Big Mac sucked a hot breath of the early summer air and leaned deeper into the yoke, straining against the drag of the hay rake. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw AJ in the previous row, using the fork in her teeth to pitch from a pile of hay into the flat wagon she was hitched to. He was almost at the halfway point in this row, and then he could drop this load of hay and begin the second half with a light and empty rake. His worn-out muscles protested at the demands he was making of them. Two days ago, he’d been in this same field pulling the mower through the alfalfa, which was at least better than raking. Mowing was hard work but steady, so he could maintain a pace. But raking was different—the stopping and starting and the changing load of the rake had kept him from establishing an efficient pace, so he’d spent the morning wasting what little energy he had.
He was bone-weary from a week of tossing and turning at night and labor during the day. He never slept well during the season. It would have been nice if the alfalfa had waited another few days to bloom, because the season would have been over and he would have been properly rested for the exertion of haying. He shrugged at himself, a twitch of the shoulders against the yoke. Don't matter, does it? Not really, anyway. You gotta do what you gotta do, no matter what, ain’t that right, poppa?
That was the most important thing he’d learned from his sire: you do what you gotta do, no matter what hell you have to put yourself through to do it. Your family and your responsibilities always come before your pain and your weakness and your tiredness. Always. Mac had watched his sire live by that creed and he’d seen the respect and esteem he’d earned by doing so. Mac had wanted to earn that kind of trust and respect for himself, so he’d striven to hold himself to that same standard. He hadn’t always succeeded back when he was young, but when he became the only stallion on the farm, he knew he could no longer permit himself any more youthful lapses of self-control.
Since then, he’d helped keep this farm afloat by unfailingly following the example his sire had set. Some evenings, just as the sun touched the horizon, he’d stand on the porch and look out over Sweet Apple Acres, and he'd smell the fecund breeze from the fields and orchards, and he’d allow the pride to bubble up inside him. He and AJ and Granny Smith had kept this farm healthy by sticking together and working harder than anypony else. And if sticking together meant forcing his leaden legs to keep pulling this damn rake through the north field so that the family would have hay to sell and food for the winter, then that's what he’d do. That's what his poppa would have done, and Big Mac wasn’t gonna let his poppa down by putting his own needs ahead of the family’s. He redoubled his efforts, heaving against the rake with rubbery legs.
From a distance, he heard AJ’s voice, but he couldn’t make it out. He knew that if he stopped pulling in front of a fully-loaded rake, it’d take everything he had to get going again, so he didn’t stop. A few plodding steps later, he flinched as something pressed into his shoulder. He looked, and felt a dim surprise that AJ was close enough to poke him. Why hadn’t she just hollered? Her brows knit and her mouth moved, but her voice sounded hollow and distant, like she was talking through one of the tin-can-and-string assemblies they’d made together when they were foals.
“Mac, it’s time fer lunch, an’ you need it—you look like death warmed over. If you were anypony else, Ah’d wonder how you were still standin’, never mind pullin’ a rake.”
His head drooped in a nod. “Ah’m OK. Just ain’t been sleepin’ too well.”
Her eyes tightened in sympathy. “Ah know the season’s always hard on you, big brother. It’s almost over, and then everythin’ can get back to normal. We’ll make it through, OK?” She put a hoof to his shoulder again, just for a moment.
He told his mouth to smile at her, but his lips only twitched feebly. “You said ‘lunch’?”
She began helping him out of the rake’s harness, and as she passed in front of him to unbuckle the other side, he caught a whiff of her scent. She was in the throes of estrus, just as nearly every mare in Equestria was. It was the season. Her scent had no effect on him and likewise he had no effect on her—something about being related, they’d always supposed. She had no interest in becoming pregnant until she met the right stallion, so like many mares who felt the same way, she spent the season away from any stallions. For a farmpony like her, that was less onerous an isolation than it was for most mares—in point of fact, it was pretty much the same as any other time of year, except that she couldn't go into town.
