I wake up, muzzle to oak, with a splitting headache. The once bright and pleasant wooden boards are mottled now, stained beyond my futile attempts to reclaim its former beauty. My head aches, and for a brief moment I'm unable to see anything beyond a hazy, painful blur. I climb to my feet, despite my body's woeful protests, and the world returns to normal, if this obscure, dilapidated sight can be called 'normal'.
My bedroom is simplicity itself. A small bed, too small for me, yet perfect for me at the same time. It reminds me of my limits, of which there are a great many.
I look about the room, trying to recall yesterday. I had a habit of falling asleep on the floor, even since I was a filly, when I wasn't the only resident of this old home. But even then I couldn't recall why I awoke each morning on the ground, forsaking the small comfort of my bed for the cold unforgiving nature of the ground beneath my hooves. But for all the same reasons, I have no way to identify a logical explanation. Perhaps I'm unworthy of the bed, or perhaps I am unwilling to accept the illusion of happiness that a good night's sleep might bring. Perhaps both.
A small, shining something grabs my attention from the floor, next to the crimson boards I call my resting place. I lower myself to look at it, focusing my better eye on the glittering enigma. I see a fine blade rendered dull by years of use. An engraved mahogany handle worn by teeth marks and bitter tears. My father's old straight razor, an ancient artifact of my sordid past, as well as a crude reminder of my present and a bitter foretelling of my future. Seeing it is the only reminder I need of yesterday, and it fills me with pain. Not just emotional pain, but physical pain, too. The old blade appears almost sinister for a moment and I put it back on my night stand with muted reverence. The old memory glints cruelly as I leave, a promise that, Celestia willing, we will meet again after dark.
I choose not to think of that. Not right now, at least. I'm an optimist, after all, and with a wall-eyed stare, I always have two perspectives of the world.
Unfortunately, Neither perspective is any good if they're both black as night.
I descend the steps quickly, taking care not to trip. I can see light from outside, I can hear ponies laughing and talking. I ache to join them, to have a day away from the hurt.
But I can't. There is work to be done, and I can't be late.
I make my way to the post office, where the manager awaits me, as usual. I've never bothered to learn his name. He's just another face of disapproval that I've learned to recognize. He's an unassuming gray stallion, with a gruff muzzle and wings. Nothing about him to imply greatness or true strength, yet I follow his every command like a puppet. And why not a puppet? It's not like I have a choice.
He greets me in the normal way: Nods to me, takes a drink from his mug (Whiskey, I think. Being in charge of me must be tougher than I imagine), and points to my uniform. I respond in my normal way by turning around, putting on a brave face first and my uniform second. I like the uniform. Among other things, it provides me a small amount of comfort, and gives me a sense of dignity. I try my best not to screw up in front of my uniform, as if I'm afraid it will be ashamed to associate itself with me if I do. I pick up my bag and head out the door, ready to perform my all important duty as a mail mare.
It's easy business, usually. Take a letter here, take a letter there. It's one of the things I'm actually good at, and it's a great way to start the day, usually. There are actually some days where I don't screw up at all, and I'll actually feel proud of myself. Most days, though, I end up crashing into a a sign, or a mailbox, or somepony else. Nopony blames me, though. They'll just laugh and say "Accidents happen" Or "That's our Ditzy." I usually laugh along too, or give a sorry smile. I never let them know how much it hurts, though.
If I did, would they even care? Probably not.
Today isn't going to be one of those days, though. I pick up my bag with gusto, and set out to get the job done. The work is a breeze today; I'm at the top of my game. The ponies are happy to see me, and I get quite a few smiles as I make my rounds. I'm actually smiling myself, which feels good. Today is going to be a great day, I can feel it.
I make short work of my first bag, and the second and third fly by, too. The boss seems impressed with me as I stop by for another bag, but Instead of being given another bag, he stops me. He talks to me gently, giving me some fairly straight forward orders. Instead of delivering more mail, he wants me to help somepony move some furniture. I've moved furniture before, and it hasn't gone well. I feel a bit nervous, my self confidence beginning to falter. I consider denying him, but there's more to this. It's been a great day, with absolutely no accidents. I can do this. I know I can.
He gives me directions to the moving truck in question, where a few other pegasi that I don't know await us. The moving fan is quite large, yet suspended by two mares who keep it aloft fairly easily. The boss opens the door quickly, and we examine the contents. Several pieces of furniture can be found inside, lots of large stuff that would be too heavy to carry on our own. For a moment, I imagine the boss might help the three of us, but I know better. He points at the carriage, and we get to work, picking things up, the three of us working as a team while he watches. My feeling of unease is there, but I keep my mouth shut. Nopony wants to hear me complain, anyway.
