Blade

Now it wasn’t far at all until the end of winter right then on that day. There wasn’t much snow and the breeze was light (by current standards of course). It was a Wednesday; not happy, but not ruthlessly depressing like all of the other days. Maybe it was all of the anticipation of the bitter season finally coming to an end clustering itself into a manifestation of some kind that just magically made everyone feel like it was a fine day, when really it wasn’t, but that wasn’t the way to think on a day like this. Everyone tried their best to be optimistic and most everyone could except for one poor soul.

Scootaloo was having a particularly rough day. While eating breakfast, one of the other orphans walked by and knocked over her bowl, making her strangely soggy and dry oatmeal all over the floor. They laughed at her. Stupid clumsy little Scootaloo. They laughed hard. The filly that had done it didn’t even try to make it look like an accident, she had looked Scootaloo in the eyes while doing it; directly in the eyes as she knocked her meal onto the ground and making a miserable mess identical to stupid clumsy little filly it had belonged to. She wanted to cry, but her tummy hurt too much. She had been punished with no supper the previous night for asking stupid questions.

Scootaloo had been looking at her photo again. It was the one of her parents. As she looked, the mare that was divorced from Hickory Powell and gained ownership of his orphanage passed by, catching a glimpse of the picture herself. She stopped and loomed over the child, taking a closer look.

“You sure do like that picture, don’t you, kid?” She said.

Scootaloo knew she was there, but she hadn’t really paid attention to what she had been saying because at the time she also happened to be thinking about something. It was a question she had asked herself that she didn’t know the answer to. It was important. She had to know. It wasn’t something that was only important right then like when a child says it’s ‘important’ to go to the carnival or it’s ‘important’ that he gets to watch something on television, it was really important. There was probably nothing in the world that was more important to her at that moment than the answer to her question.

Then Scootaloo realized something. It usually worked. She would ask Mrs. Powell, because adults always knew the answer. They had been around much longer, so they were bound to know and although Scootaloo really didn’t like Mrs. Powell, she didn’t think she was stupid. So Scootaloo looked up and asked.

“Mrs. Powell?” She asked cautiously, knowing what it meant to speak out of place.

Mrs. Powell flinched as if surprised Scootaloo was even alive. “Huh?” She mumbled, now looking at the child. “What? What is it?” she groaned.

“Do you think my dad is in heaven?” Scootaloo asked.

Mrs. Powell was looking into the small pegasus’s eyes. Her eyes glowed almost; from what Mrs. Powell guessed was desperate anticipation. The filly wanted that answer more than anything. So Mrs. Powell turned the smallest smile and told her.

“No, sweetie. He’s dead.”

Scootaloo’s mouth dropped open just hardly enough to see. She turned back to the picture and looked at her father. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t really be gone.

“B-but…he…” She tried.

“That’s what ponies do, kiddo.” She interrupted. “They die.”

Mrs. Powell could see that Scootaloo was trying very hard to prove her wrong. Shifting her head all about and back and forth, trying to find a reason for why he couldn’t just die. But she couldn’t think of a reason, and she finally just looked at the picture one more time.

“Oh…” She croaked.

It was only one word she said, but it said very much. The word was said lowly, nearly under her breath. It was deep and raspy like she had had her soul sucked out along with the word.

She was broken.

         Mrs. Powell felt a strange twisting in her heart. It was the feeling someone gets when they kick a puppy or break a child’s soul and rob them of their innocence. It was a feeling you could only really feel if you did something horrible. She fucking loved it. The idea of her invoking such a feeling of misery, the very knowledge that she had ruined that worthless little freak’s day made her feel wonderful. But that wasn’t enough. You’ve got to milk it. When you burn down a house you don’t just laugh while it goes down, you also dance on the ashes and don’t stop laughing even then. She had to make it just a little worse. The sick twisted mare raised her hoof while the filly was still looking at the picture and struck her. Scootaloo squealed for the quickest second only to be quieted by the floor when she hit it with her face, already beaten and scratched and bruised.

