The Voices Inside My Head

The Voices inside My Head

By: The Sentimentalism Brony

Chapter 3

I Feel…I Need…

Rapping on Fluttershy’s door, she answered it hesitantly. It creaked and moaned open, as if to say for the one whom rapped upon the door should leave. The sentiment of the door was ignored however, due to the blatant and, may I say, intriguing nature of my urgent visit.

The door coming to full gape, Fluttershy eased and sighed heavily.

“Oh, Amethyst, it’s you!” She chimed excitedly. “Why, whatever has you over here so early? Couldn’t get enough tea, eh?” She poked quizzically.

“Actually, I’m not here for tea; I’m here for a bit more of a serious notion, perhaps severe.”

“Oh, well do come in. I would be very interested in hearing.” Fluttershy then motioned for me to enter. I walked in confidently, but underneath my flawless veneer, I was scared shitless. Of course I was happy, but something about the whole situation didn’t feel right. Foreign, I believe is the right word; yes, something felt foreign about the task. Whether it was the circumstance, or the severity of the matter, I am not too sure. But one thing I am sure about is: Time seemed to stand still in the morning sun; more so in that particular moment of the day than any other.

If you were to look to the sky in that moment, you would see nothing else other than the bright celestial body that hung overhead. But during the night, you could see the celestial body’s cousin, dancing along the darkened surface of the planet… This is the time I speak of, the separation between the standstill of time, and the continuation of consensual reality.

“I would like that very much so,” I said, walking over towards her kitchen. I normally would have ran there first upon entering, so it has remained just the itsy bit of a habit ever since.

“Okay,” Fluttershy responded lightly. “I will make us some tea and we can talk about it.”

2…

With the tea made, and the feeling of depravation looming over me, I began to speak to Fluttershy about what had happened. I told her how I had come downstairs earlier this morning, and how the phone had rang. I then proceeded to tell her how I thought it out of the ordinary, as I normally only get calls from my literary agent, Rosemary, or one of the publication houses –

I rarely got calls from the publication houses, but if I received a call, it was usually from Rosemary, so that’s who I suspected it to be if anypony else.

Fluttershy understood and nodded, affirming my thoughts. But I knew she was waiting for who had called, and I delivered as promised.

“It was your uncle, Tumble,” I said, waiting for her to gasp or eep loudly. But it never came. She just continued to look at me, as solid as stone. I then told her what he had wanted me to do. And with that, she looked to have nearly blacked out.

Too much, I thought. Maybe.

She looked away from me, peering outside the kitchen window and into the vast Everfree Forrest. She stayed that way for what felt like centuries. And it wasn’t until I snapped her back on track, that she turned back to look at me.

“Fluttershy?” I questioned. “Fluttershy, are you okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” She said. “It’s just that…” There was an uncontrollably, uncomfortable haze of silence, which seemed to wrap around the room like a fog. This fog then fell to the floor, dispersing all around our figures, circling us like a jungle cat. It made me feel overly anxious.

“I haven’t been, or heard anypony talk about that place in over ten years.” Tears began to brim upon the rim of her soft eyelids. The tears would have stained her fur, but she was a fighter after all, and continued to fight the oncoming flood as best she could.

“I-I see.” There was nothing else I could possibly answer her statement with. I had never been in the same position as her – Well, except for the time my great-grandmother had passed away. That day had pulled me for a loop. It was well over 15 years ago; I, myself, was only 15 at the time. And it happened to occur on a Saturday of all occasions.

To make a long story short, she had been suffering with a lung cancer for well over 9 months and had finally succumbed to the severity of the disease. After it occurred I was increadibly depressed, as she and I were very close. In fact, when she passed away, I didn’t know how to react at first. Perhaps it was the total confusion that overlain me? But once I contemplated the serious nature of the event that had occurred I lost all control of myself. I cried for well over a week, and couldn’t bring my younger self to do anything, not even write. I almost gave it up. But my mom came to me, comforted me in my moment of despair, which helped mold me into a better, smarter stallion. For if I was to have kept mulling the situation over in my head; I would have given into the pain, for a lack of a better word, killing myself in relation.

