The Chronicle of Equestria: Miseriae

Author's Forward:

Before you read this new chapter and have a question about the cancellation of this story, it is still cancelled due to my lack of readers. I've learned not to add anything to the mature category anymore. Moreover, I want to state that I am admittedly very ashamed for writing this chapter, but I've already written it along with the following chapters to finish the first book, and I'm not about to let all that work go to waste. They wasn't finished, but I'll give you the drafts for the chapters following the last one. This chapter is a bit different, as you may have guessed from the way the last one ended, and it's a basic Cupcakes rewrite. For that reason, if you don't want to read this chapter, I completely understand. For those who don't I will provide a summary of what you need to know in the forward for next chapter. For those of you who choose to read this chapter, you have been warned, and I'm not proud of it. Moreover, since I wrote this, I've become a much better writer and I realize this isn't even good writing for the horrors within. I'm probably going to delete this story someday, but here it is for now anyway.

I felt something old against my skin. I opened my eyes and saw a bright headlight aiming at me; the room shrouded in darkness. I tried to move and found that I could not. Realizing this I immediately shut my eyes. I knew what kind of situation I was in. This had happened more than once. I only hoped that my captor had not noticed that I was awake. I held my breath; waiting for any response to my consciousness.

In my head I sighed with a breath of relief. It was good that my imprisoner was not keeping a close watch on me. Then again, I had seen it before on the receiving and speculating ends. When a normal, kidnapped person awakes and finds that they are restrained, their first response is to yank and pull at their bonds; all the while making a racket in shock. This essentially is the abductor’s cue to begin whatever they had planned. I was not going to do this and would buy myself time. I already knew that it my current state of unreleased power, I had no chance in breaking the straps that bound me to the table I lay upon. Also I was I used to this sudden restriction, so I did not panic. I had time until they found I was awake. I could take this nice and slow.

Alright, first off, I had to make sure of my bindings’ composition. Without moving, I felt them against my bare skin. “Hmm,” I thought to myself. “They appear to be made of some kind of animal skin. Not too old either. Barely sundried. Not leather … it doesn’t feel the same. Yes, this was equine.” I scoffed silently. “Indeed, I can say with fair certainty that this is pony skin.”

“This deduction is very valuable because it reveals the high probability that this is not the first time that my shanghier has done something of this nature. They have killed before. It could be that they are even experienced.”

I started to do everything I could as quietly as possible to determine if they had done anything else to confine me. Obviously I had been drugged so that I lost consciousness. Luckily, it did not appear that anything in that drug was strong enough to inhibit my mental capability; however, because of my great tolerance for chemicals of any kind, I could not tell for sure if they had actually administered any such substances. All body functions seemed to operate normally as far as I could tell.

I groaned again inside my head. “This unfortunately doesn’t tell me anything further. I could conjecture that they are less experienced than I had first believed as they could have used a muscle relaxer that would have preserved my ability to feel, but still prevented movement. This would increase the shock and fear of the victim, as not being able to move, though unbound, is quite a disturbing sensation. Yet this cannot be confirmed, as it may be that in the repressive environment of this realm, access to such luxuries would be restricted. In addition it may be that they are saving it for when they are dealing with whatever they have me for.” I stopped there with that train of thought. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I wouldn’t be able to determine their level of skill until I actually saw them.

The next matter was to form a plan. Most likely, I was dealing with a mortal jailer. Statute, section two, subsection alpha, of the Book of Heaven states, “An angel may not kill or otherwise harm a mortal being unless they are commissioned by the council of the first generation Archangels or the Almighty God himself or is participating in a military conflict.” Lovely, so even if I did break out I would have to make sure I did not hurt them. Furthermore, subsection delta states, “An angel may open seals necessary only to defeat his enemy and no more.” Unfortunately, I was most likely already stronger than them, so it looks like I would not be receiving any extra help.

