This wasn’t his son.
Bright Star was looking at the battered corpse of what had previously been a colt. His horn had a crack running from the tip and all the way down to the base, marring the otherwise pristine condition it was in. The dark-green coat and the hazel mane combined made what had once been considered quite a handsome colt, but now? Now, the colt’s coat had a red tint to it, while other parts had been soiled by the dirty, melted snow underneath the body. The snow around the colt’s head had been tainted with the crimson colour of blood, the individual flakes forever different from their pure, clean brethren. Bright had been informed of the presumed cause of death.
Suicide. The colt had jumped from the nearest skyscraper, presumably head-first due to the crack in his horn. Bright Star turned his gaze to the gigantic metal housing, its frames reaching up to the sky like the steely, skeletal fingers of the long-extinct Hieyumanns. His gaze turned to the pavement. Back to the pool of blood. He thought over the information he’d been given once more. How many eyewitnesses were there again? Oh yeah. None. Not a single damned eyewitness. The forensics believed that the motive for the colt’s suicide was unknown, as of yet.
Why they had even called Bright Star to the crime scene was a mystery to him. He had no relation to this colt whatsoever; the color of the coat was different, if just by a nuance to his own son’s. And these ponies called themselves his coworkers and friends. Tch. Some of them were even giving him pitying looks. Why? There was nothing wrong with him, and this colt wasn’t his son. It should be as clear as day that he wouldn’t feel much about the death of another youth in this Creator-forsaken city. It would only complicate matters whenever he went to work. He would have far too many emotions running in order to focus on the task at hoof — either catching the criminal, or figuring out the motive. It all depended on the situation.
He tried to keep his emotions reigned in. If he ever got too emotional again, one of his coworkers would -for lack of a better term- kick the everloving shit out of him. He couldn’t afford getting emotional while on the job. Not even when he was at home. Emotional instability meant irrationality. Irrationality meant faults. Faults meant failure. And failure was not an option. Never.
Snow was falling from the sky. The wind was cold and merciless against the inhabitants of Manehatten.
Out in the streets, ponies were trotting back and forth between various stores and shops, intent on finding the absolutely perfect Hearth’s Warming gifts for their loved ones… or just some worthless piece of junk for the exact same purpose, which turned to be the case for many of these “benevolent” businessponies.
In a nearby apartment complex, one tenant and his son had a very different attitude to this holiday. Hearth’s Warming, it seemed, wasn’t exactly a welcome tradition in this apartment. For the last two years, not counting this one, the days leading up to the celebration itself would always end with what could only be described as “enough profanity to make even a sailor blush.” And the actual celebration was even worse, containing not only a greater amount of curses being thrown around, but also the destruction of enough innocent china to make even the poorest mouse weep in silence. Sometimes, however, one of the “normal” days would reach a critical point, at which everything would just seem like it went wrong.
This was one such day.
A ceramic plate impacted against one of the walls in the living room, breaking into several pieces. Cursing and yelling filled the room, though it was only spoken by a single mouth. Bright Star was sitting calmly by the table, waiting for his son to relax and eat his dinner. It was lasagna made after his wife’s recipe. His late wife’s, to be correct. A piece of aforementioned lasagna soon followed the lasagna, splattering out against the wall.
His son was angry. It was understandable. After all, it was the… anniversary of the death of Bright Star’s wife, his son’s mother, Twisted Lines. She made some of the most beautiful works of art Bright had ever seen, always cheery and lighthearted, yet carrying a darker undertone. Their son had liked her art as well, yet he would always deny whenever either parent told him of the hidden darkness in the picture. He wished to only see the good in all, no matter what others told him. His personality suited his name perfectly. Romantic Dream.
Right now, however, the colt was but a shadow of his former self. His mother’s death had taken its toll on him, changing his joyful, fantastic outlook on life into a far more realistic and pessimistic one. With each week that went by, the colt got more and more aggressive, and he had a higher tendency of losing his temper. Whenever it happened outside of the apartment, Dream would simply attack the first pony to be even slightly aggressive towards him, whether they be stallion or mare. The actual intent didn’t matter. Any slightly aggressive body language or verbal tone would be met with physical aggression. It let to many parent-teacher meetings, but it never improved. When he was home, however, he’d vent all of his frustrations over dinner, usually by flinging his plate at one of the walls and profaning extensively.
Dream screamed at his father. Why were they having lasagna made after his mother’s recipe on this day? Of all the times they could have had it, why did it have to be the day she killed herself? Had her death really turned Bright Star into a heartless bastard? He couldn’t possibly believe Dream wouldn’t be able to recognise the taste. He’d never forget the taste. Not after what happened last year.
The lifeless eyes of the corpse in front him stared at Bright Star as his thoughts were removed from the memory. It was about something that had happened a week ago. The entire incident had left relations between him and his son tense at best. He had only done what he usually did in cases of emotional instability: distanced himself from whatever caused the emotions to rise. It was something that came with the job. He had to be distant and cold whenever he had to tell somepony that his or her loved one had been killed, or inform a couple that they had just lost their only son or daughter, or whatever was thrown his way. If he let any such situation touch him, then he’d not only get attached to these ponies, he’d also be a disgrace to any officer ever.
