Lady Beat

by CrescentHope

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Tragedy
Length: 1485

She was once happy for discovering her true self. But a cutie mark is not the only thing that makes a great life. Sometimes, it can do the exact opposite.

It is the mark on a flank that defines one's natural talent. Many yearn for it, excited to see themselves shine in one way or another.

She was once happy for discovering her true self. But years after, it brought her down. She was no longer Vinyl Scratch. There was only one thing left of once a beautiful and clever mare – her precious talent.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-03-01 14:50:02 UTC

Lady Beat

The first sunrays of the day found a way through the window, through nearly closed blinds, almost lazily spreading over the floorboards, filling slowly the small room, and eventually made their way to the couch in the back.

They wandered to her shut eyelids, and, as gently as they could, touched those, begging for her to open the bright red eyes, to wake her up from her slumber.

The mare groaned and rolled over on her second side, away from the annoying rays, away from the strong light. She was desperately in need for at least ten minutes of sleep.

Her head was on fire. It hurted like after a whole night of drinking. Drinking, stress, fear, pain. Last evening had to be wild.

But she did not drink any alcohol last night. She never did. She could barely afford some, and even if, there was nothing in the world that would force her to. She had to be far more careful than any other in every at least a bit dangerous activity.

What then?

The place under her head was soaking wet. Was she crying last night? But why? What happened yesterday?

It was the moment that she remembered. She bolted upwards, her eyes wide open.

She was thinking.

She was thinking about her life.

She was thinking about her future.

And she was crying.

She moved on the couch as to face the bright light, the window, and put one of her forehooves on the floorboards, slowly and steadily, as if she wanted to make sure it was still there. When it made contact with the wood, she let the rest of her legs follow.

She gazed somewhere past the window, trying to adjust to the contrast change. Due to estimated location of the Sun on the sky, due to the spots the rays laid the light on the floor, it had to be sometime between morning and midday. That was a pretty short sleep she had.

She treaded across the room, her steps a bit insecure from the lack of rest, too much thinking through the night, and mostly from the memories of the evening before.

The room was, except for a couch, cupboard and a small table with a recorder on top of it, empty. She needed no more. In fact, the more furniture she had, the more frequently did she fall over it. And even so simply furnished her house had to look nice.

When her hoof gently touched wood, she stopped. She moved all of her weight onto her back legs, and took off one of her forehooves, then second. She placed them on the table carefully, not to crush the recorder under them.

In stable position again, she bowed her head. Her horn let out a dim glow.

As the music played, she felt a burst of peace, confidence. It was a slow song, a cello solo, her favourite. It was much better than some mindless tracks she had to play at the parties.

Parties. No more parties.

She lived in the small house alone for years already, practically since the time she was able to survive without anypony being her eyes. She had only caused problems to her parents, and knew they could not take care about a mare that would fall prey to natural selection. And she needed the space in her room.

That was the way she got to music in the first place. A huge portion of her senses was out, and the sound was the thing that helped her to orientate out there. She was forever glad for the sounds, and fell to them soon after.

She worked with music from then on, since her early fillyhood. However, things were not so happy like then. She was too dependent on music, addicted to it. All of her free time was spent on creating soundtracks, listening to music and overall thinking of it.

At first, it helped her in depressions and calmed her down. It was a tool in her hooves once. But as she grew up, still keeping her hobby, it was overtaking her slowly. Years after she was a tool of her music.

Due to music, she had no other ponies to talk to or have fun with. Music was time-consuming. Even at the many parties she was a discjockey of, there were no friends. But she got bits for it, and so she did come everytime.

Parties were hell. No more did she like working with music, but it had always brought her back. Not mentioning the drunk individuals, dangerous to everypony around, especially to ponies dependent only on their hearing. Luckily, there was always someone who did escort the mare to her home.

She was always so tired after such night. But yesterday was the worst of them all, the one where she swore she would never come to a party again. If it was not for one brave soul, her life was not going to last for long. Not even thinking what would happen to her. That stallion looked like he was going to do whatever did he want to do, no matter others.

She had never been a mare who kept her pride, but she was not going that deep. She would rather kill herself right in the spot rather than let it be the other way. Although she would not survive much longer without bits.

She should not think about such things, those 'rathers'. If she wanted to stand back on her legs, complaining was not the way. She had to think about what to do next.

She broke to a slow trot, the rhythmical clapping of hooves in perfect harmony with the music. The mare knew her home well, and finding her bathroom just by memory was little to no problem. She did kick into something only twice on her way, and that was a success.

She fiddled with the shower knobs, the left one cool, right one hot, trying to find the ideal temperature. It was a bit under 'warm', just to spare some more bits. When ready, she stepped inside and let the water wash her coat, mane and tail, wash away her stress, fear and tiredness.

Some say the point in living is having fun. Some say it is to see all of the nature's wonders. And some say it is to leave a mark there for later generations, a new technology, another beautiful piece of art, another awesome song. Those ponies were the most remembered, the ones printed in school textbooks. The famous ones.

Vinyl Scratch was once, no matter her blindness, a happy filly, eager to find some friends and play with them, an optimistic one, wanting everything in her life to be nice.

This was no longer the pony. Vinyl Scratch died long time ago. It was not her own soul inside of her body, more like she was only one thing. She was none but music. Without any songs to listen to, she was nothing. There was not much left of her true self.

She was not stupid. She knew when things had sense, and when the fighting was for naught.

There was no way she could live like any normal pony did, nor to get famous or appreciated in whatever she could do. There was not a simple way to live happily.

She had none to live for.

No friends. All of the ponies she occasionally talked to at some parties were not to be called friends, more like random bypassers. They did not care about her, she did not care about them. Perfect synergy. Except for an often paid escort home, she kept her distance.

No parents. They did not care about their only daughter. Why would they? She was a hopeless one, with no future ahead of her, and they had lots of their own troubles. It was a wonder she earned enough bits for the small house by herself.

No one to share her sorrows with. No one she would love, and who would love her in return. Again, why? Who would care about a mare that could not even take care of herself properly?

No rational work she could do in the outer world. Nopony would accept her, for there were much more able ponies who needed a job.

No hope.

Her hooves were shaky when she turned off the water. She stepped out of the shower, not caring about that wet coat of hers, about the dripping water.

She had come to a decision. After years of that life, after days of thinking, everything would be fine.

Every step crashed against the floor. Every step moved her closer.

Sometimes, it was easier to give up the run than find a sense in living. Sometimes, cowardice was the easy way.

The mare was not stupid.

She chose the easy way out.