just seems to slide off.
Except for her toothpaste.
Every morning, she would get up and go to the bathroom. She'd wash her face, and then she would stare at the mirror in silent tribulation over the self-inflicted torture she was about to endure. Slowly, a hoof reached for the dreaded tube of toxic teeth-whitener. As her delicate hoof bumped up against the cool plastic, a shiver ran up her spine, as though the echoes of a thousand screams were assaulting her ears. The hoof lunged forward, as if throwing itself upon a blade to end its misery, and snatched the forsaken tube. Bringing the detestable object in front of her eyes, her other hoof slowly began to unscrew the cap. As the cap was removed, a deafening silence was released into the bathroom.
No stench betrayed the toothpaste's sinister motives. There were no telltale signs of the horrors locked away in that chemical mixture, sealed from the world by nothing more than a cap on a plastic tube. If they loaded this stuff into gas canisters, it could probably be used for chemical warfare. This, however, did nothing to stop Octavia from slowly squeezing the flattened cylinder, letting the tiniest little lump of paste arch over the edge. With a trembling hoof, she grabbed her toothbrush from the sink, and delicately, ever so carefully, deposited the tiniest dab of paste on the smooth, white bristles of her tooth-cleaning apparatus. Setting both items down, she took a deep breath, and put the cap back on the toothpaste, desperate for anything to delay the inevitable.
Octavia grasped her bristled tooth cleaner, and slowly lifted it up. Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw the toothbrush hovering in front of her, covered in a sickly grey goo. She knew what it meant. She knew what she was doing to herself. She knew she couldn't stop. She had to do this. It was for the best. It was only toothpaste, right?
With a cringe, she opened her mouth and shoved the toothbrush inside. She resisted the sudden urge to vomit as the full, unbridled acerbic taste assaulted her tastebuds. The vile mixture practically boiled with a repugnant palate borne of rotten corn starch and nauseating levels of baking soda. She didn't want to know what would happen if she accidentally swallowed some. She squeezed her eyes shut, begging her brain to please just temporarily stop processing the nerve endings on her tongue as she brushed with a ferocity borne of desperation.
Yet, as Octavia finally released her mouth from the endless torture and spat out the horrendous mixture of hatred and pain, she knew it was worth it. As she washed away every last trace of that horrid paste made from the tears of orphans left in abusive foster homes, she knew that her daily torture was a regrettable, but necessary evil.
After all, how else could she ensure her teeth stayed nice and pearly white?
The rest of Octavia's morning routine was, at the very least, not nearly as painful, but perhaps just as pointless. First, she took a shower, her hoof softly gracing the crystal knob as she struggled to find that microscopic interval between liquid magma that would boil her skin off, and freezing cold ice-water siphoned directly from the north pole. Once the shower had found a comfortable temperature, she delicately stepped inside the rushing waterfall, and opened her mouth.
A cascade of warm water washed across her tongue, rinsing away the remnants of her toothpaste. Gargling shower water was a laughably immature and uncouth action, but thankfully the tabloids didn't follow her into the bathroom.
Usually.
A small indentation in the clean marble of her shower wall held an impressive array of hygienic products. Anti-dandruff shampoo, moistening shampoo, mane conditioner, fur shampoo, fur conditioner, some unspeakable mixture intended for hoof-care, and a few other things she had forgotten the purpose of. As a slight fog began to rise behind the shower door, octavia reached a hoof out and plucked the anti-dandruff shampoo from its perch, popping the cap open and squeezing out a small, white dollop of innocent looking goop.
The trick to using anti-dandruff shampoo is to never, ever let it get in one's eyes. The problem is that ponies' manes tend to be just slightly above their eyes. Consequently, each and every morning, Octavia came within a few centimeters of blinding herself, should a single errant drop of contaminated water make it into one of her gorgeous, mulberry eyes.
