I walk the lonely road, the only one that I have ever known, don't know where it goes, but it's only me and I walk alone.
The blood filled streets of Canterlot repeated themselves over and over in his mind, the screams of the innocent pierced his ears, in the nightmares, nothing can stop the views, no one can end the vivid memories.
It had been at least 5 weeks since the mass slaughter at the nightmare night celebration in Canterlot's city center when a deranged man staggered onto the scene with an assault rifle.
Mortuus Damnato rolled off of the grubby mattress on the floor and staggered over to a smudged mirror hung on the dark gray, peeling, wall. A black maned Pegasus stallion looked back at him, sunken blue eyes with large bags beneath them pierced Mortuus' soul, if he had one left, if it wasn't sucked out of him when "it" happened.
Mortuus would have washed, if he had anywhere to wash. He slouched over to the door, swung it open and walked out; shutting it behind him, he didn't lock it, he had nothing to be stolen. He walked over to the grey iron door in the wall just down the corridor and opened it. stumbling down the cold stairs of the eastern stairwell wasn't an easy task, his hooves wanted him to fall, he half wanted to. Mortuus reached the bottom and walked out of the stairwell and into the lobby, tattered sofa's and peeling wallpaper gave Mortuus the impression that it had; at some point, been cared about. He pushed open the glass double doors and walked out.
The bright sun shone into his eyes and he raised a hoof to cover them. The midday Trottingham traffic had just started, disgusted looks where throne here and there by the upper classes, mostly at Mortuus.
He walked, he didn't care where, how, or why. His inner mind was more important to him at the moment.
He relived the moment over and over, the rapid noise of an automatic weapon, the screams of the dying, the flash of the barrel, and the glint in the eyes of the pony, the wicked smile of insanity plastered all over his face. He had the power, he was in control, he was to choose their fate.
Mortuus looked down at his right foreleg, a 10 millimeter diameter bald patch on his fur reminded him of the pain, the reason he wasn't dead, he had been shot, in the leg, falling to the floor and looking like a corpse to the mad gunman.
Barely any knew, the trauma of having to lie atop a body, in the pool of another's blood, but Mortuus can, only too clearly.
As the paramedical ponies had looked him over, Mortuus blacked out, supposedly, according to witnesses his eyes just glazed over and he muttered non stop. All Mortuus remembers was awakening to see a sickeningly bright white light. He was in Trottingham Mental Health Clinic. Or as the youth called it: "The Mad House". Either way, Mortuus was let out 3 weeks later, a week later, he was living in a rundown apartment in the downtown district of Trottingham, with only a grubby mattress to his name.
Mortuus wandered into a side alley and met his "friend": Periculum. A clear beg with a little bit of white powder in the bottom exchanged hands and Mortuus continued walking. Maybe if Mortuus blew his mind with this shit, maybe head accidentally fall off a building, maybe.
Mortuus reached his humble abode, kicked the door open and slammed it shut after walking through. He opened the bag, tipped it over the floor, bent over and sniffed, hard.
After a trip, Mortuus could never remember what he did, but usually he could tell what had happened due to the implements around him, but this was the first time he'd awakened to find a gnoose hanging from his ceiling.
" Best take that down, might hurt someone," Mortuus muttered to himself as he reached up and unhooked it from the hook, that he also couldn't remember putting up. "Eh, might come in useful." He commented fondling with the hook with his hoof.