Mac avoided town during the season too, for similar reasons. He enjoyed sex and had had some pleasant out-of-season dalliances in his younger days, but he wanted to sire his foals on a mare he loved and wanted to settle down with. When a single mare chose to find a sire during the season, the act of conception was purely instinctive, and the new dam normally raised the foal by herself. Since there was no relationship before the act, most ponies considered it unremarkable that there would be no relationship after the act. As far as Mac was concerned, it wouldn’t feel right to have foals out there that he wasn’t working to take care of. And since he hadn’t found that certain mare yet, he just stayed away from town for a couple weeks every year during the season.
Over the years, he’d had to go into town during the season a few times for various emergency-type reasons, and he’d gotten through it by exerting every iota of his self-control to keep his instincts from overwhelming his reason. The scent on the air had driven him to distraction, and the mares who were out and about looking for stallions had only made it harder, but he’d thought of his poppa’s lessons and knew that he couldn’t fail his family—present or future—by letting himself slip. He had to stay in control of himself, no matter what.
Life is built on self-control; you gotta do what you gotta do to make your family and your reputation thrive. He let his eyes fall closed and he rolled his head from side to side, feeling his neck muscles stretch and pop. Despite his fatigue, his muscles were tight with tension, which struck him as a grave injustice. He filled his lungs several times, trying to siphon energy from the air of his farm. He felt his thoughts speed up a fraction, and he opened his eyes. AJ was standing a little apart from him with the brim of her hat pulled forward to hide her eyes, as though that would keep him from noticing that she was worrying about him. He snorted in amusement. She never had been real skilled at deception.
He drew in another slow breath, and spoke with the exhale. “Whatcha say we get some of that grub?”
She tilted her head back to meet his eyes. “Sounds like a plan, Big Brother— Wait, you hear that?”
He raised his head and rotated his ears, listening for anything out of the ordinary. There was something. . . it sounded like. . . screaming? His eyes widened and adrenaline flushed the fatigue from his body. Somepony’s in trouble! He darted his eyes to AJ just as she pointed over his shoulder, towards Ponyville.
“There! Smoke!”
He whirled to look, and sure enough, a thick column of smoke was rising through the still summer air. That was no small fire. Screams came to his ears again. He pawed the ground and took off for Ponyville at a gallop, season or no season—he’d just have to keep himself under control. AJ didn’t try to stop him. She’d have been galloping right next to him if it weren’t the season. An Apple didn’t stand by and do nothing while ponies were in danger, but she wouldn’t be much help to anyone while fighting off instinct-blinded stallions.
Minutes later, Mac skidded to a stop at the base of the smoke. His coat was lathered and he breathed with thunderous snorts. The still-burning skeleton of a house marked the start of the fire, which had spread to the houses on each side. They were still standing, but the fire was taking great greedy bites out of them even as he watched. From a distance came the tinny sound of a siren. The fire brigade was on the way. He was not surprised at their slow response—during the season, they would be cripplingly understaffed, and the normal lines of communication were almost completely broken down.
“My foals! Let me go, I have to get them!” In front of one of the burning houses, a mare was straining at the restraining arms of three other mares, beating at them with hoof and wing. Her white-rimmed eyes were locked on the fire as it devoured her house.
One of the restraining mares planted her feet and ground out, “Sunbeam, I won’t let you go in there! Listen to the sirens, the fire brigade is almost here! Let them rescue the kids!”
Sunbeam whipped her head to the side, headbutting the mare with a sickening crunch. The mare cried out but maintained her grip on Sunbeam. “They’ll be dead! I have to save them now!”
Mac agreed with her assessment. The fire was moving quickly, and the sirens were still a ways off. He strode towards the house and called over his shoulder. “Sunbeam, ma’am? Where are the kids?”
Behind him, he heard her gasp. Her voice was small with hope. “They’re— They’re upstairs, on the right. Oh, Celestia, please save them!”
He accelerated toward the front door. He didn’t know if it was locked, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He planted his right hoof and flung his hips to the left, spinning counterclockwise around the axle of his arm. He cocked his right leg and released it with the force of a cannon shot, amplified by the force of his spin. The door blasted into flinders. He turned and trotted through the gaping doorway.
The heat of the day had been like a cool bath compared to the furnace inside. Sweat popped out all over his skin, and the breath seared his throat as he thudded up the stairs. The stench of burning wood and memories was thick in his nostrils, and he felt the air getting hotter by the second. At the top of the stairs, the landing split to rooms on both sides of him. The left side of the house was already lost, flames licking out around the edge of the closed bedroom door. He thanked Celestia that the foals’ room was to the right.