A half hour later, the gray earth pony stepped out of the shower and tugged a towel off the an intricately detailed towel rack. As she carefully dried her fur, she wondered why somepony would bother designing an intricately detailed towel rack. Then again, one might as well ask why high-class toilets existed. As Octavia picked up her hair dryer and meticulously dried each strand of her silky, charcoal-colored mane, she decided she didn't want to know the answer to that question. Tonight she had a very important performance to attend, and she needed to spend the day practicing, not pondering the philosophical implications of bathroom design.
Before she could start, however, she still had various aspects of female grooming to attend to, as dictated by society for various arbitrary reasons. A dash of eyeliner, just enough to accentuate her eyes, and then a good ten minutes spent delicately attending to her eyelashes with a curler. Eventually, she lifted up a comb, and scrupulously straightened out her mane, curling her bangs around a precisely calculated curve, before attending to her tail. She trotted out of the bathroom, picking up a white collar with a pink bow-tie and stopping in front of a full-length mirror. Octavia gingerly tightened the collar around her neck, until it rested upon her neck at just the right height.
There was an entire magazine devoted to the proper placement of bow-ties. They loved Octavia. It wasn't mutual. Alas, she really didn't want to wind up on the front-page again, with some tabloid reporter screaming bloody murder about how her bow-tie placement was an insult to the world of fashion, the princesses, and the universe itself.
So, she spent another minute looking at herself in the mirror, making extra sure she'd put her collar on properly, and that her hair wasn't plotting to betray her at the exact wrong moment. Finally, her morning routine complete, she walked into her kitchen, her hooves softly clopping on the polished hardwood floor, sending echoes through the silent house. As she perused through her cabinets, the sound of wood smacking on wood was her only reprieve from the silence, and she longed to fill it with the somber tones of her beloved cello.
Her stomach, however, demanded to be satiated, and she couldn't just eat anything. Her profession allowed her little more than walks around the park for exercise, so to maintain her physique, she ate a carefully balanced diet of fruits and flowers. Daisies in the morning, grapefruit in the afternoon, and strawberry salad in the evening. It wasn't always the most filling breakfast, and she had been running out of ways to prepare that accursed grapefruit, but such was life in the spotlight.
After breakfast, Octavia wandered in to her living room, where a polished black case held her most prized possession. The recently vacuumed carpet tickled her hooves as she silently approached the instrument she had devoted her life to. Two quiet clicks, and the top of the case opened to reveal an immaculately maintained cello of unparalleled craftsmanship. Delicately, she lifted the instrument from its padded home, cradling it in her forelegs like a mother would cradle her foal. Practiced hoofs caressed the edges of the instrument as it was lowered to the floor, soon joined by its eternal companion – a bow strung from octavia's own mane.
Another quiet sound filled the living room as the case was gently closed and pushed across the soft velvet of the couch. A bow was drawn, carefully, across the strings. After taking a deep breath, Octavia began to play.
There was no plan, no song, no sheet music to follow. For a few minutes, every day, Octavia needed to warm up before practicing her songs. In those precious few moments, her creativity erupted out of her cello's strings like an unstoppable tsunami of melodic beauty. Empires fell, and lovers quarreled. Adventure and tragedy emanated from her vibrating strings, so crisp and poignant they seemed to fill the whole house with the stories of ponies past.
And then, it ended. Her muse was locked away and buried under the sound of shuffling sheet music, as Octavia looked over the songs she was to play at tonight's concert. Once again, the bow was set upon the strings, and Octavia began to play...
The carriage shuddered to a halt in front of a grand hall. Octavia's band was performing at one of the most famous concert halls in Canterlot. Honestly, she could have just walked there, but that would have risked ruining her mane, and Frederic wouldn't stand for that.
"Octavia!"
Ugh, Frederic.
"Are you ready for the concert?" he asked, trotting up to her.
Octavia pulled her cello out of the carriage. "Am I ever not?"
"I'm just making sure you've been practicing. I want everypony to be perfect."
Octavia raised an eyebrow. "I'm always perfect, Frederic. We all are."
He hesitated. "I'm just concerned, Octavia. Last concert a few of your notes were just a hair off tempo."
