Cracked

I looked up at the grey tiled ceiling, listening to the tick-tock of the clock as if it were the opening a powerful orchestra; it's drums being the opening, bringing the crowd to the edge of their seats until the instruments came together to form a beautiful masterpiece. I listen intently, finding myself smirking in excitement as I close my eyes. Instead of the whole orchestra, I'm left with just the two drums still.

Sometimes I like to think I do hear an orchestra.

I haven't even looked at the clock for a while, I don't need to. Time only means two things to me now, 'alive' and 'dead.' The moments in-between just a bridge, leading you from one point to another. A constant blizzard would be sweeping across the bridge, unavoidable thorns would cover it, and the sky would laugh at you and all of your pain as you crossed it. Once you reach death, all these things would go away. You would be free.

I wish I was free.

My smirk fades, and I find myself starting to break out into a slight sweat.

I wish I was gone from here.

It doesn't take too long before I curl up into a ball, sobbing.

I'm drowning.

*****

I'm losing my mind.

I don't really care, either. I keep telling myself that.

I gaze towards the small window, looking at nothing in particular. There's a tree that blocks some of the sun's light, casting a crooked shadow into the room. There's also a good view of a street, where I find myself sometimes staring at the ponies that disappear just as fast as they came. Today, it's empty.

I don't feel like i'm looking outside of the window, just at it. Like a TV, it projects images that I could only hope to be apart of. "All of you will be here," it says, "even your mind will not escape this room."

It's true, even my dreams are focused around this awful place. I hate it.

The door opens, causing me to cringe as the sound of the clock is interrupted.

"Hey, Weaver. How ya' doin'?"

I hate the way that he says that. It's the voice of a stallion that pretends to care, but really doesn't. I would honestly be more comfortable if he said "I don't really care about you, but I am getting paid to fix you up. So, let's skip all the un-needed stuff and get this over with."

I hear him sit down behind me. I don't turn to face him, but it's not because of my feelings towards him. It's because I would end up looking at 'it.'

Even thinking about -'it'- gives me chills.

He coughs, awkwardly. I hear him shifting uncomfortably in his chair, probably wishing he hadn't tried to talk to me. A few seconds pass before I hear his voice again. "Your mom will be in soon."

"Huh?"

I don't even think, I just shift my body. I look straight at him, a middle aged stallion with a short brown mane. His eyes, quick and cunning, and his white fur like snow. His face is one that shows many emotions, when he only really has one. His white coat, adorning a medical symbol, hides most of his torso.

"I called her, I think it's best if... we all have a discussion."

Even though I had a reason to not turn around, I grow the urge to look at 'it.'

I start turning back over again.

*****

I've turned my attention back to the ceiling, analyzing it like a science project. I've already counted all the tiles, so I just run my eyes across the little lines between them. To be honest, i'm just trying to pry my attention away from the current conversation. I can never really not hear them, because every time he says "horn," I shudder.

"I think he's ready to leave."

I freeze.

"Thank you," I hear my mom say. It sounds like she's been running a marathon, and I guess I would sound that way too if I were her.

"Going to the same school though..."

I'm still frozen, unable to move my eyes. I already knew about it, I wasn't going back; can't be a gifted unicorn if-...

I halt my thoughts, hating myself for thinking like that. Just bringing back bad memories, no need for it. I feel my lips quivering a bit, but I mentally punch myself to get them to form a straight line.

"I know of a good place to continue his education, though, and I have already spoke to them about medical worries. It will be able to satisfy his needs."

My 'needs.'

Another mental punch.

"The nurse there is an old friend of mine, she's really nice."

I can't tell if that's directed towards me or my mother. If anything, I wouldn't be able to trust his opinions that easily. His definition of 'nice' and mine would be different, I'm sure of it.

There's a silence. I feel both my mother's and doctor's eyes drilling holes in the back of my head, waiting for me to add something. I'm not sure I can with a strong voice, but I decide to do so anyway.

"..."

"Okay."

I can't find any other words to say. 'Okay,' is good enough, for now. I want to tell them I hate it; I want to tell them that I want everything to go back to the way it was.

They know that's impossible, just like I do.

There's another silence, one that I find extremely uncomfortable. It's soon filled with the two's voices again, so I guess they were fine with 'okay' too. I didn't have to pay that much attention to the conversation to know that they've both decided that they're sending me to the new 'school.' I can't help but feel it wont be much different than this.

I make the mistake of glancing over at the doctor, my eyes instead falling onto a jar. I try to move them somewhere else, but they're already gazing at it. A dark blue horn floats inside, carried by green liquid. A jagged split runs down the middle of it, almost splitting it in half if it weren't for the little bit still together near the bottom.

That's my horn.

I force my mouth shut, not wanting to let out a cry.

It was my horn.