The icecream dripped slowly. Slow... Slow... The drips fell down with the gravity there. It was nothing new, different perhaps, but icecream is icecream, and ‘tis what we all scream for in the end. And far down below, in the silent, sleeping town of Ponyville lay a house on a hill.
Applejack, the great beast that she is, held her eyes in her skull with lids shut so tight, naught but the tiny form of a mouse could part. The flaps of skin undulated on her belly as though caught within a starlight breeze. But such things mean little for you see 'tis in the next room where our protagonist we meet. A tiny Applejack, one could say, but perhaps they'd be wrong, for this is no Applejack at all but an Applebloom. Snug and warm, wrapped tight in bed, nary a night light in sight and her room was so dark, blinds shut tight to the outside world.
For what dost an Applebloom fear when in bed so warm? Surely nothing. Surely not a thing could be wrong in a room such as this, cozy and clean, but dark too. And dark things travel in the dark. Twould be best if our noble Applebloom was to invest in a night light to warm her dream world with dazzling light, but such is the fate of narrators, you see. Applebloom knew not of the plight in the closet, of the creature that stirred, so fowl, not like icecream. But the screams would be real.
Tiny inches, tiptoeing silently on legs stiff and long. Slow... Slow... It tiptoed with nary a sound. So quiet, like a mouse, but not a mouse at all! Perhaps not the kinds you're thinking of, but perhaps yes indeed. It moved and it grooved, but not with fun to be had, for it was a sinister wrinkle that parted from the creature's lips, and not the kind of a mouse.
It opened the closet door, fingers like snakes and spiders in its hair. For beyond the confines of its closet so snug was the skin that it thrived on. Skin tender and fair. Like a tortilla of corn, the Mexican in its heart yearned more and more. Spurring it onward with promises and taco on the breath. Breath of sound not food, mind you.
The door creaked, more sound than was anticipated. No mouse in sight, no blame to be had, but tiny Applebloom continued her slumber, ever vulnerable, blanket warm and pacifier in mouth. Suckling sweetly in dreams, but not here. For ‘tis no nipple so sweet, but honey on the lips of angels.
Its fingers, sinister and cruel, like the blades of a glass, empty but broken, and certainly not a mouse. No, certainly not. It cared not for the dark for it had not eyes in its skull, and no eyes to behold the slumbering Applebloom, warm not cold. She slept, and it slunk. Its teeth like the badger, porcupine and hedgehog perhaps too. Pointed and colored red, though it could not be seen, for twas dark in the room, and the skinrender made nary a sound.
It slunk and it slurped. It gurgled and it burped. And it was there, in the dark. It was always there all along, Applebloom need have only looked, but she did not. Looking is never on her list, and perhaps it should have been, for if you do not look before you leap.
It knew her skin well. Applebloom was like Applejack, and all the Apples before. It loved her skin and it knew her skin. Her skin was its own, and it could be tasted in the air. The taste of soot and sweat, and perhaps trees too. Perhaps only wood, for trees have many tastes.
This wasn’t the day for trees, though, for night was high in sky, and only skinrender was bucking this time. And it seldom bucked, for skin was its speciality and trees have bark. Ridged and hard and made like brown; bark.
‘Tis nothing new, you know trees too. It was Applebloom who knew trees here, and she was near. It moved the blanket, slowly, quietly, and she was naked once more. Skin smooth and held taught on bones white and gray and brown. Like a corral reef, the trash of man sought only to destroy. Sadly. Fish without homes. How can one find a Nemo if there is no Nemo?
It moved its head. So slow, unlike a cheetah. Quieter than a horse and bigger too! It had a long face, but sadness wasn’t felt. It felt only pain and skin and the looming silence of the night. Moon high but blotted out by space clouds and not as big as one might think. Skinrender’s tongue, like a cobra dance, moving into her ear and tasting that fair skin there. Thin and coated in hair, but tastier still the skin of the belly. It tasted that two, and it tasted it three. Perhaps four too, but perhaps not five.
The skin was always to be had, and a good thing too. Without the skin to be skin what is a skinrender to do? And Applebloom dreamed, thoughts in her brain like static on the tips of hooves. Ever shocking but never delaying. Perhaps this was for the best, and the skinrender continued its game. Not a game of fun, you see, but a game that must be played.
It writhed in satisfaction, it had never known satisfaction so sweet as the skin on the young teat. Flesh warm and blood coating the underneath. The colors unappreciated for without eyes what is appreciation to be? Certainly not like what you think, no.
But tonight was no night for skin, and no night for skinrender. And so waiting would be the verb taken. A wait on a breath, like a mouse, or perhaps not a mouse, but a skinrender in the closet. It retreated and remained there for the Applebloom to sleep once more, so quiet and snug in bed. And every night, darker than day, skinrender would be there counting the seconds and demanding the taste.
Because when she was here before, couldn't look her in the eyes. She's just like an onion, her skin makes it cry.