"Oh, well excuse me for putting a bit of feeling into it!"
"Hush, you two, not in front of the press!" hissed Beauty Brass, lugging her tuba behind her and pointing over to a group of photographers. "Actually, not backstage either. Just shut up for two hours and get along, for crying out loud."
Frederic sighed. "Where's Harpo?"
"Right behind you," said a blue stallion lugging a harp on a cart behind him.
"Augh!" Frederic practically jumped out of his fur, and Octavia had to muffle her laughter. "Don't do that, Harpo!"
The harpist shrugged. "Sorry."
The bickering followed the quartet as they trotted backstage into the rehearsal room. It continued through 3 separate iterations of the second movement, 10 iterations of measures 40-50 of the first movement, and even during their playthrough of the coda.
"Octavia," interrupted Frederic, "are you sure your G4 is tuned properly?"
She simply glared at him, as though he had asked her if the sky was blue, or if her fur was gray.
"No, really, listen." He played a long, solitary G4 on the keyboard.
"Your piano," she said matter-of-factly, "is out of tune."
Frederic probably would have launched into a 5 minute long tirade about the intricacies of tuning pianos had a stagepony not knocked on the door at that exact moment.
"5 minutes 'till curtain!" he called through the door.
Frederic was forced to summarize his entire rant with an acidic glare, as he set about propping the doors open so Harpo could wheel his harp onstage, where yet another meticulously tuned piano awaited. Why Frederic put so much trust in that rehearsal room piano, Octavia would never know. She didn't care, either; all that mattered was lugging her cello onstage and making sure all her sheet music was in order. It wasn't long before she was nodding with the rest of her bandmates at the stageponies.
The large red curtains were drawn away, and the stage was flooded with light, as the faces of several hundred ponies peered out from the darkened seats. Not a pony stirred in the massive amphitheater, leaving nothing but a strange feeling of stillness. Then, Frederic filled the concert hall with the first quiet notes of Beethooven's Moonlight Sonata, the sound of the piano reverberating through the hall like water filling an empty cup. Soon, it was joined by the deep, warm tones of Octavia's cello as they danced around the piano's notes, lifting them into the air. The low timbre of the tuba was next, saturating the hall with a thick texture peppered with the delicate plucks of a harp, each note like a drop in the ocean.
The audience barely breathed as the song washed over them like a warm stream, tickling their ears and dancing with their imaginations. Some swayed ever so slightly in their seats as the choir of instruments swept them away to another world. Hearts fluttered and emotions were plucked like strings, as the sound of Octavia's band rippled across the concert hall, leaving no soul untouched.
The show ended with a standing ovation, as Octavia and her band politely bowed, before making their way to the reception. Once again, an immaculate performance that would no doubt earn her several more accolades to add to her illustrious career. Octavia, the most renowned cellist in all of Equestria, so used to the mountains of praise heaped upon her she was numb to the kind words that various important ponies offered her as she marched through the crowd. She simply nodded and stood around, looking important. It was all she ever did at these stupid receptions.
She considered getting a glass of wine, but that would entail finding the proper glass. Big, round glasses for red wine, smaller, flatter glasses for white wine, tall, thin glasses for champagne, and stemless glasses for the punch. Always start on the left side of the table, move to the right, go all the way and don't leave early because that makes you seem impatient. Be sure to sample a decent amount of the food or you'll look picky. Try to avoid talking at all while eating, and always carry a napkin with you - it looks sophisticated. Don't look anypony in the eye unless you intend to talk to them. Make sure you don't accidentally bump into anypony, especially not pegasi. Smile only when addressed. Don't yawn, fart, or burp - unless you are near the chef, in which case a quiet burp is considered polite. Don't look at anypony's cutie mark unless it's brought up in conversation.
Rules upon rules upon rules governing the intricacies of social interaction. Octavia wanted to gag at it all. Then, she notices a stallion who doesn't seem to belong. His suit is wrinkled, dusty and doesn't seem to fit him very well. His mane is a mess, and he seems very nervous. Then he turns his head and looks straight at her, and she gasps.