Therefore, the first of three possible courses of action was stricken. Two remained. I could not judge them myself, so I considered delivering then into the hands of the authorities. “No,” I said to myself. “That would produce an undesirable result. Although Celestia oppresses us, the guards know that rebellion of any sort is far from our minds. Thus they trust that they are presiding over a utopian society. If I were to suddenly show them otherwise, it would be likely that they would decrease our relative freedom that we enjoy in the night. This I cannot allow.”

One option then remained. “I will take the passive approach to this then. I will wash my hands with all of the blood that this murderer has shed, and I will suffer the judgment later. In the meantime, I will escape and prevent them from committing any further atrocities.”

With this resolution: the only plausible decision I could make, I continued. “It follows then that escape now is not my only goal in my present disposition. In order to avert them from transgressing upon their brethren more than they already have, I need to understand a few things. The first of these is the identity of the killer. The second: the depth, nature and number of their past transgressions. The third: their motive, and once I find that motive, any way to turn that purpose against them. Once I understand all of this I will be able to ponder breaking out.”

After I had thought all of this, I found that the only disadvantage I had was that I could not determine how much time I had until I had to ditch. I would not allow myself to be deported. That would cause a number of problems. Hence it would be best if I could foresee what they had in store for me. I saw that I could not form a plan until I could determine this. And when I did find this out, the clock would be ticking and I would be trying to scrape together a plan when I should be executing an already formulated one. There were many things that I could not determine about the depth of the issue that I was in and many deliberations that I could not make with such limited information. A chill ran up my spine as I realized that I did not even know if my imprisoner acted alone, or had a collaborator. Again I scoffed and thought, “Sun Tzu was right. ‘What enables the wise sovereign and the good general to strike and conquer, and achieve things beyond the range of ordinary men, is foreknowledge.’ The game of chess has yet to begin and already my opponent has the upper hand. For it is more than probable that they have premeditated this.”

Thus, having been left with no additional judgments to make, it was time to begin. I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness that was maintained by the small light shining in my face. I did my best to focus on the darkness alone; hoping that my eyes would adjust. “Alas,” I said to myself. “In this weak form I am even limited to the sight of mortals. The sight of angels is not limited to the presence or absence of light.”

Moments later, in the darkness I could see a smudge of something other than void. I saw that it was pink. Quickly it became larger, and I found that my adversary approached. As she poked her head into the light, the world stopped for a split second. The one who had bound me and made herself known was none other than Pinkie Pie.

It hit me like a freight train. It could not be true. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true! What fear was powerless to do, shock succeeded in doing. My heart started to beat like a jackhammer. Here, standing before me, was the very role model of joy that I had idolized for so long; the one whom I spent every day in happiness with because of her joyfulness. I couldn’t take this. I was about to die from shock! My heaving breathing turned into hyperventilation.

Peering into my eyes, Pinkie spoke first with the same jubilant voice she had earlier, “Hiya Michael, welcome to my basement!”

I stopped for a moment. “Michael, calm down. You can’t do this now. You are on a mission. You can freak out when you’re done.” When I heard myself say this to myself, I was actually able to grab ahold of myself. The greatest happiness that any angel can enjoy is to embark on a mission in the name of God. Suddenly, my bodily functions became calm. I was on a mission and I would do my best to complete it. So, just like that I regained control of myself.

“What did you say?” I asked.

Pinkie repeated herself. “I said, ‘Welcome to my basement.’”

“Score,” I thought. She already had revealed our location. I was now in full-on solider mode. Nothing was going to stop me from fulfilling my objectives; certainly not fear or shock. “Pinkie let’s get to business. Why am I here?”

She responded condescendingly, but still jubilant. “What, you don’t remember? We’re gonna make cupcakes?”

“And how exactly are we going to do that with me tied up? Don’t play games with me. I’m more than aware of the reason that I am here.”

“I’m not kidding you know. We are gonna make cupcakes. It’s just that you’re going to supply an ingredient instead of helping with the baking.”

I scoffed. “And exactly how long have you been in the business of cannibalism?” I made my first move quickly; hoping that I could complete my second objective without difficulty.

