My Little Derpy

by JN

Rating: everyone
Tags: Comedy, Slice of Life, Human, Sad
Length: 2710

My life isn't worth much. I've always measured how much a person is based on what they do, or what they think. Neither of those I do in a particular or peculiar fashion. Because of that, I've been trying to border wether I should appreciate that fact or not. I chose the latter.

Big mistake.

- - -

I've seen this done before.. and it failed miserably. Hopefully, this won't turn out the same.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-04-07 13:44:02 UTC

01: Clean slate

People are special in their own way.

Ever since the beginning of time, it's been proven that we humans are intellectual beings in many different aspects. We sing, we dance, we draw, we write, and we experience. We build, we inovate, and we think. There are millions of people on this earth, the only thing differentiating who we are or what we are as what we do.

I don't quite think that applies to me, though.

Five years ago, I contracted a fatal brain disease. I was treated, of course, but I suffered the side-effects. I was.. to say in the least, unstable. I developed a unique form of the Dissociative Identity disorder, one that separated the normal me from someone - no, something else. It was inhuman. It was extremely unhinged, masochistic, but thankfully, mute. However, my inability to speak during those brief times of insanity delivered me no form of comfort.

I have a scar - over my left eye.

It's unnatural - blood red from scarring and cuts. I was the one who did it. To myself. I'd taken a pair of scissors and dug straight at my left eye, and carved the almost satanic tattoo around it. It's the worst kind of feeling. You're alive, you're conscious, you're present, but you have no control over what you're doing, or what you're thinking. The pain was unbearable. I couldn't scream though. In fact, I was smiling as I did so, almost wallowing in some sick form of pleasure I had taken in the activity.

My lungs burst with a scream that was never heard.

And, of course, there is no cure.

My physical state has been, since then, degrading. If you were ever wondering, my ambition was to become a teacher, or perhaps a scientist - learn my way around the world and such. However, my mind had other plans. Experiences like these have taught me not to get your hopes up too high. There's a saying - perhaps it was from a story of some sorts. Something about getting too close to the sun and then melting wings, except I don't have wings and I have no intention of going anywhere near the sun. My current occupation consists of working at a nearby grocery store, and as a janitor at the nearest hospital. Even there, I'm not trusted.

Trust.

It's such an easy word to use.

I trust you. You trust me.

But yet, we can't tell for sure, can we?

I'd like to say someone trusts me - maybe friends, family. But they're all far away. Distant and disconnected. And I don't have much left, except for a large city which has already branded me infamous for being mentally unhinged and..

..retarded. The word hurt. Which was somewhat amusing to me, as my condition had absolutely nothing to do with speech or thought impediments, but all the same.. it was a mental handicap. Nothing could change that. Over the years, I've mastered more control over my disorder, but that doesn't mean it'll go away. That doesn't mean it'll vanish, or poof into nothing like a magic cloud. That also goes for what peoples say or think about me.

I always try to put a positive spin on my life, but I've found that an increasingly hard task to commit myself to. I'm not pessimistic, nor am I a negative person.

I just wish something would..

..I don't know.

Happen.

My name is Aaron Carter. I'm around 19, probably past the half-point mark to 20. The weather's turned for colder, even though it's well past December or January. Then again, I don't remember weather making much sense around these parts.

As I mentioned earlier, I live in a large city. I moved here around a year ago in hopes I could make it to the university, but I wasn't accepted. My scores were up to date, but I still wasn't admitted for reasons unknown. Well, that's what I like to tell myself anyways. For now, I've resigned myself to a more peaceful life. I work halfway around the clock, and spend the latter time in other hobbies. Unluckily, I'm unable to plant anything seeing as the cold would definitely kill it. Now-a-days it's mostly just painting or knitting something. My family has always considered me as the kind of person who'd make a good housewife -  I'm very picky about things being clean, I cook ( for myself ), and immerse myself in many domestic activities. I don't think that's a bad thing though.

Occasionally, I go anonymously on the internet, many times to listen to music. I've never had the pleasure of owning an instrument.

Like I said before, I'm nothing special. I'm not working towards a very specific goal.