It was him.
A few months ago, during the week of Hearth’s Warming Eve, Octavia found herself on the outskirts of Upper Canterlot. She was to perform with her bandmates on an open stage in Whitemare Park. Ostensibly, it was a charity performance, but Octavia knew it was really just a PR stunt. Like any other public performance, outside the stage area, ponies were hawking their wares. Normally, Octavia would not associate with such riffraff, but today, as she trotted towards the backstage entrance, a lone painter caught her eye.
He was on the very edge, as though the rest of the ponies had pushed him aside, and seemed very nervous. He wasn’t having much luck selling the few paintings he had on display, and the canvas he’d set up was devoid of color. As she walked past, he glanced at her, and time slowed to a crawl. His eyes glimmered in the setting sun, his ears poking through a straw hat. Octavia’s heart fluttered, and a strange feeling overtook her. After that brief, yet interminable moment, she blinked. Wrenching her gaze away from the stallion, she continued towards the stage.
She was distracted the entire performance, anxiously wondering if the stallion would be there when she finished. Her curiosity had been piqued, and she found herself questioning the unfamiliar feeling that had coursed through her. There was something enticing about him, something she couldn’t quite put a hoof on. The second she’d left the stage, she quickly trotted back towards the stallion, intent on solving the mystery for good.
Upon reaching the stallion’s modest stall - which was more like a collection of various belongings than a stall - Octavia was surprised to find him putting the finishing touches on a painting.
“Oh, hello, I was just fin -”
The poor stallion had barely started greeting her when Beauty Brass came up from behind. “Octavia, my dear! What are you doing, fraternizing with such ruffians?”
The stallion glared at the intruder.
“I, uh,” Octavia hesitated, “I was just browsing his artistic offerings, that’s all.”
“Darling, this art is painfully amatuer. Remind me to show you some real art once we get back to civilization.” The mare trotted off without another word, leaving Octavia alone with a very insulted artist.
“I-I’m really sorry about that,” muttered Octavia. “She’s not very… tactful.”
He lazily waved a hoof. “Oh, never mind her. Anyway, I’m Clerkovski, and I heard you were interested in my répertoire?” He said the last word with an exaggerated french accent that made Octavia giggle.
“Oh yes, I was hoping you could tell me more about this one…”
They talked for almost an hour, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. He worked as a cashier at a store near the edge of the slums, and painted in his free time. He’d always wanted to go to art school, but could never afford it. His parents had barely been able to keep a roof over his head when he was a child, let alone save up to pay for post-secondary education. As the sun crept lower and lower, Octavia found herself wishing this conversation could last forever. At the same time, she knew what the price of being caught lingering too long with a slum dweller would be. The aristocrats did not take kindly to rich ponies that got too involved with the lower class.
Eventually, they worked their way towards the painting that was still drying on the canvas, and the stallion sat down beside her. “This one… I painted during your performance. The stage lights are so bright, and your cello so large, its shadow envelopes you completely. The audience becomes interested in the cello itself, instead of the performer behind it.”
Beauty Brass’ words echoed in her head, and suddenly the fallacy of her judgement became clear. They were looking at the paint, not the painting. The result, not the idea. The execution, not the effort. It took Octavia a moment to realize the stallion was still speaking.
“I hope it isn’t… creepy, or anything. I just saw you up on that stage, and it was as if you were trying to express yourself through that beautiful music… But you were too tied up, too constrained by the sheet music, and… well, it inspired this.”
Octavia tore her eyes away from the painting and stared at the ground, blinking away tears.
A hoof touched her shoulder. “Are… are you ok?”