She snickered and responded, “Oh, Michael, always so serious. I’ll give you a hint,” and she backed up; disappearing into the darkness again. A blast of light, a few seconds later, forced me to shut my eyes for a moment. Pinkie had turned on the fluorescent lights above that lit the whole room. I would need a moment for my eyes to adjust.

After a short while, I was able to survey the entire room. The scene before me caused me to feel revolted. The basement was fairly large: about the size of three regular rooms. The walls appeared to be covered with fiberglass (bugger, the smart filly had considered soundproofing her operation). I lay on an operational table towards the back of the chamber. To my left was a waist high cart covered by a white sheet. In the front was a flight of wooden stairs that led to a trapdoor.

The contents of the room resembled a party that she would have thrown. Yet the image was far from pleasing. The whole of the scene was decorated with disembodied parts. There was a large, rectangular table with a rotting cake midway on the right side and the decomposing head of a pony on the left. Balanced on the tops of the chairs around the table were also the heads of ponies. Some were male and others female. Some were foals. All of them had their eyes shut and had a distorted smile across their faces. Each of them had a party hat that appeared to be made from their own flesh.

Hanging from the ceiling were their intestines that dripped bodily fluids; apparently a bad attempt to simulate party streamers. Touching the ceiling were a variety of decaying organs filled with helium. Across one of the walls was a big banner on which the words, “Life is a Party” were written in blood. All around the room were heaps of bones. Some were full skeletons minus the skulls and others were just piles of thighs and legs.

Then I saw her. She was standing in the left corner of the room dressed in a poorly stitched dress. When I saw it, I had to admit that it would have struck great fear into anyone else. It was made entirely of cutie marks; cut from the sides of the passed ponies. On the back of the dress were two pairs of pegasus wings, and around her neck was a necklace made from unicorn horns strung together. Truly, she knew that psychology was a huge factor in the game she was playing.

I uttered a curse and thought, “It looks like I’ve got a lot of blood on my hands now.” The number of skeletons and heads gave me the estimate that Pinkie had killed about twenty five ponies. However, the amount could have been larger as she was not obligated, to my knowledge, to heap all of her victim’s remains in one room. “That settles it. I’m dealing with an experienced murderess. Well, up the up-side, two of my three objectives have been met just in the game’s opening. The pieces have completed deployment and formation. Now it is time for us to race for each other’s king.”

Before, Pinkie could ask an obvious question like, “Well, how do you like it?” or something to that effect, I had to establish momentum and ask her questions. I had to keep her on the defensive. I spoke, “Well Pinkie, looks like you’ve been busy. May I ask why you have clearly slaughtered a number of good ponies?”

“Well it’s like I said silly: to make cupcakes.”

“Bloody hell, I won’t get anywhere with this.” I thought. Before I could think of how to best advance, she took the initiative.

Picking up the skull of a departed one with her mouth and balancing it on her front hoof, she skipped back over to me and put it in my face. I noticed that as every other one in the room, it had no defining features. There was no damage done to the skull or any color on any part of it. There was only its bleached, white color. In death, all were the same. While some may have been very beautiful or very smart, nothing was there to tell them apart now that life had left them.

Pinkie spoke, “I remember the great taste that this one made. She was so scared during her last minutes. She screamed and cried when I skinned her. But I know that she’d be happy to know that she was so yummy.”

She tossed the skull aside, picked up a second not too far from where she stood, and spoke about it. “Oh and this one … This one was a fighter. All the way to the end he just shouted nasty words at me. His last words were bad words. What kind of person is that?”

She went on picking up skulls and recounting the last moments of their late owners. I was amazed at how she could tell the difference between the remains. To me, there was no difference. They all had stories, but those stories only exist in the minds of those who remember them. I saw that there was no individuality in death.

Then, all of a sudden, her voice quickened in pace. “Alright, enough of them. Let’s get to you.”

The game was about to quicken in pace. I had to start thinking fast. Pinkie turned around and uncovered the cart behind her. On it were surgical instruments of several types and a few different types of knives. Also, about ten syringes, all containing different types of fluid, sat on the right side of the cart.