..And sometimes, I brood over that fact. But I'm somewhat happy with myself the way I am now. I don't think that should change either. People are shaped by everything they are, and that includes their past, present, and future.

If I'll ever have one.

The curious strips of light shining through my closed window shades indicated the start of a new day. I yawned, wanting some more sleep, but lifting my covers anyways. My hair was a mess like it usually was after a night of rest, my limbs feeling uncomfortably dead. I sit up, but find myself unable to pick up the motivation to lift my legs away from the comfortable mattress. Mastering some control over my self-indulgence, I pluck myself out of bed and stretch, already feeling a bit more awake. One positive thing about my sleeping patterns is that I never seem to wake up late. Side-effects have included waking up too early, but I have no complaints against that.

I took a few turns to the bathroom, ran the water, washed up a bit, and got dressed. I was off to an overall good day until I missed a step on the staircase and went on an unprecedented, but painful tumble down the short flight of wooden stairs. It was nothing fatal, but it hurt like crazy.

After a hastily made breakfast, I grabbed my things and set out the door, into the harsh cold of the city.

It wasn't desolate or run down, just rather boring. Every building was a dull shade of grey or a similar color, a bland sign or a poster being the only traits that could differentiate one from the other. People walked quickly with their hands in their pockets and not stopping for anything much. I've tried many a time to go against that ritual, but there's not much to admire. Trees don't grow along the sidewalk - I don't believe there's any sign of vegetation in this part of the city at all actually.

Unless you count the fungi eating away at decayed filth in the many garbage bins littering the desolate alleyways betwixt structures. At least what's thrown in there stays in there, though, I can't say the same for the smell. You just have to be careful not to get too close to it is all.

It was the same usual day. I didn't look forward to going to work often, mostly because it was.. lonely. I'm glad people don't confront me often, but it's very easy to pick up what they say. Even my higher-ups seem to look down on me with a hint of pity, or otherwise, disgust. My life in itself seems fairly isolated when I think about it that way, but I don't let it get to me. If the world doesn't need me, I need myself, at the very least.

So I squeezed the liquid out of a mop and scrubbed the last corner of the empty hospital room. If there's one thing I've learned to be grateful for, it's that my condition hasn't crippled me. Or, to say in the least, physically handicapped me. The thought of residing in one of these rooms for an extended period of time doesn't appeal to me very much. Being a janitor, I smell a lot of what they use to "freshen up" the living quarters for the patients, and it sometimes gives me a headache - or, on occasion, a stomach ache. I stowed everything away in the closet, grabbed some coffee from the lobby and trudged back out into the ice cold winds of the city streets. Nobody said good bye, but I didn't either, so that's just as well.

The winds were unusually rough. In fact, it nearly felt like knives in my bare skin. I zipped up my coat farther and raised my scarf, increasing my pace. There was no snow - that made it almost worse, in a strange way that I could not place. Loose garbage was tossed around carelessly in the breeze as I walked down the desolate, barely lit streets.

I noticed myself starting to get weary. This was unusual weather - far too taxing on me, seeing as a large portion of my journey was made of an uphill hike. I normally didn't have a problem walking home, cold or hot, but it seemed like an otherworldly force was weighting itself on my back, my limbs feeling an ache I don't think I've had in a while. At one point, I tripped over a garbage can. It was quick - I didn't even have time to stretch my hands out as my head hit the freezing cement of the sidewalk. Hard.

I jumped up quickly in pain, but I could already feel myself losing it. This was bad. Really bad.

I could already feel the pounding in my heart, a distant, but all too familiar pain drilling into my skull. I had to get out of the wind, and quick. I stumbled aimlessly into a nearby alleyway. Luckily, it was devoid of any garbage bins. My legs lost feeling almost immediately as I passed out, leaned against the brick wall next to a bunch of boxes.

I'd have liked to have said that was an interesting end to a bad day, but as I had no clue wether it was the day or my life coming to an end, I reserve judgement until I can single out an opinion worthy of describing that situation.

And, surprisingly, I woke. It was still cold, but the winds seemed to have died down. I looked up at the sky, feeling unnaturally tired. I felt.. dead. Perhaps that wasn't the correct word for it. Or the most appropriate.