The door opened easily and smoke rolled into the room with him. A crib in the corner and one miniature bed stood empty. The other bed held three foals huddled together. The oldest sibling held the baby in his arms. The two older foals stared at Mac with wide, terrified eyes. The baby coughed and wailed, and that set the other two to crying. Mac approached the bed, tut-tutting reassuringly. He needed some way to carry the kids. His eyes shifted to the neatly-made bed. Well, if that ain’t just perfect. Thank you, Celestia.
“Kids, Ah’m gonna get you outta here, alright?” He locked gazes with the eldest. “You hang tight to ‘em, now.” The colt nodded, tears standing in his eyes. Mac bent and brought the four corners of the sturdy blanket together around the foals. He bit down on the joined corners and raised his head, testing the weight of the precious package swinging from his teeth. His adrenaline was still pumping, and he felt hardly a trace of his fatigue. The weight of three little foals was nothing.
He coughed around the blanket, and realized that a thick layer of smoke had built up below the ceiling. A crack resounded through the house and the floor shifted sickeningly under his hooves. Ah need to get the hay out of here before it all comes down around mah ears. He trotted out of the room and was a body-length down the stairs when another crack rang out. The sound was still echoing in his ears when he saw that he was laying on the stairs, unsure how he’d gotten there.
He tried to stand up, but found that he could not raise his back legs. Burning hair and flesh added their unique notes to the fiery potpourri around him. He rolled an eye back over his shoulder to see what had happened, and saw the massive burning beam laying across his hips. At the sight, his nerves finally condescended to tell him about the pain, and the sudden rush of agony made him scream through his clenched teeth. The collision with the stairs, followed by Mac’s scream, scared the bundled foals, and they began shrieking and crying in terror. He tried to wriggle free of the beam, but it was laying loose and followed his motions.
He felt the red heat of the wood digging deeper into his flesh, and he knew with cold certainty that he was about to die in this stranger’s house if he didn’t do what needed to be done. His poppa’s face floated through his mind, and Mac set aside the agony like it was a broken saddle. He couldn’t get out from under the beam by lowering himself, so he’d have to buck it off. His left leg was folded awkwardly under his weight, so he pushed with his right, raising himself and the beam a few inches so that he could get his left leg under him. His breath came in ragged gasps and his heart pounded so hard that the pulse in his neck hurt. But Mac knew what had to be done. He grunted as he thrust with all four limbs, trying to toss the heavy beam off his back. He felt it tear seared flesh away as it lifted free of him, and then it slammed back down onto his croup and he buckled again under its weight. His eyes flared open, then squeezed shut, and he sobbed out in new agony as the beam burned fresh skin.
Pain is selfish. Ah gotta do this for th’ foals and mah family. Now, do it! He gathered himself again, lifted, and thrust, and this time the beam fell behind him with a crash. The house wobbled beneath his hooves, and he drove himself into motion, ignoring the painful flexing of charred skin as he walked. The air outside was cool and sweet, and it felt like a salve on his burns and in his lungs. He carried his bundle past the handful of fireponies to Sunbeam’s hooves and set it down gently.
The blanket fell away, revealing three foals darkened by soot except where their tears had washed their coat clean. Sunbeam lunged at them to gather them in a hug. Through her tears, she looked at Mac. “Thank you, oh thank you so much!”
The adrenaline was leaving Mac’s body, and his fatigue and shock came crashing into him like a train. Suddenly the sweat coating his body was icy on his skin. His thoughts grew muzzy and he nodded weakly to Sunbeam. “Yup.” Anypony else would have done the same, after all. He swayed on his hooves, barely conscious, his brain drifting through a fog. Ah gotta go. Ah cain’t stay in town. He didn’t rightly know why, though. There was something. . . why did he hurt so bad? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. The motion made him dizzy, and he staggered. His vision blurred, then cleared.
Shadows moved on the ground and drew his attention, and he saw that three mares had separated from the small crowd of onlookers and had come close to him. Two of them hung back a bit, moving like they were being dragged by their noses, and he saw their bared teeth and closed eyes but didn’t understand it. The third moved languidly, her eyelids heavy over glazed eyes. She licked her lips, and Mac shivered. She inhaled deeply as she approached, then walked under his head, rubbing the side of her body against his chest. She flicked her tail up against his face, and he smelled her.
