BUCK

Cheerilee was hungry, lonely, angry, hopeless, robbed and confused on the fourth morning.

The day before, lunch and dinner had been denied her, and there was no breakfast that morning either. The mare had began to contemplate the possibility that her captor had forgotten her, and that now she was truly dead. If not for her one note out, she’d be hopeless entirely.

From the stairs came a thud. Thud. Thud.

Down came a big bucket which appeared to be heavy. However, Cheerilee wasn’t occupying her mind with the contents of it. She was hoping Big Mac had brought down some food.

Big Mac came down the steps with more thuds. At the bottom, he took the bucket’s handle in his mouth once again and carried it over to Cheerilee’s domain at the back of the cellar. They met eyes for a moment as the stallion reached the light beam that engulfed Cheerilee.

She waited a moment, “What’s... in the bucket?” Her stomach began to murmur.

Big Mac, without a word, craned his head down and opened the bucket with his mouth, returning his gaze up past Cheerilee. The purple-pink pony gently brought her gaze down to inspect the contents, but couldn’t attach them to a word. The bucket held what looked like an amorphous mass of red goo, coated in a thick, red, viscous fluid.

Splunk.

Cheerilee hadn’t had time to gasp for air before Big Macintosh’s hoof came down on her and plunged her head into the bucket. She was now fully aware of the contents’ identity; she was licking up blood right now.

“Get a big whiff, ya’ right tart.” said Big Mac, almost in a whisper. He pressed his hoof harder to counteract his very special somepony’s writhing and wriggling. he brought her head up out of the container by pulling her mane, and Cheerilee’s face appeared again, coughing and sputtering and gasping for air.

“*Gagck*! Ahh...! What is that?! Why?!”

“That’s the young mare who helped make sure yall’ didn’t forget juss’ how smart Ah am. Ya’ can’t two-time me, an’ now Ah gotta teach ya’ a lesson!” The stallion exclaimed, with a lover’s hate.

Cheerilee began to inwardly know exactly what had happened, but naturally played dumb. “Wah-, what do you mean?! Dear?! I have no idea-”

She was cut off by Big Mac’s hoof smacking her away and into the support beam she was roped to.

“Enough’a yer’ manure!”, he almost pleaded, “Yer’ little paper airplane trick! Ya’ didn’t think ol’ Big Mac would catch on, didja?! You sorry mare!”

Another blow came, and cheerilee’s vision filled with a familiar nothingness. her head rush only momentarily distracted her from this horror, and she was soon returned to it. Big Macintosh turned from her and reached a hoof into the bucket to fish around. he grabbed and dragged out what looked like an equestrian figure. A filly. But red.

As he pulled the body out of the bucket, he knocked it sideways, and out slid a small river of blood and a small, golden yellow eye. Golden yellow.

Cheerilee didn’t have time to frantically mourn her student’s death before another hoof came to her face. Screams were let out, but no audible words.

“Ya’ see what happens to people when ya’ break the rules?!” shouted her captor.

With a long swipe, the red pony swung his hoof around and beat Cheeilee, again, into the balance beam with it. Older and newer blood stained the floor of the apple cellar, and Cheerilee fell victim once again to a head rush.

Big Macintosh hurried around and pulled a bloody knife out of the bucket. He brought it around to his special somepony without delay, and brought it down to her squirming face.

Shhk shhk shkk.

The knife ran along Cheerilee’s cheek three times. She awoke from her daze with a ferocious scream.

Bnk bnk bnk. “Hey, who’s down there?”

Big Mac ignored his sister’s voice. He would clear it up later. Now, he rose up his hoof, turned the knife inward, and began to repeatedly strike the mare with its handle.

Bonk.

Cheerilee’s vision grew fuzzy again.

Bonk.

Would Big Mac ever stop?

Bonk.

How could he murder Dinky Hooves? What had she done?

Another bonk. She was out cold.

* *

Cheerilee barely came back up. Big Mac’s strikes had slowed and dulled to poorly forced thuds. There was more knocking from the stairs.

“Now, Ah’m gettin’ right frustrated, bro...” she faintly made out.

She turned her ears to Big mac’s tear-soaked whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you...”

