*
The screams are kinda annoying, but, you know – they’re part of the whole deal.
How could you do such a thing ?
You’re the most horrible pony ever!
My scootaboard! They broke my scootaboard!
It’s always the same. You get used to it after a while. You learn how to ignore it. You learn how to turn away when the babies start crying. Only good ones get the candy – the silent ones who know their place.
Nopony likes a noisy child!
Diamond nods. She agrees with me. That’s how I know I’m right. That’s how I’m sure we didn’t do anything wrong.
These three losers in a bunch over a broken toy – I mean, big deal. Just buy another one! Why are you getting so worked up over nothing, you dumb chicken?
I mean… just buy another one. Right? Not like it’s such a big loss or anything.
Yeah, Diamond says so. I guess it’s right.
I guess.
Anyway, we’re done. There’s no reason to hang around here anymore; you’d just get more of the same old stuff if you did. Screaming and yelling in my direction as if that’s the only thing anyone has to say to me.
So you know what? You deserve it, Scootaloo. You and your stupid broken scootaboard or whatever you call it.
Stupid name.
Stupid.
We take ourselves away from the babies, and we say our goodbyes as we part for home. Well, Diamond never really says ‘goodbye’. She says ‘be here tomorrow, got it?’ but I know what she means.
She’ll have another plan. She’ll have some sort of thing to do to make sure the babies of the world get what they deserve for yelling at us.
Same thing, every day.
The road is chilly. It always is, walking home. Plod, plod, plod; the leaves underhoof make funny crunching noises as I walk. I jump around sometimes to step on them on purpose – it’s something to do on the way home. I like the sounds they make.
They fill the spaces in my head.
Usually a brain is full of thoughts. That’s what it’s for, right? A brain’s there to have things floating around just like pockets are there to be filled with money.
Daddy taught me that, about the pockets. But it was Diamond who taught me about the other.
Turned out that Diamond had it too. She said hers bothered her, like mine did. And she said not to worry. She said just to do what she said and it’d go away.
We started doing stuff. Some kids like to build. Some kids… I don’t know, burn things behind the schoolyard. We never cared for that. We found something of our own to do.
We did them together and we’d laugh. We’d enjoy it because it filled the spaces.
But they never really go forever; they always come back. I hate them. They’re uncomfortable. Diamond said that’s just how it is. She’s got it all figured out.
See, some kinds of thoughts make them meaner. And some things help keep them away for a while, like stepping on leaves. That’s what hobbies are for, she said. When her dad is feeling weird he goes fishing, and it makes him happy. I guess I can’t argue with that.
I guess.
We just have a hobby.
* * *
My house is warm when I enter. The maid put the fireplace on. She does everything around here. She’s the one who brings the warmth to the house. Food would be waiting in my room, too, just like it always has. I don’t know why we have such a big dining hall. We never seem to use it for anything.
I can’t avoid the mantel in the main foyer on the way to my room. It’s the same as always. Perfectly clean, like a hospital. Three frames line the top. Photos of the family. One for Daddy, one for Mommy, and one for me.
I used to move them around, and pretend they were real. I’d shift them closer together, but Mommy would always move them back, and tell me not to upset them. They were good where they were.
I haven’t touched them in years.
Then there were the stairs that wound up to my room. Wide and curvy, you could never bump into anyone else going the opposite direction.
My room is the far one on the left. It’s big. Nice. Comfortable, I guess. It has everything that Daddy can buy, and Daddy buys a lot of things, even when I don’t want anything. He likes buying stuff for me.
A lot of stuffed toys, usually – ursas and rabbits that sit along the wall like an army.
Mommy never buys me anything. That’s Daddy’s job, she says. Mommy says she doesn’t want to be a slave to consumerism. I asked her what that meant. She said it was a joke. I didn’t get it.
But that’s all I can say about Mommy and Daddy. If there were anything else I needed to know, I could always read one of dad’s autobiographies. He has three. I want at least three myself, when I grow up. Three or four is a nice number of biographies to have, from what I can see. All of Daddy’s friends have at least two, and he never pays attention to anypony who doesn’t have at least that many.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
I always end up feeling like this everytime I come home. I don’t know where it comes from, but it makes everything terrible. The food on my tables tastes like dirt. Dirt and corn. And I hate corn. The room gets chilly again, even with the fire on. My toys and games are dumb. What’s the point of all these games, anyway?
I have to leave. I have to get out. I’ll go take a walk. At least I can do whatever I want. No one ever stops me from going anywhere, or doing anything, and that’s good, I guess.
I guess.
* * *
Most of the time I end up here, at Sugar Cube Corner. I want something sweet. Something nice. Maybe a milkshake. Maybe a brownie.