All at once, the memory flooded back, and Mac’s belly tightened like he’d been kicked. The season. He had to leave, to escape, to run away. He couldn’t let himself give in to instinct. He backed away from the mare and his burns screamed at him. His legs were numb with shock, and they buckled under him, but he caught himself and straightened. OK, Ah cain’t run. Cain’t get away—have to control myself, have to. He took a breath and rallied his fuzzy brain to force away the rising pulse of instinct, but it was like kicking water—it just flowed back together and kept rising. The mare nickered at him over her shoulder, too far gone even to use words, and lifted her tail to him. Her smell slapped him again, even through the smoke still filling his head. His control slipped fully from his grasp, and his stomach knotted and his cheeks burned as he felt himself rising from his sheath like a battering ram, like a sword poised to stab himself in the gut. No no oh Celestia no Ah cain’t do this Ah cain’t let everypony down like this.
His hooves, his traitorous hooves, stepped closer to the mare. Mac sucked in a breath as the motion cracked the thin crust over his deep burns. He sobbed out the agony of failure and twisted his head away from her, as though he could make it less real by not watching. He croaked words out past his parched throat. “No! Ah don’t want this! Stop. . . please.”
He covered her and plunged inside with a flex of his charred hips. Sweet pleasure ran up his shaft, almost intense enough to blot out the pain of his burns. It was unbelievably good, far more intense and pleasurable than his previous sexual experiences. He pushed closer until his groin pressed against her rump, the whole time begging himself to stop, to pull out, to end this violation. The warm, soft contact of flesh against flesh sent ripples of satisfaction echoing through him. He lost himself in the sensations for a moment before the mare under him neighed and thrust her rump against his body.
The thudding impact brought Mac crashing back down into the here and now, and he stared down at the stranger’s mane as she snorted with each slap against his groin. He turned his head aside and vomited on the ground. Stop, please stop. Mac gave in to weakness and tried to recapture the blissful distance he’d felt a moment before, tried to ignore what his body was doing.
The mare gasped, and as though that was the signal his body had been waiting for, his hips flexed and took over the thrusting from her. He felt like he was falling, the sensations coming from his back and his groin becoming muted and dim. Mac didn’t want to feel any part of this, and he welcomed the relief. He rolled his eyes and fleeting images impressed themselves on his brain. The house he had gone into, collapsed. The column of smoke towering above him. The worried-looking firefighters. The loose ring of mares around him, tails held sideways as they watched his instincts control him. Sweat on the neck of the mare under him. His tears falling, mingling with her sweat.
A hot ball had built inside him, and he snapped back to awareness of the moment as it burst and flowed out into the mare. Waves of pleasure rolled through him and his bile rose in his throat. His charred skin flexed as his muscles tightened and held him imprisoned inside her while the product of his failure pulsed out of him. She threw her head back and gave a sighing moan, her eyes tightly closed and her brow furrowed as though she was deep in concentration. Mac looked down at her expression and felt like someone had punched him in the throat. He turned his face away. He welcomed the stabbing pain of the burns as his muscles held him trapped inside this stranger. The pain was what he deserved, it was the beginning of the punishment for his lapse of control, for doing this to himself, for letting his family down, for taking any pleasure in this failure.
At last, the pulses ebbed and stopped, and he softened and fell out of her. He was free. He collapsed to the dirt of the road, and felt it coat his damp belly. The mare glanced back at him, her eyes drunk with satisfaction, her prize safely inside, her instincts sated. She left without a word, taking with her the unborn foal that was hers by custom. He screwed his burning eyes shut and heard the plip, plip of his tears falling to mingle with the dirt. Ah’m sorry, poppa, I wasn’t strong enough to keep myself from doin’ that. He clutched at the dirt, feeling a kinship with the stuff. Ah wonder whether y’all used to be worth somethin’ too, before you became worthless dirt? It is his last conscious thought as blackness rises up in his mind.