My mind, although unafraid, began to race. “Alright,” I thought. “Judging by the instruments here, I think I’ve got about 25 minutes before she starts doing any irreparable damage; however, if she is as demented as she sounds, she may be fond of physical as well as psychological torture. She’s not in her right mind and doesn’t understand the gravity of killing. Although my allegory of this being a game of chess is appropriate for my part, it may be the case that it is more like a game of hopscotch for her. This may increase that time to 35 minutes. I’ve got until then to get her to spill everything she’s got. Then I’ll have to get outta here.”

Pinkie eyed me and the implements like one would stare at delicious food before sinking one’s teeth into it. “Let’s see,” she said; her voice unchanging. “How will we start?” She looked from me to the cart and back to me again. Then she started to move around me and examine my body. Surprisingly, it was only at this point that I realized I was naked. I could not help but feel a bit of shame as her eyes passed over my unclothed body. I suppose it was only natural for a pony, but I was not a pony.

Another thought crossed my mind. If she had heavily premeditated all of these events up until now, why was she not immediately moving to her work? The answer came quickly: She was trying to make me afraid if it was not already. I was defenseless in this position and to have my soon-to-be-killer examine me so closely would have made any normal person start to panic even more. It did not work as she intended though and I was able to move the probability that she liked to torture her victims up I my mind.”

I could not see her for a moment when she was behind me. She lingered there for longer than I had thought she would, but she finally spoke. “That’s a pretty fancy cutie mark you got there. I think it would look great on my new dress I’m making.”

“Bingo!” I thought to myself. “Yep, she’s up for some torture. The b— doesn’t even realize who she’s dealing with. The longer she dawdles, the more time I have.” The “cutie mark” that she was referring to was a large tattoo on my back: the seal of the archangel. Covering most of my upper back, the tattoo was of an enormous, golden dragon that looked to the left. Its scales glistened in the light. The underside of its massive, outstretched leathery wings was black and its eye showing was red and terrible. Its left claw was bound with a shackle and chain, but in its right claw, it held a double-edged sword. The seal of the archangel is a special mark that cannot be forged. It is a sign to everyone who sees it that anyone who bears it is a servant of the highest, Almighty God.  We are the greatest of his servants, placed under his direct command and created with the purpose to carry out his will, using the power of God himself when permitted.

Yet as I pondered these things, I was cut to the heart. The seal is not just a mere colored cut. Pinkie was partly right when she called it a cutie mark. It is a feature that defines my identity. The image is full of symbolism, but there is no room to explain it in these pages. My spirit screamed at this realization. Pinkie was about to take my cutie mark. I loved it so much that I almost lost sight of the goal. I was about to scream and beg her not to, but I caught myself. I could not let my pride overcome my mission.

Pinkie came back around and picked up a scalpel with her mouth. As she returned to my back I braced myself and in an instant knew what I had to do. For a split second I felt the coolness of the blade on my skin. Cool like ice and water. Yet that water soon turned into a searing fire. For the first few seconds, it was all I could do to remain silent. I could not scream. Sun Tzu, the master that would help me through this said, “If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him.” If I showed no sign of being in any pain, Pinkie, would become frustrated because I would not play along in her game. Hence, her tongue would become looser.

I could not fail at this task. “Get ahold of yourself!” I thought. “You have suffered greater pain than this. What is a little incision on your back compared to a spear through your gut or an aeon of mourning for a wife?”

Finally after I was sure that I was not about to cry out, I spoke slowly and deliberately as she sliced through my flesh. “Pinkie, I am aware that you are doing this for cupcakes, but is there another reason for which you are doing this? For that matter, why me?”

She paused for a moment. This was good. She was confused as to why I was able to speak while her merciless cutting tool was scarring me. She continued her work, but spoke. “Well, it’s simple. Your number came up.”