The place is the same as always. A lot of smiling faces. A lot of happy ponies gathered around. It’s bright here, much brighter than it is outside, and I always come here to stare. I always find myself doing so – staring at the other kids, staring at faces, thinking about other families.
Not thinking about anything in particular. Just… thinking.
I don’t think so much if Diamond is around. Usually, we’d just sit silently and eat our food and be on our way as fast as possible, but when I am alone, it’s different.
It’s a bit scary, actually, without Diamond, because I know some of these ponies stare back. They think I’m trying to start something, by looking. They think I’m being rude for watching their families and friends.
They come to me and sneer sometimes, asking me what I was going to do to them today.
I don’t see why they can’t just leave me alone. I wasn’t going to do anything. Sometimes I just want to come here and enjoy a treat just like them, alright? So why do they always think I’m planning stuff?
I move to the corner because it’s quieter there. That space allows me to watch and think, and the other kids like it better that way, too.
In the end, everypony’s happy with that arrangement, I guess.
I guess.
Pinkie’s coming over. She’s sort of in charge of this place. She’s got that look again.
Nothing new. I’ve been given that talk. I just get up and leave, usually. Others don’t need to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. I don’t care. What I do helps me, and I don’t care.
I’m about to leave. It’s obvious that Scootaloo’s been around, whining and getting others to pick on me.
But I stay because Pinkie sounds different as she calls my name. The other adults – they usually sound mad or stern. Pinkie sounds happy. But she definitely has that look.
I don’t understand. I’m confused. I’m confused, and so I stay.
“I want to give you something,” she says. She’s cheerful. She’s hiding something behind her back, and it’s quickly revealed as one of her special parfaits, the one with three different flavours of ice cream and nuts and fruits of all sorts and wafers and chocolate malt balls.
But why?
I ask her.
“No reason. Just wanted to give you a gift, and to tell you a story,” she says.
A story? I didn’t understand.
“I won’t lie,” she says. “This is because of what you did to Scootaloo earlier.”
I frown, looking away.
“But I’m not going to tell you off like the others. I just want to show you something!” she says again.
I’d be a fool to turn down a Pinkie Parfait, so I stick around. If she isn’t going to scold me, then I guess I don’t mind listening.
I guess.
I reach for the spoon that isn’t there. But just like magic, Pinkie’s got one in hoof to present to me. I rear back immediately.
It’s disgusting. It’s oily and gunky and covered with a funny sheen of black. It’s spotchy and looks like sick ponies. It’s a sick spoon.
Pinkie moves to put it right into the parfait.
“Hey! Stop!” I yell. “What are you doing? That’s gross!”
She does, and waves it in front of my face, still with that smile.
“I know, right?” she agrees. “That’s the common response. Disgusting spoon covered with tarnish, who’d want to use it, right? So what should I do?”
“Get me a clean one?” I say. I mean, duh, right?
“Yeah, that’s what everypony else would say, too. So you get a clean one…”
She takes one out and puts both spoons on the table.
“... and everypony’s happy! Well, except for the dirty spoon, but no one cares about that spoon, do they?”
I look at the two spoons on the table. The ice cream melts a bit, and I look up to her.
“What are you trying to say?” I ask.
Her smile changes. It’s still a smile, but it’s… different. “I’m trying to say that we all feel like a tarnished spoon sometimes.”
She picks up the splotchy utensil.
“No one wants to use it. No one likes to look at it. Everypony just puts it aside and talks about it as if there was something wrong with it. And no one wants to keep the tarnished spoon with the good ones either, because they don’t want its gunk to get on them,” she says, quietly, softly, as she plays with the thing.
“It’s never fun being brushed away just because of how we look on the outside. But in the end, if we stop to think about it, there’s still a spoon there. It just needs a bit of polish, and it’s as good as any other.”
She puts the spoon back next to the other one.
“Sometimes it’s difficult. I understand. Any spoon left alone for long enough becomes like this eventually. And you know what? Spoons can’t polish themselves. It’s not their fault they became this way. All they can do is sit aside and hope and wish that somepony will come by and think about them.”
I slowly look up at Pinkie. I didn’t want to.
“But the funny thing is, all we have to do is try to remind others that it’s still a spoon. And the old…”
She taps the dirty spoon.
“... becomes the new…”
She picks the clean one up and drops it into the parfait, where it sits, now allowing anyone to enjoy it.
“... and everypony can have a good time together.”
She pushes the dessert toward me.
“I want you to know it’s not your fault, and it’s not too late. We all feel like a tarnished spoon sometimes. But we don’t have to. You just need to allow yourself to shine.” She smiles, beaming. She looks happy. Glad about something.
I get angry. Angry at her words. Angry at her story. I leave immediately. I ignore her smile as I step out.
I’m angry. I don’t want to step on the leaves now. I don’t want her stupid parfait. I don’t care about anything.