* * *
He woke to a warm breeze tickling his ear. He was on his stomach, laying on something soft. He opened his eyes and looked around. His memory told him nothing about where he was. He was laying on a white-sheeted, utilitarian bed in an undecorated room with cheerful peach paint on the walls. An open window admitted birdsong and another gust of flower-scented breeze. An IV bag hung from a stand next to his bed, its liquid-filled tail leading to a strip of tape on the inside of his elbow. He tried to roll over, but found that he couldn’t. He looked back along his body and found that he was loosely strapped to the bed across his back and legs. The straps ran on either side of an enormous mass of bandages swaddling his hips and croup. He let his eyes sink closed, feeling the weight of the fatigue which still rode him.
He must have blacked out after. . . the memory was hazy. After what? The bandages reminded him that he was burned, so there must have been— yes, the fire. It took him a few moments to piece the memory back together. He had entered the house. Found the foals. Then the beam. He squirmed at the remembrance, the pain still fresh in his mind. He had returned the foals to their dam, and then. . . his memory gives him nothing more. He must have blacked out from the burns immediately after returning the foals. That sat poorly, like he was lying to himself, but—
“Well hey there, Mister Apple.” Mac’s eyes flicked to the door. A very old stallion in a doctor’s coat had just entered the room, followed by a pair of mares wearing nurse’s caps. “I’m surprised you’re awake so soon, but you do seem to be a sturdy fellow. I’m Doctor Caduceus.”
The nurses looked at Mac appraisingly, and he shrank away, fear and revulsion like battery acid on his tongue. He didn’t understand the feeling, but he saw no reason for it, so he forced himself to calmness. He tried to ignore the presence of the mares, and locked his gaze on Doctor Caduceus. For an instant, he saw the old stallion’s pressed lips and tightened eyes, and then the expression was gone, replaced by an avuncular smile.
Something the doctor had said jumped out at Mac. He croaked, “How long?” and could say no more.
Caduceus looked up from checking Mac’s bandages and patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, Mister Apple. You’ve only been out for a few hours. When you were brought in, one of the nurses recognized you, so I sent her to your farm to tell your sister where you were and that you were going to be fine. She brought word back that Miss Applejack will be coming to see you by the end of the week.”
Why would AJ wait that long to see him? There was an explanation, some way that that made sense, but he was still exhausted, and coherent thought eluded his grasp. He set the question aside to puzzle over later. He let his eyes fall closed and lay passively as he listened to Caduceus talk over his back, his voice firm despite the quaver of old age.
“The bandages look good for now, but check them every four hours, and reapply the topical analgesic when you change them. Change his IV bag every twelve hours. Contact me immediately if his vitals change significantly. He seems to have avoided smoke inhalation, but keep a close eye out for the symptoms.”
A feminine voice answered from outside Mac’s field of view. “Yes, Doctor.”
“Now, let’s leave Mister Apple alone. He needs his rest. Mister Apple, the pull cord by your right arm will call a nurse, all right?”
Talking would have taken too much effort, so Mac just nodded against the pillow.
He heard hooves walking away from his bed, and he cracked an eyelid. The nurses were almost to the door, and one was looking over her shoulder at him, her tail held aside for his view. His eyes flew open, then slammed shut. It all came flooding back, and he retched and coughed into the pillow. He remembered the soft, insistent heat of the mare under him, the sick feeling in his gut as his failure reached completion. His throat clenched with shame.
Oh Celestia, why am Ah even still alive? It woulda been better if Ah’d died in that house. He frowned at himself. Now that’s a hell of a selfish thought. Ah woulda killed them foals too, and Ah cain’t just up and leave my family. But. . . What good am Ah to ‘em now? Ah’m worthless an’ filthy, an’ they’ll know it. They ain’t gonna be able to trust me ever again. He rolled his head against the pillow to look out the window, and was shocked to see a figure in his peripheral vision. He spun his head to face the door, and saw that Doctor Caduceus was still by his bed.
The old stallion regarded Mac steadily, his face pinched with pain and his brows drawn tightly together. He gave a little shake of his head as he softly patted Mac’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright, son. I’m bringing someone who might be able to help.” He let his hoof rest against Mac for a moment, then left the room and shut the door behind him.