A number of sensations stopped my progress for a moment. On one hand, I fought the urge to cringe as I could feel not only the pain, but blood flowing down my back, and a lot of it. On the other hand, her answer was for some reason chilling to me. It was like I had heard a demon say those words before with the same inflection that she did. I was stunned for a moment but then realized it was not exactly fear that I felt, but rather a fearful type of nostalgia. Yet my train of thought was halted by a new sort of pain. Pinkie had placed the scalpel down and had picked up a skinning knife. The pain was worse as she separated the flesh from muscle. I was not in the best of situations. I had to go faster, but this was good. I had her on the right path. “My number came up?” I asked.

“Yep, my stomach twitched three times and I knew it was time to take a number from the hat.” It was after she had answered this, that she finished carving off my beloved seal. She said with a delighted tone, “Ooh, looks like you’re a bleeder.” She came around and showed me the cut away skin and her bloody muzzle.

I ignored what else would have horrified me. I could not allow myself to look at the seal. It would have destroyed me to see it cut away. I was extremely favored by Verdandi, for Pinkie not to have pressed on with trying to make me look at it. “Great, now I know how she determines when and who she kills. I’m making progress, but I need to push further.” I spoke; not responding to her comment, “And what prompted you to set up this lottery?”

A roadblock approached. “Ah, so that’s what you’re after. Sorry, I think I’ll dodge this one a little and just tell you that it started a while ago.”

“Merda! She’s on to me!” I thought.

She then picked up a much larger knife and said, “Your wings are really nice too.”

For the next ten minutes I made absolutely no progress. I cannot really describe what it feels like to have a pony use a butcher knife to hack through an appendage. But I think it suffices to say that it was agonizing. I could barely contain my shrieks, let alone formulate good enough questions to trick her into telling me what I needed to know. To make things worse, she deliberately did things to make the pain more excruciating; such as sawing halfway through the bone and snapping it off with her hooves or stopping to experiment by seeing if she could cut through faster by hacking or sawing and then switching from one side of the wing to the other. I could not help but cry out a few times; losing ground. It was at this point, that blood loss was becoming an issue.

After I was wingless, and heavily bleeding from the sides, she picked up another knife. “Why is your mane so long? It’s pretty and all, but I think you’d look better with it short. Ooh, I’ve got an idea! Why don’t I help you with that?”

I lost it there. In the culture of Heaven, the length of hair is a sign of status: the longer the hair, the more powerful the angel. I couldn’t let her do that. She had taken my identity, but she could not take my pride. I screamed at once, “No, please. Please don’t do that. I like my hair long.”

Pinkie’s response was to bundle up my hair in one hoof and begin top cut into the very top layer of my head; scalping me. I yelled and begged her to stop to no avail. It was horrible. I knew that she was not going to comply and the fact that I was giving into her torture, worsened this situation. She was good. She found the only way to break me. By the time that she had finished, I was nearing defeat. It was not the pain that was the problem. Rather it was the defamation. It would take a long time to grow it back.

“Aw,” Pinkie Pie said in mock sympathy. “You look like you’re about to cry. Do you need a hug?” The earth pony threw her forelegs around me in what would have been a comforting hug had it not been for the situation and the unicorn horns sticking into my chest.

“Don’t be such a baby.” She said. “I just took off your hair.” The last stallion I had didn’t break until I electrocuted him. But then again, that’s when everyone starts to get a bit sleepy. Some ponies even fall asleep on me. Can you believe that kind of rudeness?”

How could it get any worse you ask? What other way to make an already difficult situation nearly impossible than for the spirit of Desperation to pay me a visit? He spoke and I immediately recognized his voice. “So, Michael, you appear to have drove yourself into a bit of trouble.”

I was too traumatized to try to force him out. I yelled into the halls of my soul in anger and exasperation. “I am not in the mood for your crap, Desperation.”

He ignored my outburst. “What don’t you just open a seal or two and be done with it?”

“You know that would be a violation of the code, deceiver. Now is not the time to aggravate me.”

Desperation’s tone changed. “I wasn’t talking about releasing your angelic energy.”