Now on the verge of crying myself, I tried to comfort Fluttershy. And I may have reverted back to my childhood like demeanor and pulled every fiber of my blessed mother from my being, projecting it onto Fluttershy in the process. This seemed to calm her considerably. Maybe it was the tone I spoke in, or, maybe it was the way I was holding her.

She was in my full embrace, both of my hooves draped around her in an overly wholehearted way. The feeling I felt while holding her was nice, natural even, almost as if it was meant to be. But I for one knew it wasn’t true, like a fairytale with a cliché ending. No way could this be resolved with my involvement alone. For I am one stallion – Not many.

Letting her go, I looked directly into her shinning, half tear glazed eyes. There was still something there, in her eyes. Something that made me want to hold her again, but I refrained from conducting as such.

“Fluttershy,” I stated, hoping it came across softy, lacking any and all aggression, “I won’t go to the hotel...If you don’t want me to. I don’t want to –“Fluttershy stopped my rambles by placing her hoof over my muzzle. I stopped, and attempted to listen.

“I don’t –“She stopped to clear her throat before continuing. “I don’t want to prevent you from going. I know how much you’ve wanted to see the hotel and even s-stay the night in it, but there’s just something – Something about the hotel just doesn’t f-feel right, like it’s d-demonic.”

Demonic, I thought, interesting proclamation.

I grabbed both of her hooves, and held them close to me, they practically touching my chest now. “I don’t want to upset you, though. I know that the –“She stopped me. Again.

“No –“She stated in an uproar that practically sent me back, overtop the chair I sat in. “I don’t want you to not go because of me!” Passion began to flood her words as she spoke. “I want you to go…If it means that much to you. Besides,” she continued, “you already promised him didn’t you.”

I felt, for lack of a better word, like shit. I had not only caused Fluttershy to cry, and relive everything that had occurred at the hotel prior, but now I made her think of the latter. The latter being me inside a complete recreation of where these events actually occurred. But, her approval sort of…Lifted me, made me feel as if I should go. It was a goal of mine after all, perhaps I should go.

3…

I left Fluttershy’s house later that evening. It was on the brink of dusk, and the sun had just begun its descent. The colors, as they had the days prior, danced across the sky, in a fashion that comforted what had just went down at the small cottage down the way. It’s not like I wanted to go – I mean, I did – But it’s not like I wanted to hurt her, to bruise her. Not physically, but metaphorically, mentally. The scarring of the mind can be just as damaging as the physical, and I knew this, as well did she. The only difference is that I had a disregarded it for a moment, for my own wants and needs.

I walked through the door of my cottage and made my way for the couch. Collapsing on it as I made it there, I almost immediately drifted off to sleep, the void of eternal darkness enveloping me like a warm quilt. It was comforting, like a mother’s hug, and made me feel whole.

The feeling of whole didn’t last very long, as my mind had drifted off to other things that had been on my mind. Things like: My supposed appointment at the hotel tomorrow; my novel, which I had been working quite adamantly on; and the fact that I had almost answered the phone by the name of one of my characters – The murderer, mind you. I guess the last one wasn’t that weird. I mean, every author has got a little too caught up in one of their characters from one time to another. I’m not the only person guilty of this; even Big Mac had done so on occasion. Although when he got carried away, it had this creepy overtone that sent a shiver down your spine.

I rolled over onto my side and faced the back of the couch. It was in this moment that I attempted to forget about that. I didn’t want to obsess over it, it wasn’t my place to. That was for Fluttershy, even if it was a horrible thought.

My stories – Particularly the thriller novels – Would always have a character that consisted of pain, and grief. It’s almost as if my outlet for my own pain is through the characters. And, perhaps, Fluttershy’s was Big Mac’s Characters. I shook my head. Nah. Impossible. Implausible. The connection was too fine, too fragile, like a set of china.