Mac scowled at the door, his lip quivering. That damn doctor. Lyin’ to me like Ah’m a stupid foal. Ain’t nothin’ ever gonna be alright again. He turned away from the door and the tears came. He cried until he finally fell asleep.
* * *
The next several days were a private hell for Mac, each day filled with an unchanging routine of medical attention, picking at trays of bland hospital food, and always, always the same thoughts running around inside his head.
Why didn’t Ah stop myself? I coulda stopped myself, Ah know it. Ah didn’t want it, Ah wanted to stop, but Ah couldn’t. Ah couldn’t. Ah’m so weak. Ah’m a terrible pony, My family’s gonna be ashamed of me and they’re gonna hate me and Ah deserve to be hated, Ah do. Did Ah actually want it? Why didn’t Ah stop myself?
Caduceus came by Mac’s room regularly, often to perform the checkups on Mac with his own hooves, but sometimes he came just to engage Mac in conversation. Mac didn’t have much interest in talking to anypony, so most times the doctor just sat quietly by Mac’s bed for a while before resuming his duties. Mac never said it, but he was grateful to have the company of someone who could pretend not to be disgusted by him. It let Mac pretend like he was normal again for a while, and the doctor’s visits were the only bright patches in Mac’s personal Mac-shaped hell.
* * *
The fourth day after the fire, the fourth day since Mac’s world crumbled around his ears. Caduceus entered Mac’s room just after Mac’s untouched lunch tray had been removed, and he adjusted the visitor’s chair to the same spot he always put it in, and he sat down with a sigh.
The doctor pulled his glasses off and rubbed the lenses with a corner of his white coat. “Feels good to sit down. I’m not as young as I used to be, after all, and these old bones get sore while I’m on my rounds.” He seated his glasses on the bridge of his nose and fixed Mac with a sympathetic look. “Mac. . . I have some idea of what you’re going through.”
Mac glanced sharply at him, a scowl coming unbidden to his face. Done pretendin’, eh Doc?
The elderly stallion ignored it and continued. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a pony who’s been through this sort of trauma. But I can’t help you, not in any way that matters. So I asked a friend of mine to come down from Cloudsdale. It’s still the season, I know, but her cycle is over already—they start a few days earlier in Cloudsdale, something to do with solar exposure. . .” He blinked. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I asked her to come see you, because she’s been where you are, so she can help you in ways I can’t.”
She? Her? Mac’s stomach knotted and a spurt of adrenaline set him on edge. What the hell is he thinkin’, bringin’ a mare here? Ah cain’t be trusted no more, and he knows it. His breath came in short gasps and the whites of his eyes stood out against his red coat.
The doctor’s eyes roved over Mac’s face for a few seconds. Then he sighed, and injected a soothing, reassuring note into his voice. “Mac, it’s alright. Nothing bad will happen to you here, I give you my word. My friend—Jet Stream is her name—she’s got experience helping ponies in situations like yours.”
Mac’s breathing slowed a fraction, but he couldn’t help baring his teeth as he spoke. “Ah don’t need no help, Ah just don’t wanna hurt anypony else, so keep her away.”
The doctor’s wrinkled eyelids folded together for a moment, then he fixed Mac with a piercing gaze, his eyes still bright and clear in his sagging face. “You listen to me, Mac. I know you’re scared and hurt, and you believe terrible things about yourself right now, but I’m sitting here telling you that you don’t need to feel that way. Listen to Jet, because she can help you if you let her.” His eyes softened. “Please, listen to her. That’s all I ask.”
Ah suppose Ah knew it was only a matter of time before he started tellin’ me lies. Ah guess Ah got no choice in the matter. Ah just gotta hope Ah can keep myself under control ‘til Ah can get her to leave. “Yeah, fine, Doc.” Mac looked away. He heard Caduceus sigh again, and heard the chair scrape on the floor as the doctor moved it back to its normal spot. Then the clip, clop of Caduceus’ hooves on the floor as he walked away from Mac’s bed toward the door.
Caduceus called, “Jet? Come on in, please.”