Yes, he went there. A long while ago I had made a contract with the Dark One, and although it was quite one-sided in my favor, the repercussions to the power that I received had the potential to be game-breaking. “Do not solicit folly to me demon.”

My conversation was interrupted by an immensely intense agony that was caused by Pinkie Pie driving a white-hot nail through my wrist. Chikusho! That hit a nerve!

I had to think faster but the penetrating anguish made it nearly impossible. Desperation spoke again, “There is no point in this enduring pain. Just escape and hand her over to the princess of this land.”

It was at this time that time stopped again. The next moment would decide the fate of a city or even a world, and yet I felt that I could not come through. My entire body ached with suffering and my wrists burned with the flame of seven suns. Worse though, I had been extremely demoralized by the loss of my cutie mark and my hair. I could not resist Desperation. I was about to give up. I was on the verge of defeat. My will seemed to indirectly aim towards the empyreal lock on the first black seal which would release demonic power into me. I could hear also the icy cold voice of Miyo, the spirit of Defeat telling me that I was about to fail.

Then I saw it. I saw a vision of the events that I knew would come. I saw all of the ponies in Ponyville standing in a huge crowd. And I saw that one out of every ten was executed. I saw that they could not exit their blocks anymore except for work. They went through their miserable lives each day under the sun. There was no respite for them. And I saw further that every day the oppression became even worse than it was before. Each day there were up to four suicides. Nor was there even any mourning; there was no time. I saw that they were bound by hooves in the fields and in the factories, and were finally forced to work after the sun went down and they collapsed from lack of sleep. The weak who fell first were executed and the strong who remained were given the executed as food. And even what was left of their labor was sent to Canterlot for the gluttonous to squander.

Seeing these things, I began to weep because there was nothing I could do. [Pinkie was patting me and sarcastically speaking words of comfort] Defeat had clamped her icy hands around my throat, and the Keres, the gods of violent death, were following close behind her. I saw their eyes even though I could only see with these human eyes. I saw those eyes of fury and malice and eternal wrath coming for me.

But then something stopped the coming wrath. I was brought in my vision to the far corner of the world; to the treasure room of the royal palace at Canterlot. There lay one of my three swords which is called the Kadosh. I saw that all around it were stallions in Celestia’s royal guard trying to hold it. Yet because they were evil and because the sword was made from the enchanted wing-bone of an archangel, it was too pure for them and they burnt themselves when they touched it. But they continued to try to grasp it with their teeth or hooves nonetheless. I asked myself why they would do this. But then I remembered what was sealed inside of that sword.

Inside of that sword was the god of Passion, who had offered his aid to me twelve millennia ago. The god of Passion: the very spirit who is charged with the essence of resolution: that unquenchable fervor in the hearts of men that compels them to press on in the face of the greatest adversity: the spirit that stands in the way of the great demons that would destroy the world of men: hardship, tribulation, difficulty, uncertainty, and doubt. Passion, the fulfiller of dreams, was inside that sword, and that is the reason that they tried to wield it so badly. Whomever can find the angel of Passion, can find the purpose and meaning that they long for in their lives. When people find Passion, they know that life is worth living.

I saw the sword begin to glow and shake and then something amazing happened. I saw that the god of Passion came out of the sword and take on soul and flesh. He incarnated into the mortal world. He stood at a height of six feet and seven inches and his muscles were like coconuts; his chest the broadest I had seen in an epoch. His face was hard like one who has seen an eternity of suffering and it shone like the sun of Earth. His long red hair was so vibrant that it appeared that it was on fire. He was clothed in the finest armor made from the hardest steel with a cape dyed the brightest crimson. In his left hand was a shield three feet in diameter and in his right was a spear five feet in length.

The guards were terrified at his presence and they fled. He looked at me and spoke with a mighty voice, “Michael, I see you may need some support. Why never do you ask for it?”

I replied, “Passion, it’s bloody good to see you again. Yeah, I could use a bit of a breather.”