Huffing, I pulled myself to a seated position. It was uncomfortable, and caused my back to ache more. Celestia dammit, I thought. These damned back kinks need to stop. Maybe I should go see a chiropractor. Yeah… Eventually.

I stood, and walked across the room and to the stairs. Looking back, I stared to my desk. It seemed to call to me, wanting me to return for just one more page; just one more word. It was like I was being drawn to it. Sort of like a tractor beam in one of those crazy Science Fiction movies they’ve been playing at the movie theaters as of late. The one about the space captain that leads a crew of interstellar space travelers which, in one way or another, go out to chart new and unknown worlds. In the process of doing this, they usually end up in a point of conflict, and resolve it using their endless arsenal of photon torpedoes and pulse cannon fire.

Reluctant, I looked away from the table, and moved back to the first step of the staircase. I placed my left forehoof on the brink of the first step and began (with some effort), to climb the wooden staircase. Arriving at the top of the staircase, I made my way for the bedroom. Entering, I found the bed quickly and deposited my body upon the surface forcefully. “I need to get some sleep,” I said out loud to myself. “I have a big day tomorrow.”

4…

In the morning, I could be found at the Ponyville train station. It was here that I bought my ticket which would bring me to The Overlook Hotel. It was the hotel of my dreams, practically everypony’s dreams. Somewhere I would be able to rekindle a fire that had long been snuffed out of my soul.

I later boarded the train, and took my seat in the second train car from the engine. I decided to sit by the window, on the far side of the car, the side closest to the engine. That would be my requiem of solitude for the remainder of my trip. The train – When it was ready to arrive at the hotel dedicated station – Would signal its arrival with a loud, sky igniting bellow of considerable proportion. That last minute signal would jolt me from whatever state I would find myself in, and inform me to prepare myself to disembark.

Seating myself, I sighed heavily. If I wasn’t here, I would just be a home, planning and envisioning the future of my novel.

I looked through the window and peered out to the aerials that coated the sky. The motionless clouds with the reddish pink mist-like coat that was cast upon them by golden sunbeams. It was nice, to say the least.

As I continued to look out the window, the hours I would be waiting until I arrived at the hotel hit me like a ton of bricks. So, in this momentary rapture of thought, I thought it best to take a small nap until I got to the hotel’s train station.

So, placing my head upon the edging of the train’s window, I closed my eyes and began to drift off to sleep.

5…

There was a loud ear piercing whistle, and in the next instant I found myself lying on the hard, metal floor of the train car. I lifted myself up and brushed back my mane with my hoof. Luckily nopony was round to see what I had done. For falling on the floor because I was sleeping in a train car was not on my to-do-list today.

Brushing my chest off, I made my way to the doorway of the train car and stepped outside. The late evening sun cast over me, causing me to shield my eyes.

“Ah,” I groaned, rubbing the excess sleep from my eyes.

My eyes now felt like they were set ablaze by the sun. But such was not the case.

Stepping forward some more, I looked out from underneath my hoof and squinted. What sat in front of my weary, and extremely heavy eyes, was the Overlook Hotel. I nearly fainted. It was just as prestigious as the newspaper article had led on. Though it was new, it still looked as the original was described.

Going for nostalgia.

The building was large, four stories, to be exact. It was a mixture between a brown and a grey color, and was made primarily out of wood of some sort. It could have been standard oak or spruce, but I wasn’t too sure. The roof was shingled with small squares, which were also of a dark grey color.

This is it, I thought. Time to step into a dream, a nightmare, and the past

6…

Stepping into the building, I walked over to the receptionists’ desk. The desk was a darkly stained oak of some sort that seemed to shine in the light of the Overlook. A varnish probably.

I was then suddenly greeted by the receptionist.

“Hello, and welcome to the Overlook Hotel. How may I help you today?”

Her nametag read, ‘Miss Scrolls,’ so I only felt it appropriate to acknowledge her as such.

“Hello, Miss Scrolls. You most certainly can help me. I’m actually here to see –“

Something must have clicked deep within here head, because she nearly jumped out of her chair when I began to speak. Her horn then lit, and she pulled out a time card enveloped in a cyan aura, showing it to me.