I wanted to pick myself up and head straight back home. That's what I was beginning to do, despite my leg's screaming plea for rest when I was stopped by something.

What was it?

A person? A noise?

The latter I was sure of. But a person.. the gusts had already quieted, so the chances of loose grocery bags still floating around was slim. The direction of the sound came from behind me, in the pile of boxes I'd taken my unprecedented nap next to.

I listened closely again for another noise. Nothing. Was it my imagination?

I took a few steps closer to the boxes. Something was off and I could feel it.

Finally, I was in front of the behemoth stack of dull brown, some of the square containers ripped, or already opened.

I got on my knees, and peeked through the darkened area beneath the expanse of crates.

Something was looking back at me.

I yelped and jumped backwards. It was unlike me to be scared easily, but I couldn't help it. The situation I was in only enhanced the affect of jumpscares. I wanted to run, but somehow, by some inconceivable telepathy with reality, I could tell that I was in no immediate danger. I took a few steps closer to the rustling pile of dull brown, and lifted a few of the boxes off.

Finally, the pair of eyes I saw were fitted onto a face.

Of course, it was a face. One of a..

..a..

..pony?

It was the first word my mind jumped to. Pony, even though it was barely indiscernible from a real horse, it's body, it's limbs, it's snout, it's mane and tail.. there was nothing else it could be, unless it was some anthropomorphic mutation of some organism I wouldn't want my mind to venture to concerning where anthropomorphic mutation is concerned.

Let's start with it's.. eyes. They were crossed slightly, her eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. It had long eyelashes, and an oddly styled mane from regular horses, leading me to the conclusion that the pony was female. Her coat was gray - not exactly my favorite color - and her tail and mane a slightly paled blonde. She was about the size of a.. let's say, a standard printer, or a few soccer balls stacked on top of each other. Although it was barely discernable, she seemed to be in her younger years. I could see no other outstanding characteristics about her other than that. She seemed to be shivering, and very confused though.

I no longer wanted to run. But at the same time, I didn't know what I wanted to do. I just stood, returning her stare. She looked.. lost. The more she sniffed at the air, looking at her surroundings curiously, the more I found her.. cute.

As I kneeled once more, her attention quickly snapped to me. She quickly edged back a little as her gaze returned to my eyes. I wondered if I looked scary. I probably did. But I tried to put on a smile.

"I won't hurt you."

I almost felt like I was ridiculing myself, expecting a pony to understand english. But she seemed to take something out of my smile, and - possibly - my words. I reached a hand out to her. She didn't do anything but stare at it curiously. Making sure that it was safe before, I rested it lightly on top of her head, patting her surprisingly soft mane.

She looked shocked for a moment, but slowly, and surely, smiled. She was beautiful, in a way that I couldn't describe.

I couldn't leave her like this, so I decided on it. I picked her up in my arms, and stood. She provided and surprisingly low amount of resistance to my act, despite it being slightly sudden and rash. She just looked up at me with the same childish happiness as she had when I was petting her.

As I braved the cold of the streets once more ( though, being a slightly more tolerable experience minus the wind and unusual weather ) I couldn't help but notice how the young mare's eyes went slightly askew once in a while. I tried to keep track of wether it was a continuous pattern or not, but it turned out it really wasn't a controlled process. I had no problem with it though - in fact, she looked positively precious. I turned the corner of the street to my home with a feeling of small victory that I managed to improve another person- pony's life that day. However, that feeling quickly turned to confusion.

I looked down at my arms and back to the small blob of gray. She was asleep now. The warmth of her body against mine was an inane feeling that provided me with such happiness that I was unable to place it. But who exactly was she? And the question still stood of what she was, despite her having ( possible ) physical relations to a horse. And most of all.. why was she here?

I gripped the doorknob, twisted, and pulled. Whatever questions still pursued me, they would have to wait until later. Because right now, my hands are full.

Literally.

// -

Well, that's that, I suppose.

I've seen this done before, as stated in the description, and I wasn't too pleased with it.

However, I guess I have to that author to thank for this. It gave me the idea, and the inspiration - also taking into account that I've been wanting to write a story like this forever.

Hope some of you enjoy, at the very least.

//