We make good progress, moving tables and chairs quickly and easily to the open window of the building, where we slide them inside for the time being. It's fairly straight forward, with all three of us tackling the same job at once at all times, and I begin to relax. As we continue to move things, my mind begins to wander. I take in the beauty of the day, admiring the soft, gentle scenery and the lush vibrant colors. Everypony seems to be having a good day, enjoying the beautiful blue sky, totally free of clouds for a change. We run into a break in the large furniture and I'm given a moment to dawdle, which I spend looking over the town. I silently wish to myself that I could have a day like this every day for the rest of my life, with no mistakes, no hurt and nothing to worry about.
I'm called back to reality by the boss, and I turn to the truck. The last few pieces in the truck are piled, one atop another in a bizarre abstract pile. A flower pot and anvil sit upon an impressive looking grand piano, which rests against the back wall. The boss points into the truck, and I frown in confusion. We shouldn't be moving it all at once, I want to tell him. But it's obvious everypony wants to go home early, so I keep my mouth shut and join my fellow workers. Working as a team, we lift the piano by the legs, distributing the weight amongst us and managing to keep it aloft. We move it towards the window slowly, not wanting to break anything. As we continue to move, I revel in the day's marvelous appearance once more. Everypony looks so happy, so content. It's a great day, and it can only get better, or so I think.
That's when I notice Miss Sparkle.
Twilight moved here a while ago from Canterlot, but we'd never met personally. It's not that I don't want to, I've just never had a chance to. With every day being so hectic and painful, like barbed wire wrapped around barbells, it's hard to talk with somepony I don't know. I still see her around, though, doing something or another with her friends. Today, however, I notice she isn't with her friends. Instead she sits in a bush below us, wearing a silly hat and carrying around a pair of binoculars. From what I can tell, she's trying to study something from a distance, but I can't completely tell what from here. Carefully, I turn my head to see what she's looking for without losing my grip on the piano.
One of Twilight's friends, Pinkie, is bouncing down the street.
I like Pinkie, she was always nice to me whenever I was sad. She threw me a party the first time I moved to Ponyville, and it was one of the happiest moments of my life. I smile warmly at the memory, the moment still firmly embedded in my mind.
She hadn't been much help of late, but I can only believe that it's somehow my fault. I had somehow managed to perturb the pink party pony, just another of my many mistakes that I had to atone for. Somehow, I want to believe that it's not true, that I haven't done anything wrong at all, and that things are much better than they seem. I know better, though, because Father told me so.
Suddenly, Pinkie's tail began to twitch, and at the same time, Ms. Sparkle perked up. The former was a lot more intriguing than the latter, as everypony knew about the Pinkie Sense. Even noponies like me were in on the fact that "When Pinkie's Tail starts twitchin', you'd better listen." Her tail was twitching wildly, and I turn my head to look around. Something was going to happen soon, there was no mistaking it, but where? Where?
I notice my grip on the underside of our unstable tower of furniture slipping a moment too late.
The piano begins tilting wildly, and I scramble to stabilize it. The other two pegasi are struggling to keep a hold, but it begins teetering to one side, the stuff on top slipping off quickly. I fumble futilely, trying to reorient the piano, but can only watch as the stuff on top began to fall. Twilight Sparkle was busy arguing with somepony, and wasn't able to notice the danger as it tumbled on top of her.
The flower pot struck her first, which probably didn't hurt that much. The safe followed soon after, which hurt a little more so. I fly down in an attempt to assist her, and let go of the piano before realizing my mistake. The other two mares lost their grip, and the piano dropped like a mountain of bricks. Twilight is crushed below the heavy object, and everypony nearby held their breath to see what would happen.
Seconds ticked by before Twilight finally emerged from the rubble, allowing me to breath easy. She seemed relatively alright, just mildly annoyed, if anything. The boss scowls at me, but doesn't say a word. The other two mares simply slap a hoof to their faces and giggled a bit. I don't know what do to when other ponies started laughing, so I just sit there, with an embarrassed smile, my eyes falling into their trademark position. The voices of the ponies grew louder as more of them gathered about the scene, and I looked around frantically, looking for an escape. The boss and the other two movers picked up the piano, trying to get it into the open window. I moved to help them, but the boss shot me a look. I get the point and turn around, heading back home.
Back in the house, I step in slowly, making a point of admiring the old place. This had been my home since I was a little filly, and I got the feeling I'd never leave this place. It was almost family, in that sense. A lot of memories came back to me as I stepped across the threshold, but only one memory in particular really mattered to me...
My father had always been a kind, gentle stallion. He laughed at my antics as a child, bought me sweets whenever he came home from work, and always tucked me in at night. Things were better then, back when mother, father and I were still together. It was a time worth remembering, a time to cherish.