That’s why he always kept his emotions in check.
One of the other officers put a hoof on his shoulder. Said she was sorry. Sorry for what? There was nothing wrong with Bright Star. Nothing truly terrible had happened, just another youth committing suicide. It wasn’t that big of a deal, really. Anyone from any other city would faint if they saw the amount of suicides in Manehatten. In nearly every third case, it would be a youth. Not much to do about it.
Bright Star pushed his coworker’s hoof off his shoulder. He gave an irritated glare and inquired to the reason behind the act itself. Surely, she couldn’t possibly believe that the corpse in front of them was Bright’s son. To put it bluntly, it was moronic to even think so. Clearly, his coworker had never met Romantic Dream, otherwise she’d remember the colour of the colt’s coat. Besides, his coat looked nothing like coat of the corpse in front of them. Seriously. The coworker only responded with another pitying look.
Again with the looks. Why did they all look at him like that?! There was nothing wrong! Couldn’t they understand that, or were they simply too daft to comprehend such trivial things as colours?! For the love of the Creator, every single one of them had seen his son, and should be able to tell the difference between the colour of this colt’s coat, and his son’s! None of them should be able to make such a newbie mistake!
The pool of bloody snow grew larger by the minute.
A “fuck you” cut through the air, followed by another plate with lasagna. Bright Star only sighed as the piece of china impacted against the wall, adding yet another stain to the rather large collection on the various walls in the living room. How come his son was unable to control his emotions? Had he really not learned anything from Bright Star’s example? This son of his was turning out to be more of a disappointment than he had previously thought.
Another curse was flung through the air. Bright Star could feel his patience running thin, yet calmly and politely asked his son to have a seat, eat his meal, and try to enjoy the rest of the evening. He needed to grow up and understand that he couldn’t just get what he wanted by throwing a tantrum. It was immature, childish, and absolutely atrocious behaviour. What wouldn’t his mother have thought if she saw this?
A piece of lasagna hit Bright Star square in the face. It was still caught in a hazel-brown telekinetic field.
The table, caught in a telekinetic field with a silvery hue, impacted against a wall. Hot lasagna flew everywhere, not caring who was hit by its scalding projectiles. The red wine that had previously been enjoyed somewhat peacefully was now staining the carpet with immense pleasure. Bright Star roared at his son, and Romantic Dream roared back at his father. A family photo, taken when Twisted Lines was still alive, received a crack from a stray ceramic plate.
The pool of wine grew larger by the minute.
The front door slammed shut. Bright Star threw his hat onto the coat stand. He walked into the living room and barely even glanced at the slightly battered table before he saw the note lying on it. He didn’t bother reading it. He already knew what it said.
He opened to the liquor cabinet and grabbed the bottle of whiskey and a small glass. He took off his gun holster, and put the gun on the table. Normal, everyday behaviour. He took a seat by the table, glancing at the note. Didn’t bother reading it. His attention changed its focus to the gun on the table. You wouldn’t normally see guns in Equestria. Heck, their mere existence was somewhat of a secret. As of yet, the only place guns were being used was Manehatten, and that was only for testing purposes. Few stations had guns, yet they all knew of them. Bright Star’s gun was… well, it was standard-issue for his station, as much was true. It was simple in design, being a flintlock. The technology was still young, so reloading the weapon was relatively slow, yet it packed quite a punch. It wasn’t as precise as a crossbow, but the bullet was faster than any bolt he had ever fired. Oh yeah, and it made one hell of a racket. Nearly made as much noise as thunder.
So, there he sat.
He took a swig from his glass of whiskey.
He placed the glass of whiskey on the table. Any moment now, his son would come in, notice the flask of whiskey, and question Bright Star about it. Bright would then reply with something along the lines of it being a relaxant after a long, tedious day at the work. The colt would scoff, maybe throw a few insults at his father, and then walk away. Same old bullshit.
He heard the front door slam. It was becoming somewhat normal nowadays. Dream entered the living room, stared with a mix of hatred and pity at his father…
… And left for his room.
The door slammed, the noise echoing in Bright Star’s ears. What the hell just happened? Did his son just ignore him?
For the first time in many years, Bright Star was utterly confused with his son’s behaviour.
His eyes travelled back to the gun as he placed the glass on the table. His mind, however, travelled back to the battered corpse he had seen earlier that day. He thought about that ghastly familiar coat colour…
Romantic Dream had a forest-green coat…
… That oddly reminiscent mane colour…
... With a hazel-brown mane…
… And yet he hadn’t seen the colt’s eye colour, he could nearly guess it by now.
... With deep, brown eyes
Bright Star’s body shook as terror ran rampant through his body and mind.
His son hadn’t committed suicide.
His son had not committed suicide.
His son had not committed suicide!
His son had not committed suicide!
His son had committed suicide!
A sound of thunder rang from the apartment complex.
The snow continued to fall on this year’s Hearth’s Warming Eve.
Author's Note
A late present for you all.
Rawr,
Spaslan.
