The Breaking of Union Cutlery
Union Cutlery. Small, lithe, and young. He made his way through dark alleys on his way home, eyeing every corner with a wary eye and careful glances. A plastic bag hung from his muzzle, filled with common household foodstuffs and items.
A carton of milk. A bag of cigarettes he planned to sneak into his room without anyone seeing. A box of matches. Common things. Normal things, that none would glance at twice.
Union Cutlery was an average young colt in an average Equestrian mixed city. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of the norm.
A man stood under the glow of a streetlight, just a dozen meters away from Cutlery.
The moon was rising over the skyscrapers, illuminating the filth-covered pavement of the roads and sidewalks. Rats and dogs scampered under the cover of the shade, picking the meat off the bones of dead cats and beasts run over by the day-time traffic.
The street was empty. Cutlery could hear the feet and cries of the rats. He could smell the urine and the feces beneath his hooves. It would take more than the rain of the world to wash away the stench of the city. The smell of his home.
Union Cutlery crossed the street, not bothering to look sideways. The street was empty. Even the wheezing of the dying dogs inside the alleys could be heard.
The young colt placed hoof after hoof on the shit-encrusted road as he made his way to the far side. His breath hung in front of his eyes in a light mist forming from within his body. Breath in, breath out. The humid scent that lingered in the air filled his lungs.
A pair of shoes against the pavement resonated throughout the silent street.
Union felt the skin on the back of his neck crawl, but he did not turn around. He walked on. His home was close by, and his family would be waiting for him. Dinner was inside his bag, after all.
"Hey."
He jumped, startled. The voice broke the spell of the city.
Union turned towards the voice. It was a bum, one of the many that filled the city. His clothing was filthy and ragged, and the smell of him mingled with that of the street, and added to its strength.
The bum kept quiet. Dark eyes peeled and staring, under the glow of a streetlight.
Union had stopped, he realized. Stopped midway on the path to home. He wanted to ignore the bum and continue— to keep walking and not face the man under the glow, but the gaze. It was penetrating. Set on him— on Union, to the point that it felt like minutes had passed of being held in its power. The bum said nothing else; Union did not move, and he did not reply, or turn to face him.
The street was deserted.
Union moved a hoof forward to keep walking— to move and ignore; to keep going and forget it, and laugh it over once seated by the table inside his family's apartment. Union took a step forward.
The man— his filth and stench unmoving and staring, kept still. The streetlight shining its light on him— making him glow.
Union took a turn to the left. It was a longer way home. He tried to make sure he was not followed, but the bum did not try to follow. He kept still.
Union walked in the darkness for a while— where the lights of the street did not shine.
He walked into the light once more. He could see his apartment on the other side of the street. The lights were on, and he could see the silhouettes of his family against the window. A feeling of relief washed all over him, and he felt light and renewed.
A woman stood in front of him.
On the far side of the road. Dark hair, unseen features. Baggy clothing. Dirty.
Union stopped and felt sweat on his brow. The woman was standing in front of his building's entrance, holding a short iron pipe in one hand.
Union turned to the right. Face staring into the nothing as he began walking again. Anxiety took hold.
On the far end of the street to the left of his apartment and to Union's right, a man stood in the middle of the street, holding a wooden plank.
Union felt his breath become stuck inside his throat. Cold sweat like ice began to flow freely, and the thudding of his heart drowned the noise of the whimpering dogs and mewling cats dying of starvation around him.
"Hey."
The voice, again in the darkness. Union froze and breathed heavily. His hooves wanted to run— they ached and begged for him to run, but the voice was so familiar, yet so strange.
Cutlery tried to cry out as a sharp, stinging pain flared on his midsection, but his shock allowed him but a wheeze and coughing. He thrashed against thin air, and collapsed on the floor, panting.
The world turned to black as a pair of dirty hands wrapped a black bag over his head.