Mac’s gut flip-flopped, but curiosity got the better of him, and he turned his head to face the door. Caduceus had stopped about ten feet away from Mac’s bed to call out into the hall. Jet Stream stepped quietly into the room. She was a pale gray pegasus, the same color the sky took on right at the moment the end of the night became the beginning of the day. Her short white mane bobbed against her jaw as she dipped her head in his direction. She kept her blue eyes averted from his. She approached with soft steps, her hooves hardly making a noise against the floor as she walked to the elderly doctor’s side. A gust of summer air rolled over Mac and stirred their manes as it brushed past them on its way to the door.
Mac unconsciously chafed against the straps across his body as he watched her for signs of the seasonal hunger. After a long moment staring at her placid eyes, he relaxed. The tension left him, but confusion flowed in after it. He didn’t know what to make of her.
Caduceus turned to face Mac, and cleared his throat. “Mac, this is Jet Stream. She came down from Cloudsdale as soon as the season would allow. Jet, this is Macintosh Apple. He’s the one I told you about.”
Her eyes finally met his. “Hello, Mister Apple.”
“Uh, howdy. Doc, what. . .” The doctor was already leaving the room. Mac watched the door shut behind him, and then shifted his eyes back to Jet Stream.
Except for the fluttering of her mane in the summer breeze, she hadn’t moved an inch. She met his gaze calmly. Her lips pressed together, then she opened her mouth to speak. She hesitated with her mouth open for a fraction of a second, then spoke. “Mister Apple, I came here because I know how you feel.”
Mac flinched and dropped his gaze. “Ah dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”
Jet Stream spoke evenly, and spaced her words with deliberate care. “You feel weak, and helpless, and worthless, and like you’ve let down everyone who cares about you. Am I right?”
Mac had shrunk in on himself, as though her words were daggers. His eyes were pinched with the pain they had reminded him of. “How?”
She blinked, a fluttering of the eyelids, but her voice was unchanged. “I know how you feel, because I was raped too.”
Mac’s eyes snapped back to hers. “Th’ hell you talkin’ about, ‘rape’? I ain’t been raped. Ah just couldn’t keep it in my sheath.” Jet Stream showed no reaction to his coarse language. “If anythin’, Ah raped that poor mare. This is all my fault, beginnin’ to end.”
She met his gaze levelly, her eyes free of deception. She shook her head once, back and forth. “It’s not your fault, Mister Apple.”
And now she was lying to him too, saying it wasn’t his fault. She had to know it was his fault, especially if she’d been through it like she said. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, then opened it. “Bullshit,” he said clearly.
She nodded slightly, like she’d expected him to say that. Her tone was unchanged. “I had just gotten my first job, and I was so proud. I was good at the work, and everything was going great—until my mother fell ill. She had been the breadwinner, and with only my father’s income, we were in trouble. I took more hours and gave everything I earned to the family, but it wasn’t enough. We were falling further and further behind. One evening, my boss saw me crying and asked what was wrong. I told him, and he said he had a way I could help my family.”
Her lip curled. “He offered to pay me to have sex with him.” She dropped her gaze for a moment. “And I agreed. The money he offered was enough to make ends meet for my family. It was my first time. Afterward, he paid me and offered to continue the ‘arrangement.’ That’s what he called it. I knew the money I’d just received would only help for a short time, so I agreed. Again.”
“I didn’t hate it. He was gentle, and his breath wasn’t bad. Especially at first, I often enjoyed it.” She closed her eyes and fell silent for a moment before continuing. “It was almost a year before my mother recovered. A year of lying to my family about where the money was coming from, a year of cheap motels, a year of him using me and throwing me away.”
She took a deep breath and released it as a shuddering sigh. She moved at last, sinking to her haunches on the floor. “During that year, I learned to feel hatred. I never hated him, only myself. I told myself I was worthless for letting him do that to me, for not being strong enough to put a stop to it. I told myself I was a terrible, disgusting pony. I was young; there was no way I could have made the money we needed, but I told myself that I was scum for not finding another way. I told myself that I deserved every bit of my self-hatred because if my family found out they would hate me just as much. And you know what?” She raised her eyes to meet Mac’s.
Mac let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “What?”
“I was wrong.” She smiled, and her smile was open and untroubled, and Mac wondered at it. “It took me a long time and I had a lot of help, but I learned that it wasn’t my fault. It didn’t happen to me because I was weak, or shameful, or worthless, and I don’t need to feel that way. And now, I’m here to help you start learning the same thing so you don’t waste your life on self-hatred. Being raped isn’t your fault, Mister Apple.”