The gray mare said nothing, and instead looked up into those wonderful eyes; the eyes of the pony who had taken things buried so deep inside her heart, not even she had known about them, and put them on a canvas. Right here was the perfect romantic moment. Right here, she could kiss him and take him out to dinner and take a walk through the park and go back to his place and - and - and…
“I… I have to go,” she blurted out, and then she galloped away into the night with her cello, too conflicted and frightened to take the plunge. She pushed the stallion out of her mind, rationalizing that she wanted somepony more sophisticated, more familiar with proper social conventions, one that wouldn’t ruin her career simply by fraternizing with her. With such a busy schedule during the holiday season, she almost believed it, too.
Almost.
Back in the reception area, Octavia realized she was staring, her mouth frozen in an expression of shock. She blinked and shook herself out of her stupor. Nodding to him, she turned away to try and preserve what little dignity she had left. Standing around, operating on autopilot, Octavia frantically wracked her brain for a way to catch a moment with him, to get a chance to say something. Anything.
Octavia abruptly began weaving her way through the crowd, working her way towards her target. It didn't take long for her to be approached by some ridiculous rich pony who wanted to congratulate her on playing some ancient song everypony had heard a hundred times before. This time, however, she struck up a brief conversation, talking about how inspiring it was to play the music of old dead ponies.
Yeah, right.
"Oh, excuse me, I need to visit the restroom," said Octavia, bringing her impromptu conversation to a blissful end. As she trotted past the stallion, she jerked her head towards the hallway by the restrooms. It took a few tries, but eventually he caught on. For a brief moment, they were away from the party, and Octavia had a few precious moments to speak without inadvertently destroying her career.
"How did you get in here?!" she hissed. Not a very romantic greeting, really.
"I-I-I bought a t-ticket?" he stuttered.
Octavia glared at him.
He rolled his eyes. "Ok, I found a ticket."
She raised an eyebrow.
"I know, who would throw away a 200 bit ticket to Octavia Philharmonica? But there it was, lying on the street -"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Octavia. "In the street? I doubt someone would have dropped a ticket to one of my concerts in the Canterlot slums." She smirked. "Were you looking for me?"
The stallion scuffed the ground with a hoof.
Octavia sighed. "If only I could go looking for you..."
The stallion nodded in understanding.
"So, I take it things are going well at that store you work at?" Octavia's head inched closer as she fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Where is it?"
"It's not important -"
"Au contraire, it is very important."
"Oh? Oh. Oh. Uh, 28476 SE 602nd Street, right next to Trot Avenue."
"Why thank you." Octavia realized just how close her muzzle was to his, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her nose. All she needed to do was lean forward and -
"So then I was like, Harpo? With a cannon? What are you thinking, darling?!" It was at that precise moment an exceedingly annoying pair of unicorns exited the ladies restroom and snapped Octavia out of her reverie. Cursing under her breath, Octavia cast one last sidelong glance at the stallion who had unwittingly stolen her heart before vanishing into the ladies restroom. So close, and yet, so very far.
The rest of the reception went by in a blur, as she stole glances at the out of place stallion, who was trying desperately not to make a fool of himself. He was only partially successful. Octavia, on the other hoof, spent most of her time regretting her missed chance. Round and round her thoughts went, swirling around that one mistake, that single what-if that she simply could not stop thinking about. She had almost kissed him, almost felt the touch of his lips against hers, almost had a taste of love...
Alas, it was gone now. Blown away by the whims of reality, crushed under the heels of sophistication. Finding herself back in the rehearsal room, she gathered her belongings and trotted out the backstage door. She half expected him to be waiting there for her, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was for the best, as she couldn't be seen consorting with a pony living in poverty - it would be uncouth for a lady of her class. She almost gagged as she began walking home, the wheels on her cello case clattering along the stonework road.
Octavia cherished the one freedom society had not managed to pry from her cynical, jaded hooves - walking. She would often walk back to her house after a concert, always trying to find some untrodden path to explore. It was in those precious moments, when she was simply trotting through the city with a cello behind her, that she could pretend she was not Octavia. That there were no performances to attend, or rules to follow, or hideous morning routines that existed only to please the nobility’s sadistic sense of normality. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, she found herself walking down an alleyway near her house, only to abruptly break down in tears.