Passion spoke with a loud voice in only a tone in which only he could speak.

“Stand firm O young angel!

Hold Fast!

Rise up and fight.

Begin not foul flight nor yet be afraid.

But rather make the shout from your breast both mighty and long,

and shrink not when you fight your foe.

Get in close where fighting is hand to hand;

inflicting wound with long spear or sword.

And do not forget in your heart,

for nine years your father fought unceasingly as you now are

and on the tenth year his foes turned heel

and fled from his unrelenting determination.”

These words ignited a flame in my spirit; a blaze that cannot be put out or doused. That flame quickly spread throughout all of my being and Passion had done his work. Hearing these words, I was thrust back into the world of time. The pain all over my body and in my mind clawed at me like an angry lion, but it was not enough to stop me. With great determination I searched the deepest, most uncharted parts of my soul for that one question that would lead me to victory. Dragging myself though the myriad of useless data I pushed onward in spite of the greatest mental and physical torture and found the prize. I could not believe how obvious it was though hidden from me until this moment.

It had all came together. Pinkie Pie was not acting like herself. Neither was this situation a fitting explanation for that fact. This led me to believe something that I could not see or hear. It was of further interest to me that she would not answer my question about what prompted her. Something told me that I was not dealing with simple insanity. It did not fit the bill. Rather, I think that there was another Pinkie Pie influencing her from her soul.

From this assumption, I was able to further for a conjecture that would lead me to my victory in this dangerous game. If I spoke aloud now, I would not reach the Pinkie who was my friend. Rather I would be talking to the one that was controlling her body. Yet from the beginning I knew that to give control or let slip the control of one’s soul and body was not a happy ordeal. It only happened in the midst of great suffering.

The room was quiet except for the sound of hammer and nail. I spoke aloud in a serene voice. “Miss Pinkie, why are you in such pain? Is there something I can do to help?”

Pinkie looked over into my eyes. Her huge smile that she had for the duration of the incident began to fade. Her face became quizzical and her smile became a frown. “What do you mean?” She asked. “You’re the one who should be in pain right now, not me.”

My response answered both statements. “I believe that you are doing this for a reason Pinkie. A reason other than the petty reason you gave. Could you please tell your friend before he dies?”

My question seemed to strike at the root of the problem. Her frown slowly turned into a pouting face, and tears came to her eyes. Her hair, which was usually poofy, fell down and became straight. A strange scene began to enfold in front of me. Pinkie grabbed a mirror with her mouth from under the cart, balanced it on her right front hoof, turned around, and looked into it so that I could only view her face reflected in the mirror. At first I thought I might be delirious due to the blood loss because of what occurred then.

I heard Pinkie speak in the direction of the mirror, but although I could hear her voice easily, I could not see her lips move in the reflection. “Why? Why am sad sister?” I heard her voice say, woefully.

Yet then I heard her speak in a completely different voice. This one was overjoyed. This time her face did move in the mirror. “You are not sad now dear sister. You have me to make sure of that.”

Again Pinkie’s voice changed and I heard her voice filled with grief again. The mouth I saw in the mirror did not move. “I know that, but I can’t help but think that I’d be happier if we weren’t doing this; if we had more friends than just each other. I mean, I wanted to make people happy before. Just because I can’t make them happy doesn’t mean I have to make them sad.”

Again, her voice changed and the face in the mirror answered. Yet the voice was no longer so happy. Now it seemed aggravated. “We have already discussed this sister. There is no one who can understand us. What’s more, they all hate us. That is why they all must die. It is our duty to kill them. Making them happy is no longer your concern. You said it once before yourself. ‘I do not make the rules.’”

Pinkie returned, her motionless features in the mirror not matching the voice I heard. “But I wanted to make everybody happy. That’s what my cutie mark says.”

The face in the mirror went from aggravated to angry quickly. “I told you already, they don’t deserve to be happy! Who was the one that kept you company on the rock farm when you were in the desolate place? ME. Who was there to comfort you daily before that day when the world changed and you became as frivolous as you are now? ME! And who mocked us when they saw us having a normal conversation, calling us crazy? THEM!”