Mac froze and felt a buoyancy in his chest. Maybe he didn’t have to feel this way. Maybe— No! Ah let my family down, and Ah let myself down. Ah’m a weak failure who got raped because I couldn’t stop it. Ah deserve every bit of this. He turned his head away from Jet Stream, shutting her out.
The summer breeze washed over Mac again, carrying the smells of plants and soil. It ran cold against his face, and he realized his cheeks were damp with tears he hadn’t known he was shedding. He blinked hard, and imagined a lifetime of crying when no one was looking, of never feeling comfortable in his own skin ever again, of always feeling like an outsider in his own life.
He sniffed wetly, and thought of the creak and sag of the farmhouse porch under his hooves as he stood in the evening dimness, smelling the air of his farm and feeling proud of what he and his family had accomplished, and feeling happy, so happy. He’d never be able to feel that way again. He shook his head against the pillow, shoving the thought away. It don’t matter. Ah deserve this.
The season would be over in another day or two, and then AJ could come visit him, and she’d probably bring Apple Bloom and Granny and soon enough his burns would be healed and he’d be back on the farm, working the orchards and helping his family oh Celestia, my family. Suddenly, he saw the future clearly, as though it were painted on glass in front of his eyes. He had let his family down by being weak and losing control of himself, but if he let himself keep feeling like this, he’d never be the same pony he was and he’d keep letting them down, forever. They’d never be able to rely on him again, not for working hard, or keeping his word, or anything. His failure would cascade through his life and his family’s lives and it’d be all his fault.
Ah’m bein’ punished for bein’ a worthless weakling, so Ah deserve everythin’ that comes my way, but my family sure doesn’t. If Ah can learn enough from this Jet Stream pony to be able to pretend everythin’s fine, then my family can keep counting on me. They’ll never hafta know how Ah’m actually feelin’. That’s good enough, right, Poppa? ‘Your family and your responsibilities always come before your pain and your weakness,’ ain’t that so? Pretendin’ will be good enough. It will. Ah’ll still be gettin’ punished for gettin’ raped, but they’ll be clear of it, just the way it should be.
Mac thought again of the quiet joy he felt on the farmhouse porch, and of the times when AJ would come and stand with him there, and they’d lean on the railing with the orchard breeze in their faces and talk slow and calm like they had all the time in the world. He thought of the times when little Apple Bloom would come out with them and she’d tell them stories of her friends and her classmates and they’d laugh together and the breeze would carry the tang of fresh buds and new growth, even in the dead of winter. He thought of the creak of Granny Smith’s rocking chair and the feel of her favorite flannel blanket in his hooves as he tucked it around her to ward off the chill of the evening, and the way she’d butt in on their conversations with some piece of incisive wisdom, her creaky old voice filled with love.
Ah don’t wanna live without bein’ part of my family. Maybe. . . maybe it’d be OK if Ah learned enough so Ah wasn’t just pretending?
Forgiveness is a kind of self-control too, ain’t it? Poppa sure wouldn’t have wasted his whole life feelin’ sorry for himself, would he? Ah ain’t gotta feel like this forever, do Ah? Oh Celestia, Ah hope not. Ah don’t want to feel like this forever, even if Ah do deserve it.
He swiped a hoof across his wet cheeks and turned his head back to face the door. Jet Stream was still in the same spot, as unmoving as though she had been carved of slate. “Alright, Miss Stream, let’s try this.”
Her face sagged in relief for an instant, then she smiled at him. “I’m glad to hear it, Mister Apple.”
“You can call me Mac.”
She pulled the visitor’s chair over to his bed and they talked long into the night, taking the first tentative steps on Mac’s path to healing.
Author’s Note: I took a couple of biological liberties with this story: horses are incapable of vomiting, but I had Big Mac toss his cookies for dramatic effect. The equine estrus “season” lasts only 5-7 days, but I extended it to fit the plot.
Thanks to the several people I roped into reading this before release, their feedback helped me to squash some major bugs in the story. I owe special thanks to my non-brony friend Dave, whose input is always invaluable.
Credit where credit is due: I owe the inspiration for this story to this.