Of all the things Octavia had thought about doing today, sobbing uncontrollably was not one of them. If, hypothetically, she had put "sob uncontrollably" on her to-do-list, she most definitely would not have done it while clutching her cello case in an alleyway filled with crumpled papers, old magazines, and empty cans. Despite this, the gray cellist could not ignore the undeniable fact that she was inexorably bawling her eyes out. It was like a dark shade had been eating away at her, dissolving her insides until she could feel nothing but misery and helplessness. It was as if everything she enjoyed had been sucked out of the world, and now she had nothing left to do but cry. But why?
She had once given a private concert to Princess Celestia, for heaven's sake. Hadn't she succeeded at everything she had ever wanted? Achieved things most ponies could only dream of? If that was true, why did she feel so... empty? Her heart returned to the stallion she so desired - perhaps it didn't matter if he was her soulmate or not. Maybe she just wanted to feel somepony's lips touching hers, to taste the love she had been denied for so long.
Slowly, a plan began to form in the back of her mind. It probably wouldn't work, but it gave her a reason to stop crying. Perhaps she could sneak out early next morning? She had a cowl she never wore that would obscure her face and flank. She could find the shop where he worked, and perhaps they could find a secluded area, away from prying eyes. A place where she could be herself, free to love whomever she wished.
As she began trudging back towards her house once again, Octavia realized she didn't feel like herself. The real Octavia had been swallowed up long ago, replaced by a mask that never came off.
It was late in the evening by the time Octavia returned home, trudging through her door with all the enthusiasm of a college student on finals week. Her cello diligently followed behind her, silently rolling across her carpet, until she came to one of her couches. The gray cellist gently picked up the case and set it on top of the red cushions, before turning around and sizing up the rest of her house.
She needed to get drunk. Not the innocent, socially acceptable kind-of-tipsy you get from a bit of wine. No, she needed to get falling over, puking in the toilet, passed out drunk. She was absolutely and utterly sick of existing. Her mind was no longer interested in maintaining even a single faculty of reason, and was content to simply drink itself into oblivion rather than deal with all the pain.
But that wouldn't be socially acceptable, now would it? she thought. With a shudder, Octavia remembered that she had already done one socially questionable thing today. She'd likely already exhausted her social grace period, and one more slip would send her tumbling into Tartarus. After hearing about her brush with the ungainly stallion in the reception, the tabloids were probably already waiting outside, ready to pounce. She let out a small, pathetic whimper, as her mind once again submitted itself to the harsh reality of its mistress, and decided to simply turn in early for the night.
Yes, that was it. She'd just go to bed; tomorrow, she'd feel better. She knew she wouldn't feel any better, but she kept telling herself that, as if saying it over and over would somehow make it come true. Unfortunately, Octavia's life was not a fairy tale, and there were no wish-granting stars or magic beans that could make something happen.
Octavia pondered this, while trotting into her distressingly bleach-white bathroom. Nothing ever really changed when she was simply letting things happen to her. A hoof picked up her toothbrush, as she desperately tried to distract herself from the impending caustic nightmare. Not a single important thing in her life had been accomplished by simply letting things happen to her. A trembling hoof reached out towards her acerbic toothpaste, grasping the demonic container and hoisting it into the air. Opportunities simply passed her by, like a warm wisp of air flowing past her nose...
In a flash, Octavia found herself back in that hallway, next to the stallion with whom she was so enamored. Once more, she felt his warm breath along her muzzle, only for her to be pulled away before she could get close enough. She'd let the opportunity slip through her hooves, just like all the others. She had let things happen to her, instead of making them happen.
It was over as soon as it had began, and Octavia was back in her bathroom, her hoof frozen in the act of unscrewing the forbidden paste's cap. It was an action the hoof would never know the joy of completing, because at that moment, Octavia snapped.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!”