“You’re Amethyst Pen, the author here to see Mr. Tumble correct?”

I motioned for her to lower her tone, and then answered, “Yes, I am. Where could I find him?”

“Well,” she began, “you go down the hall over there –“She motioned with her hoof to my immediate right “– Then, once you’ve reached the end of the hall, you take an immediate right, and it’s the door at the end of the hall.”

I nodded solemnly, and thanked her for her help. Then I turned and headed down the hall that she had referenced.

Walking down the long hallway, I noticed various pictures lining the walls. One of them was very interesting and caused me to stop, analyzing it as I did so. Initially looking at the picture, it looked to be normal. But, upon further investigation, I was proven to be wrong. For the picture I was looking at had an interesting individual within its paper walls.

Squinting as I got closer, I concentrated on the individual at the ‘front-and-center’ of the image. The stallion looked like Big Mac. But how could that be? The picture was taken at The Great Ball, in 980 A.N.M.M.

I was about to fly up and pull the picture down to get even a better look at it, but my actions were cut off by a wavering voice from down the hall. It was Mr. Tumble. And he looked ecstatic to see me. So ecstatic, in fact, that he seemed to be beaming down the hallway.

Practically pulled into his office, I was encouraged to sit. So, sit I did. I sat on a large couch-like seat. It was made out of some sort of suede material, and was dark grey in color. It was comfortable, and I melted into it so.

Mr. Tumble, on the other hoof, stationed himself behind his desk, and sat down as well. He sat down hard, causing the material of his seat to stress and stretch from his ministrations.

He then spoke.

“So,” he began, “you’re Amethyst Pen?” It came across as an obligatory question. And I was keen on answering it, but refrained from doing so, as he began to speak once more.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pen.” He extended his hoof for a formal hoofshake. I reciprocated the notion, grabbing firmly, and shaking slowly.

“The pleasures all mine, Mr. Tumble. I just can’t believe I’m actually here.” I looked around the room once more, soaking it all in. The building truly was something amazing…Just like I envisioned it. Something to hold (metaphorically), cherish, and maintain.

“My, my, Mr. Pen, the advocate of respect, are we not? I like that. It shows you have something; something that’s been lacking in the new generation.”

I nodded, thanking him for the compliment. It was nice to receive praise on my attitude, and not for my works. I had always preferred the prior to the latter. It’s just the way I am and I never think I’ll change my opinion on that.

“Now,” Mr. Tumble began, “about what I have asked you here for.” He paused, most likely to cause a completely unneeded dramatic effect. “I have asked you here for something somewhat arbitrary, and selfish –“

“Selfish,” I jutted in. “That’s not the first I’ve heard of that... Please, continue.”

“Well, we are to be hosting a small celebratory convention, here at the Overlook. The convention is in the same category of your profession – Writing, or, in a sense books in general.”

“So it’s like a booklovers convention. Interesting.”

“And that is why I have asked you here: To be an active participant in the Overlook Hotel Booklovers Convention. The convention starts in three days, and we are prepping the halls as we speak. The convention lasts a total of five days, and your accommodations will be paid for you in full.” Mr. Tumble leaned over his desk. “So, what do ya’ say.”

“Well, I would love to help, but I’ve been off schedule with my recent endeavor, and I really need to work on it. Maybe if I –“

“Mr. Pen, you may bring your typewriter with you. In fact, we can supply you with as much parchment as you need, that way you don’t have to pack so much on your way here. Plus, it starts in a few days, you have plenty of – You know what? Let me show you something. I’m sure it will help make your mind up for you.”

Mr. Tumble then rose and walked towards the door of his office. He turned to see if I was following, which I was, so he continued on. We walked out into the center of the entrance of the hotel, and then into a much larger back-split of the building. He then walked me over to a glass case. And inside this glass case was something I never thought I would see in my entire life – Big Mac’s typewriter, staring right back at me…