I’m angry.
What does she know?
What does anypony know?
Who asked you to pretend to care? To pretend to understand how I feel? Why can’t you let me solve my own problems my way?
The spaces fill my mind, and they push everything else out. All I can think of now is a jumbled mishmash of images, words, thoughts, and none of it makes sense or forms a complete idea.
I am angry. Confused.
Scared.
I don’t even know why I’d be scared.
Is there something to be worried about? Is there something I’m afraid of?
Maybe you’re wrong, Pinkie. Maybe the dirty spoon likes being dirty. Have you thought of that? Maybe the dirty spoon has a friend. Maybe the dirty spoon’s fine being in the drawer!
Or maybe the dirty spoon can’t ever be clean! Have you not thought of that either? Like you said, spoons can’t clean themselves, so what do you expect it to do?
I throw my hooves against the walls of my room. I reached home some time ago. Didn’t look at the pictures on the mantle. Didn’t look at the stairs.
It’s not fair.
The space in my head feels so large that I feel it might burst. I feel it coursing down to the rest of my body like hot water, filling every crack, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.
It grows so large that I have no place else to go. I have no place else to run. I have nothing left to plug it up, to shut it out, to tell it to go away, to force myself to ignore it.
It’s not fair.
It drags me in.
I don’t want to be here.
Please.
It’s not fair!
They come now, a swirl of thoughts, feelings, memories, and wishes. They push me over and stab at my chest, and wrench me from inside out. It reduces me to weakness, and for the evening I am unable to talk, to eat, to rest calmly.
And the last thing I remember is pushing my face into a pillow, hoping to drown out the noise, the hissing and buzzing in my ears, and the pain in my throat.
* * *
I don’t know why I’m here today.
I told Diamond Tiara I didn’t want to join her with her things. I said I was busy, but honestly, I just don’t feel like it.
I find myself walking through the path that I was on the day before. Familiar road and familiar ponies.
Those three look up. They’re trying to fix the scootaboard. The one that I…
They’re on guard.
Of course they are. All they see is a tarnished spoon.
I sit down – the first thing I did – on the dirt floor. I’ve never done that before, but I didn’t care this time. I wanted to sit.
“Hey,” I say. Cautiously. To test the waters.
The waters bite back with ferocity.
They tell me to go away. They tell me to shut up. They tell me I’m gonna get it.
I tell them I’m sorry.
All of a sudden, the waters calm. They say they don’t believe me, but say nothing more as I just sit there with my head bent over by a strange heaviness.
It takes a while, but slowly they talk again. First amongst themselves, and then to me. They ask me what I was there for, really. I say I want to help. I show them the nails and hammers I stole from Daddy’s shed. They’re brand new. I tell them they can have it.
They say they don’t want it. They say it wouldn’t help.
But, they say, I could stick around if I wanted.
For the next few hours we work, restoring the scootaboard back to… well, it would never be the same. Some things break forever, it seems.
I hadn’t realised.
But through it all, they slowly begin to talk. I don’t have much to say. I don’t know how to feel. The others chatter on. They’re quite funny, actually. They’re… nice. And for once, they don’t mind when I stare.
And the hours end, just like that. I didn’t laugh. Didn’t play. Didn’t talk much. Just helped. I helped and now I leave.
Scootaloo comes up to me on her board as I’m walking away. It’s working again. She’s happy again.
“Thanks for the help,” she says to me, adding: “We like you better this way.”
We say nothing more, and I go back home, looking up at the sky, trotting back to my room.
The room is as cold as ever. Lonely as ever. The games that Daddy bought – the ones for ‘two players or more’ – still sit unused.
I’m not sure if anything’s really changed. Maybe nothing did.
I would crawl back in bed and think about it more, but there’s no time for that right now.
I’m busy thinking of other things. Maybe I could bring one of my games down, I think. Maybe we could do something with it, and give them some use, I think.
That would be nice.
The thought tickles me. It makes me feel something different. It chases away the emptiness in my mind.
And for the first time in a long time, and for the first time in this room, I do something that changes my day.
I give myself a smile.
I allow myself to shine.
The End
Author's Note
So. This thing was a story about redemption that I had to squeeze into 3000 words for a competition. That's a big arc for such a small space, and writing with brevity is decidedly not something I am witty at. I had to settle on the most simple of stories, and write differently, but I hope you guys enjoyed it anyway! Thanks very much for reading, regardless, and if you liked it, then you've done enough for me already. =)
My thanks to:
Crack "I feel like my hat" Javelin - It is consistently hard to do anything without his help and barnsturmin'.
HerpyDerpy Bot - Thanks for the editing and the thoughts and the butt tickles.
dinoguy, SaiKimura, Martian, and all others I bothered for the things that never were - Thank you for your time.