With an incoherent scream of rage, Octavia flung the half-opened tube of gag-inducing paste into her bathroom mirror, sending angry fractures through the glass. The toothpaste bounced back into the sink, and she started screaming at it, unleashing a torrent of vitriol and cursing that would have impressed Vinyl Scratch. She accused the tube of ruining her life, of dragging her along like a puppet, of binding her to the demands of society. She yelled about how much she hated it, how much she despised the untold bitterness of its acrid taste, and how no word existed to describe the revolting goop she had stuck in her mouth for years. In her rage, she smashed her hoof into the sink, as if crushing that accursed tube of bitterness would somehow make everything better. All it really did was give her a nasty bruise.
The pain that radiated up her foreleg startled her. Her ranting dissolved into quiet sniffles, and she realized that she was crying, once again. Her eyes slowly arched upwards, until she was forced to take in the dreadful sight captured behind the splintered mirror. Her mane was a mess, her makeup was ruined, and her eyes were red.
Was this her life?
Octavia abruptly felt nauseous, as if her own stomach was revolted at what she was doing to herself. She didn't want to be here anymore. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Without thinking, the gray earth mare galloped out of her house, the door left swinging on its hinges as she plunged into the night. Her tears fell behind her, like glittering drops of sadness, lost in a sea of misery.
Several minutes later, she found herself in a nearby park, and stopped to catch her breath. Trotting along the cobblestone path, Octavia's quiet whimpering was the only sound that broke the silence of the night. There was just a touch of fog, giving life to faint moonbeams that filtered through the trees arching over the path. Before long, she had reached an outcrop, a clearing free of the trees' protective canopy, with a few benches scattered about. The whole of Lower Canterlot was visible beyond a thick stone palisade that protruded out from the side of the hill.
It was a breathtaking view, but Octavia was hardly in the mood to appreciate it. Instead, she looked up, towards the stars, listening to the silence of the night, interrupted only by her own sniffling.
Why are you doing this to me? she thought. Why does everything have to be so complicated? The cold night air ruffled her fur, and strands of her mane danced in front of her face. The stars did not answer, content to continue twinkling in the night sky, oblivious to her woes. Even here, sitting alone in a park, she could hear the faint sounds of the city wafting through the air.
What did she want out of life? What was the point of all this? What was the purpose behind her actions? Did she even have a choice, or was her soul bound to the whims of society, swept up in a whirlpool of make-believe? Was she nothing more than a marionette, being tugged along by an aristocracy oblivious to her desires? Is this even what she really wanted?
Octavia shook her head. Of course this is what she wanted. She spent her entire foalhood with her beloved cello, and she honestly wasn't sure if she regretted it. Regret implied that she had made a choice she wished she hadn't. Certainly she had done plenty of stupid things, it was the nature of being a foal. However stupid, those moments had made her who she was, and she saw no reason to change them. Perhaps she did not regret anything, then.
At least, not until the academy. She'd gone to the academy because that's where everypony who studied music went to. But the academy didn't teach her how to write her own songs. Instead, it beat a bunch of musical theory into her head. Composition was reduced to the rules of harmony and chord progressions and identifying deceptive cadences and sight singing. There was no heart or soul in it, only a bunch of rules prescribed by a bunch of stuck-up, old ponies. She had never enjoyed playing all her homework assignments, but she'd convinced herself that it was for her career. She wanted to be the most sought after cellist in Equestria. She wanted to be an expert in her craft, an artisan of unmatched skill and precision.
And I succeeded, she thought bitterly. Oh, she was the most sought after cellist, that was for sure. This, however, did not mean she got to play a bunch of interesting music, or even that she got to compose anything. No, it meant she was a slave to the upper-class, hired to play a bunch of ancient music that had been played so many times before there was barely any room for Octavia to be herself. No, she had to be whatever they wanted her to be.
Perhaps, then, the problem wasn't her instrument, but her music. What if all she really wanted to do was express herself? No music by old, dead ponies, no neo-classical avant-garde pieces, just Octavia with her cello, playing whatever her heart wanted.