“Stupid question you had there, kid. I don’t like stupid questions.” She lied. “No dinner.”

And then, Mrs. Powell simply trotted off.

Scootaloo now looked at her oatmeal, on the floor and covered in dirt. Everyone was still laughing, making every second even more horrible then the last. Then, so quickly it was almost frightening, nobody was laughing. Scootaloo looked up and nearly had a heart attack when she saw that Mrs. Powell was looming over her once again.

Mrs. Powell’s eyes shifted from the loser to the mess on the floor.

She spoke very calmly. “The last fucking thing I need is picking that up.”

Scootaloo recoiled whenever she talked. Scootaloo apologized for something that wasn’t even her fault.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Powell. I’ll get it.”

Scootaloo got out of her chair and took a step forward right before being seized by the hind leg.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Powell asked quietly. She didn’t need to repeat herself of course. It was so quiet in the room one could hear a pin drop, which would result in the punishment of whoever dropped it no doubt.

Scootaloo got a lump in her throat; probably from trying too hard to conceal her fear, which she was doing poorly enough.

“I was g-going t-to get a br-room, you know?”

Mrs. Powell forced Scootaloo to look right at her. When their eyes met, she grinned.

“You don’t need a broom. I didn’t say to get a broom, did I?” She glowered.

Scootaloo hid her face.

“N-nnn-no, M-mm-a’m” she trembled.

Mrs. Powell turned her toward the mess and lowered her own head so it was near the terrified child’s ear.

“Eat it.” She whispered.

Scootaloo was in disbelief. “W-what?” She asked, to be sure.

“Lick it up. Every last tiny bit, clumsy.” She murmured just as quietly.

Scootaloo looked at the pile of mush, covered with dirt and hairs and some other stuff that didn’t help it look any more appetizing. There was no hesitation, no defiance or moment of bravery for Scootaloo. She did as she was told. She leaned over and started eating the spilt oatmeal. She picked up a glob of the filthy stuff and-

“Hey!” Shouted Mrs. Powell.

She firmly kicked Scootaloo in the rear, causing her to fall face first into the mess and grind it even more into the floor. The other children burst out laughing, like anyone with a decent soul would have at something funny. But they weren’t laughing at a joke. Well, you could say it was a joke, but Scootaloo was the only one who didn’t get it.

“I said lick it, dummy!” Mrs. Powell finished. “No touching!”

At this, the children laughed even harder.

Scootaloo tried her best to mute them and mopped up what she could of the meal with her tongue. It was horrible, but she managed to get through by comparing it to the many other things that had happened to her. Mrs. Powell had once slapped her so hard she hit the ground and sprained her arm and right after that, Mrs. Powell had told her about all the ways she could torture her if she told anyone. That was much worse than right then.

But the laughing was getting louder. All of the other orphans bursting with laughter directed at her like poison arrows. Each time she swallowed a glob of the mess she knew she was closer to it being over. By the time it was over, Scootaloo was crying. There was no reason for this not to happen. It had happened enough anyway. All of the orphans pointed, still laughing.

         It was likely Charlie that was the one who threw first. He scooped up some of his oatmeal and slung it at Scootaloo, and it hit her on the back with a wet and muffled sound like an egg would if it were being smashed on a carpet. The others must have found this amusing, because they all threw a bit at her. All of them.

         As this happened, Scootaloo tried to think of the good things in her life… nothing came. Her father was dead and so was her mother. Everyone who had ever loved or even cared about her was dead. And even though she already knew this, it made her much more upset than usual. Her stomach churned. Maybe from the oatmeal, but more likely from the grim fact she’d helped resurface again.

         Nobody loved her.

         Scootaloo turned toward the bedrooms and ran. There was only one thing that had a chance of making her feel any better.

         Mrs. Powell saw her leave. Where did she have to go so quickly? She didn’t know, but she thought it would be best to see, but first she had to shut the kids up.