Then mom came back from the hospital, and although I couldn't understand words like "terminal" or "cardiac," I knew enough from the look on my father's face, that strange stoney look that grew in favor of his former one.
Mom died that year. I didn't understand it at the time, and that agitated father more than her death. He grew silent, and wouldn't speak to me. He started drinking, though he'd never touched it when mother was around. I did my best to ignore it, and keep the house clean, but what would follow was inevitable.
I don't remember why the plate broke. It just did, shattering into a thousand pieces on the ground. Father wandered in, barely able to stand, and saw me among the remains of mother's china. I stood frozen in the middle of the rubble, waiting for him to shout and scream or kick me out of the house. But he didn't get mad. Instead, he gave me a funny smile, and asked me to follow him to the living room, where he settled into his great big chair, with me at its base.
I gave the unsightly chair a distasteful glance, giving it a wide berth on the way to the stairs. The darkened stains on its cushion were irreversible; reminders that the past was permanent, and nothing could take it away from me. I slowly climb the stairs, my wings aching profusely. I don't understand why everything went so wrong all the time, but I knew how I could fix it.
Father sat in his chair, staring down at me. He smiled gently at me, and spoke softly.
"What do I do for a living, Ditzy?" he asked.
"You're a doctor, Papa," I'd responded.
"Very good," he nodded approval. "And what does a doctor do?"
"He fixes ponies who are hurting?" I ventured.
"No," he said with a chuckle. "I help fix ponies who are sick, Ditzy. Not hurting. You can't take away hurt."
Back in my room, I see my father's greatest legacy awaiting me, right where I'd left it. A rusted old straight razor, nothing impressive, but outrageously important.
He rubbed his hoof over the razor's edge while it sat on the stand next to his chair.
"Do you know what bloodletting is, Ditzy?" He murmured softly.
I shook my head no, which didn't surprise him.
"Bloodletting, dearest, is the act of drawing blood near the site of infection, to bleed out the disease in a pony." He cradled the razor in his hoof as he spoke.
"It only takes a small incision to fix everything." he murmured, staring at his reflection in the blade.
I carefully cradle the blade in my own hoof, only able to see unsightly splotches of myself in the blade, a miserable face hidden away amongst rust and stains.
"I think you might be sick, Ditzy," he decided suddenly. "Would you like Papa to make it all better?"
I backed away from the chair, frightened. "I don't understand."
Quicker than I'd seen him move in days, he lunged out of his chair and started after me. I tried my best to run to the door, to scream for help, but he tackled me to the ground. Holding the razor aloft with one hoof, he grabbed one of my wings with his teeth. I screamed in pain, only to be muffled by his other hoof.
"Let's see if I can make you bleed," he snarled. Without warning, he ran the razor slowly, sadistically, through the skin at the base of my wings. I wanted to scream in agony, but couldn't. So I sat through the pain, as he marked me, again and again.
"Let's see if I can bleed the stupid out!"
I felt the warm blood trickled down my back before I passed out, and then everything went black...
I examine myself in the mirror. Underneath my wings are tiny marks, so tiny, you wouldn't even notice them unless you were incredibly close. They were there, though. One for every day after that, whenever I'd been caught doing something stupid. A few were deeper and longer than others, but most of them were never more than half an inch in length. Taking father's razor into my mouth, I recall the last few words my father had truly said to me.
"Let's see if I can bleed the stupid out..."
I run the blade against my skin. It bites deep, and stings incredibly, but I hold firm. I'd been bloodletting like this for years now, ever since father had passed away. The razor cuts deep for an old blade, and ripe red blood soon spilled out.
I stand in front of my vanity, still holding the razor, watching the blood spill off my back and collecting on the stained wooden floor. I'd clean it up later, I told myself. For now, I wanted to see if it would work, to see if I was fixed this time.
Time passes, and nothing happened. I didn't feel suddenly smarter. I didn't feel suddenly happier. Instead, the world begins swirling and distorting, color fading as I stumble about in a daze. I couldn't feel my hooves anymore; all I can feel was the dull, throbbing pain in my back. Eventually, I was unable to stand and collapsed into the crimson sea beneath me. I sit still, muzzle against the floorboards, and fade away.
The following morning, I woke up, muzzle to oak, with a splitting headache. The once bright and pleasant wooden boards are mottled now, stained beyond my futile attempts to reclaim its former beauty...
Author's Note
I figured I'd grind out something before I break for easter. This is my first attempt at a sad short story, so all criticism is appreciated. I won't be compounding on this story, as I don't have the time or desire to. If you feel that you could improve on what I have here, please message me so I can read what you come up with, and make sure we both earn the attention we deserve. Peace out!