“I know,” said the Pinkie outside the mirror. “But sometimes I just feel so lonely without anyone but you.”

The Mirror Pinkie shrieked, “Why would you need anybody other than me? I am all you have. You can only trust me and no others!”

Pinkie’s voice outside the mirror now sounded a bit intimidated as she said, “But what about him?” referring to me. “I think we can trust him. He seems nice. He even asked me if I was in pain when he’s the one bleeding with nails in his wrists.”

The Pinkie of the mirror lost it at that point. “He is deceitful unlike me and must die! I can see that you are becoming weak sister. It is I who have done all of this for you, and when I give you just one second to watch during cupcake-making time, you start to question me! That’s it. You need to stop thinking so much and just let me do everything. We are done here.”

Hastily Pinkie dropped the mirror and turned around. She grabbed a knife and drew it back, to plunge it into me.

I thought about my objectives. They were all more than complete. “I think I can bail now.” I thought.

Pinkie plunged the knife into my stomach. I gasped and my entire body seized in pain. Yet it was not as painful as it should have been. The blood loss was catching up to me and I was fading.

But even as Pinkie cut a hole in my stomach, I spoke. Pinkie and I both heard my voice as though it were coming from a tunnel. “Accessing demonic restriction system … releasing restriction to level four.”

A dark aura of black energy visible to the eye erupted from my arms and legs and began to course through my system. My fingernails grew into claws and my eyes became those of a dragon. Not knowing what to do, Pinkie grabbed a syringe from the cart and drove it into my flesh to no avail. With a great display of herculean strength, I broke free of my bonds and tackled Pinkie to the ground; holding her by the throat and staring into her eyes.

My face was terrorizing, my strength many times greater than it was moments ago, and my voice, terrifying. Even as I spoke, my wounds healed; flesh and muscle regenerating and knitting back together. “Do not always assume little pony that you are dealing with mortals. You may just find that there are a few immortals lurking this realm. I’ll see you tomorrow night as always.”

So saying this, I released her from my unbreakable grip and pulled the knife from my stomach. The wound healed in seconds. I strolled out of the basement though the trapdoor. Finding my robes just lying around, I picked them up and redressed myself. Walking through the kitchen I came to the entrance and walked through the door. I continued walking towards the gate of the city and strolled out in the same way. Coming to my stomping grounds (the clearing that I used for thinking just outside the city) I spoke aloud again. “Reset seals one through four.” And the power was sealed up.

It was at this point, when the adrenaline rush had subsided, that the shock from events of the present night had affected me. I fell to my knees and started to weep. I cried softly at first, but then my soft sobs became wailing, and that wailing became one loud, aggravated yell. Pinkie Pie, the one whom I had looked up to, the one who I thought was a light in the darkness, was truly one of those most tightly chained to the wall of the cave. It was too much. I didn’t even care about the semantics. Yes, I would have to keep a constant eye on her from now on to make sure that she didn’t murder anybody else, but that was trivial when compared to this. I made so many assumptions of her.

I thought that she understood what it meant to live: to be the master of one’s fate, and the captain of one’s soul. But I was just wrong. She lived each day happily not knowing that she chose her state of happiness, but instead found joy from killing. I asked myself why she was so demented and the obvious answer quickly came: She was lonely. She had no one to enjoy life with and that demon provided company. In my vast array of experiences, I have found that of all the sufferings that people can endure, loneliness is the one kind of suffering that creates true monsters like what I had witnessed that night.

And I uttered this loud lament:

“There is no one who understands the secrets.

Not one!

They forever live in bondage

And cannot see the light that is so near behind them.

Meaningless! Everything is meaningless.

I said, ‘Look here is something new.’ in awe.

But it was here already, long ago.

There is nothing new.

There is no remembrance either.

Those men of old and those woman of today

Are not remembered.

Their sacrifice is forgotten and meaningless.”