A leaf tumbled across the grass and on to the gravel trail, rolling up against the palisade overlooking the hillside. Octavia studied the leaf, struggling to get past that impenetrable barrier with nothing but the wind to guide it.
...What did her heart want? She was abruptly reminded of the gaping, blackened hole in her heart; the aching loneliness that sucked all the enjoyment out of everything, haunting her everywhere she went like an angry specter. The unending desire for companionship that grew more and more unbearable with each passing day.
Her thoughts returned, unbidden, to the stallion that had whisked her heart away. What was the point of this stupid career if it meant she had to sneak out of her own neighborhood just to go see him? What joy could be derived from a life bereft of love? Why did she even bother existing when she denied herself the only thing that really mattered?
Octavia lifted a hoof up and gingerly wiped the tears from her cheeks. What was the purpose of all these social conventions, anyway? They seemed to exist solely so potential mates could prove their normality to potential mates. In fact, she'd read somewhere that most ponies tend to prefer partners who are considered successful by the societal standards. If she threw away her career, she would be labeled a failure.
But... would she really want a partner that valued conformity? Why would she want to fall in love with somepony who wanted her to behave a certain way, instead of somepony that adored the real Octavia? If she wanted to find her soulmate, she wasn't going to do it by pretending to be somepony she wasn't. That stallion that had caught her eye certainly didn't seem to care about silly things like money. He was an artist, he understood her. He would love her for who she was, not who she pretended to be.
It occurred to her that she had an entire upper-class house filled with fine glassware she really didn't care about. Such material wealth meant nothing to her - she partook in such drivel simply because society expected consumerism from her. She could sell the whole thing, or rent it out, or do any number of things, and she wouldn't miss any of it. She just wanted her cello. She wanted to play. She wanted to be loved.
Octavia stood up and trotted over to the stone fence, peering over the edge. It seemed as though everything in life that was worth fighting for followed the same pattern. She wanted to do what she loved, she wanted people to love her music, and she wanted to find a special somepony with whom to share her love. Everything she cared about, everything that really mattered, it was all love.
In that moment, everything changed. Octavia made a choice, and that choice would echo across the fabric of her future like the wings of a butterfly, transforming everything in its wake. She trotted, then galloped, back to her house, as her mind was filled with possibilities she had dismissed as preposterous only hours before. Tomorrow, she would visit the stallion of her dreams; to Tartarus with the consequences! She'd take him out to dinner, in whatever simpleton restaurant he fancied. They'd kiss, and if those snotty, upper-class ponies didn't like it, they could go buck themselves.
The song she had banished from her thoughts earlier that day came back with a vengeance, and for once she felt as though she could embrace it, let it flow through her. That was it, that was it! Tonight, she would write that song down. Put the finishing touches on tomorrow morning, and play it for him. It wouldn't be perfect, but he would understand.
He always did.
Later that night, a small grey mare slipped under the covers of her bed. She hadn't bothered to do the dishes, or take a shower. She'd brushed her teeth with water, and hadn't even flossed. Perhaps tomorrow she’d get some toothpaste that actually tasted good, and not worry about keeping her teeth white. She'd written out that wonderful melody that was still bouncing around her cranium, and simply hit the hay. She was now free of the pressures of society, not because of some miracle, but because she had chosen to ignore them. Between her career and her happiness, she had chosen her happiness, and she fell asleep with smile on her face.
For the first time in years, the sunrise promised something more than just another dreary day - it promised a ray of hope.
Author's Note
This entire story was born from an argument between Whirring Gears and his proofreader over how bad baking soda toothpaste really was on his story "Room 213", which you should go read because it's way better than this.
I have this marked as complete, because even though it would be interesting to explore the consequences of Octavia throwing her career away and falling in love, I feel like that is a separate story, something distinct from this isolated moment that deliberately leaves so much to the reader's imagination. I'm still considering writing that as a sequel, of sorts, so if you'd like to see that, tell me in the comments.
Prereaders: Whirring Gears, CaveRave, tiwake, SpaceCommie, a bunch of people on the #fimfiction IRC channel