Cheerilee quickly rolled out from under Big Macintosh and began to cry desperately.

“Now, hold on, there, punkin’!” Big Mac exclaimed, getting up.

“No!” Cheerilee talked under the hushed voices outside, “You’re a monster! I never want to see you again! You’re sick! Sick! You murdered a filly!”

“YOU murdered a filly! YOU shoulda’ been smart enough ta’ know what happens when ya’ try to outsmart me!”

Cheerilee blew back with all of her anger, “NORMAL PONIES DON’T DO THESE THINGS!”

The silence grew and grew by seconds. Big Mac was most certainly not expecting his Cheerilee to say that.

The knife sparkled as it was brought forth by Big Mac. Cheerilee turned fast, galloping over the rope that tied her to this horrible place, and running onward, rightward. Together, they began a murderous romp around the support beam. Cheerilee ran expertly, attempting in vain to actually escape the galloping murderer. Big Mac waved the knife around aimlessly at her flank.

He sped up, rose the blade, and brought it down on her marehood.

The mare bucked at nothing. She sped up in her unimaginable pain and mutilation. She sped up to a speed matching Big Macs, and he could not catch up.

The red bucking pony had had enough. He was going to end this.

Big Macintosh stopped in his tracks. Reared his hind legs.

The purple-pink pony ran around.

Buck.

A thud came from behind him and nothing else. He rested his hind hooves. A few moments went by. Derpy Hooves’ voice was added to the choir outside.

He found the strength to turn to his new masterpiece. Cheerilee lay, twitching.

“...Pun’... ‘kin...?”

He came to her face. She was in no way alive, but she was certainly in pain. What was left of her nose chortled and bubbled bloody mucus. Her jaw stood agape, tearing apart the edges of her lips. The skin on the right of the bridge of her nose was scraped into the ever-oozing, gelatin mess that was formerly her eye socket. A crack rose up her forehead, crossing her brow.

A mess. Big Macintosh had managed, over just a few days, to transform what was so beautiful into a fine mess.

The tears began to drip. “Che-,.. Cheeril-, lee? *gulp* Can ya’...” the murderer hiccuped on his sorrow, “...can ya’ hear... me...?

Cheerilee’s mind was a mess. The buck had reverted her to a strange stillborn state.

Her shaking and twitching changed pace, but not noticeably. Unable to process Big Mac’s speech, she dwelled on one thought, in her pain. Why.

Why. Why. Why.

Big Mac cradled her twitching head and jaw to his bosom. A cold sweat shook him, and her body served as a bed for his tears.

For the first time, he had a pony who would understand and take all of his hate and needs, and he killed her. This wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay to be a murderer. If normal ponies didn’t do this, why did he need to do this so much? Why did he need it?

Cheerilee’s head turned in Big Mac’s hooves’ embrace. He turned it and turned it, until she left him with a crack.

Cheerilee no longer twitched. She no longer hated. She no longer asked why. She lay there, in Big Mac’s arms, soaked in salty resin. Big Mac set her down and walked over to the back wall, knocking his head against the cement.

“Wh.. why?” he muttered to himself. A beat went by. He wanted to end this passage of time with his anger.

“... DAMN IT, WHY?!” he shouted, death his newest fantasy.

He rose his hind legs.

Together, they chopped though the support beam like butter. Screams from outside and screams form himself engulfed him. No matter how long he lived, he’d never stop thinking about how he killed his Cheerilee.

He killed his Cheerilee. Normal ponies don’t do that. Normal ponies don’t kill.

In sorrow and personal hell, he began to see himself more and more terribly: a freak, a psychopath. A murderer.

The red bucking pony turned to the next support beam. He observed it through tears and mined its usefulness.

Turn. Legs. Buck.

Pieces of the ceiling started falling, and the shouting outside stopped.

Turn. Legs. Buck.

Turn. Legs. Buck.

It felt like an eternity of standing there, crying; looking back at his Cheerilee. Her mangled face was even more painful put out of view. Her memory haunted him.

Big Mac decided. It was time to stop. It was time for this to end. He could do no good in this world, and it was time to move on to the next. And maybe, just maybe, to his beloved Cheerilee.

The thought warmed him as the earth engulfed him.

THE END