Confessions of a Dangerous Pony

Dear Princess Celestia,

I'm a murderer. I done something so unthinkable that it haunts me in my nightmares. It's so heinous that I drink every night, trying to black out so that I don't have to see his mutilated face again. But I see it every time I close my eyes.

How has Princess Luna not told you yet? Why haven't the authorities come for me yet? I know she has to have seen what I done. I know I saw her one time, when the man was kneeling there and accusing me. Does that mean she approves? Approves of what I did?

I swear I didn't even mean for it to happen, but one thing lead to another, like they always do. That man was in the orchard again. He was stealing our apples, again. I told him, again, that I'd gladly pay him to work the farm, and that he would get meals included. He told me he didn't want to work. Every time, the conversation was the same.

I don't understand why I did it, but then I don't understand why he refused my offer. He could have lived and done whatever he wanted, all I asked was for a day's worth of honest work. He declined, again, and as I turned around I heard him mumble under his breath the same thing he always called me: "dumb fucking horse."

Something snapped in me. He didn't even have time to reach for his gun before I swiftly kicked him in the side of the head. I didn't even know what to do, I was so scared in that second after the rage passed. I remember I heard a sickening crunch, like an apple being stepped on, and when I turned around to look—

The memory of the human's face flashed through Big Macintosh's mind, the once personable features now hideously disfigured by the sheer strength behind that one single kick. Big Macintosh felt his stomach turn at the memory, and he quickly doused his sorrows with another gulp of cider. His writing resumed after a brief respite.

I don't want to sicken you, Princess, but it sickens me. I'm a sick horse. It's sick, what I done did. And I want nothing more than for all of Equestria to know what a sick pony I am for doing it, and for what happened afterward. I'm plum humiliated, and I'm sorry to say that my atrocious actions don't end merely in that man's death.

No, I had to go and stage it so it looked like a murder staged to look like a suicide, like I done heard tell some humans say they would do back where they came from. Why did those damn men have to come to Equestria and bring their evilness with them? Nopony I know would turn down work for food and a hoofful of bits as payment.

Nopony I know would take another's life for that matter, either. These men are different from you or I. Well, I guess now that I've killed one I'm exactly the same as them, just on the outside I'm not. But inside, I'm a monster, like them. A pony-shaped monster.

I can tell you how I did it, how I staged the body. I took his gun and, with great difficulty, I aimed it at his head and pulled the trigger. When his brains and skull were spattered across the ground, and the spot where I kicked him was completely destroyed, I placed the gun in his hand, and waited for people to come.

I told them that I saw another man get into an argument with the dead man over who would get more apples, and that in the ensuing struggle, the other man shot the dead man dead. I only described him as a man, and yet my testimony was enough to get the sheriff to investigate the tent city the humans had set up near Ponyville. Sheriff never even considered I'd did it.

Big Macintosh again took a long swig of cider and read over what he'd written, nodding slowly. This was good, it was good that he was finally going to get it off his chest and turn himself in. He told himself this, knowing in the past his attempts to confess had ended with him shredding the letter to pieces and drinking himself into a stupor.

I feel horrible knowing I falsely accused a man of shooting the dead man, worse still that he's still on trial for murder, and I could easily step in and tell them I did it, anytime that I wanted.

I could tell the judge that I needed to recant my testimony, that the man accused is innocent. I don't know why I'm so weak that I can't bring myself to do it.

He realized that wasn't completely true. He looked at the cider in his hoof and took another drink. The cider made him weak, made him unable to own up and take responsibility. Then again the cider was also the only thing keeping him from those awful nightmares. The nightmares were the only thing telling him, like a reminder, that he was bad. The nightmares told him he did do something wrong, and evil, and so wholly despicable that it flew in the face of everything every Equestrian stood for.

He took another drink, swallowing hard and wiping the tears from his eyes as he sniffed and let out a long, heavy sigh.

It wasn't hard for the sheriff to do enough digging and find out the dead man had his share of enemies. Just my luck that one man had no alibi, and there were witnesses testifying they heard him tell the dead man that he planned to kill him. Guess I did his dirty work for him.

I

He paused, shaking his head as he knew not what to write next. That he was contrite? That he was filled with remorse? What could he even do to make recompense for this disgusting criminal act? He could do nothing. A man was dead, another on trial for his crime.

Big Macintosh was a lot smarter than most ponies gave him credit, and a lot smarter than he himself ever let on. Framing that other human for murder was easily the most devious thing Big Macintosh had ever done in his life, and that made him wonder if he shouldn't go down to the tent city and pick a fight with the roughest, meanest pony-hating human he could find, and die then and there.

I want you to know that I feel ashamed, and I only took this long because I couldn't stand the thought of leaving Applejack and Granny Smith alone to tend the farm and raise Apple Bloom. But I need you to take me in and have me put down. I'm sick, and I don't know what will ever cure me.

I don't expect you or the man I falsely accused to forgive me. I don't expect anypony to forgive me. I'll never forgive myself. I just want the pain to go away.

Big Macintosh

He signed and sealed the scroll, then finished the fifth of cider he'd been working on, intending to bring the scroll to Spike the next morning and have him send it with his magic dragon-fire. One fifth became a second, and then a third, as he binged himself into a stupor and blacked out.

The next morning, on waking, he let out a long low moan at his pounding headache. Getting up on his hooves he looked at the letter, his heart racing. He grated his teeth so hard they hurt in his jaw, but he set fire to that scroll and watched it dissipate into ashes and fast-dying embers.

Fast-dying.

He felt the bile rise in his throat, but swallowed it down, and started off on the morning's chores, bucking apples. He would write Celestia again tonight, he promised himself. Just like he wrote to her every night since it happened. This time would be different, he thought. This time, for sure he would send it. He just needed one more day in the sunshine, enjoying his time with his family. Even if it meant one more day a man stood in his place, edging nearer and nearer to the gallows pole.