         “SHUT UP!” She boomed.

         Instantly, all of the children were back in their seats. Not a sound. And none of them were even close to laughing anymore. That was already a distant memory, ancient history. There was nothing so commonly worn as looks of fear and shame in that room in that moment.

         When she was sure they’d quieted, she slowly followed Scootaloo’s trail and ended up in the bedrooms. The only thing she saw in that room was a small pegasus, leaning over and looking at a photograph of her dead parents. She was sobbing loudly, but Mrs. Powell could tell the filly was trying to stifle it.

         Scootaloo looked at the photo, waiting for the moment when her father hugged her for the last time to come into focus. She wanted to touch him. She knew it wouldn’t feel at all the same, but she brought the photo to her cheek and rubbed against it desperately, trying to feel him. It didn’t work. Scootaloo bawled uncontrollably on her bed while Mrs. Powell approached her.

         She was still looking at that stupid picture. Fucking baby. Mrs. Powell was behind the broken filly, looking at the photo too. It genuinely puzzled her when she wondered how a kid could care so much about such a stupid picture. So Mrs. Powell thought she knew what to do to be rid of this childishness.

         “Are you looking at that fucking picture again? Geez, kid.” She said, annoyed.

         Scootaloo looked up at Mrs. Powell and shot her a look of desperation. Desperation really is the word for it. Her eyes were so full of tears and her cheeks were so stained and she couldn’t stop sniffling. Her mouth wouldn’t stay closed, so her whines were loud and vocalized. Then she said something that was the truth. That’s all it was, the barest of the truth.

         “I *sniff* w-want m-my *sniff* daddy…” She begged.

         Mrs. Powell knew she was beyond broken. Her soul had been grinded to dust. But that wasn’t enough. No. She hadn’t danced on the ashes yet. One more thing had to be done.

         What Mrs. Powell did was the most sick, twisted, vile, deplorable thing she’d ever done. She quickly snatched the photo from Scootaloo’s hooves and held it over her head.

“NO!” Scootaloo immediately shrieked. She whirled around and started swatting for it like it was the most important thing in the world.

Mrs. Powell teased her with it, holding it just high enough over her that she could reach.

“You want it? You want this?” She mocked.

Tears ran down her face as she screamed for her tormentor to stop, but Mrs. Powell wouldn’t. But Scootaloo wasn’t prepared for the coup de grace. When it happened, she stopped crying and only stared in a grisly amazement. Mrs. Powell had taken out her lighter.

Her eyes went wide when Mrs. Powell lit it and touched the lighter to her photo.

“NO!!!! NONONONONONONONOOOOO!!!!!!”

Scootaloo wailed and threw herself against her personal Satan, beating her legs with her fists as hard as she could, praying to the ever-loving god that it would be enough to make it stop. But Mrs. Powell kicked her inflexibly in the stomach and she spit up everything she had eaten on the floor - much like Pinkamena that day in Kanker’s office – and went sprawling.

She had just enough time to look back up and see the flame catch onto her picture. The photograph of her family was consumed by the flame in seconds. The most precious thing in her life was destroyed in no more than an instant.

Scootaloo just looked at Mrs. Powell, who was grinning now. She dropped a very small piece of singed paper out of her hoof and it fluttered down to the floor, nothing left of the filly’s only good memory. Her task had been completed.

Mrs. Powell looked right into the eyes of the mortified child and even leaned in a bit.

“I guess there really is nothing good left now, huh?”

Then she just left the room.

Scootaloo didn’t cry. She started at the singed bit of paper left over. There was nothing left in the world for her, so she decided to take a vacation from it for a while. Scootaloo did nothing but look at the burned remains of her mom and dad for nearly three hours. The vomit under her had dried eventually and gotten stuck to her coat, but it didn’t even exist for Scootaloo. The only thing that existed at all was that piece of singed paper. It was the last bit of anything that she cared about in the entire world, so what reason was there for her to see anything else?