Ya know, right now I can really say I've had better days. But then again I'm sure one of your worst days involves getting into an argument with your wife or friends or whoever, and not being tied to a chair with a gun in your mouth, with said gun being held by one of your friends. Unless you have a friend like that, in which case I'm sorry, and I really feel you. Look, let me start from the beginning:
Hi. My name is Rainbow Dash. And I'm probably gonna to die in less then ten minutes. Why? Because said friend of mine managed to raise an army of maniacs and plant explosives all around the building where I am currently being held. And several other buildings as well. So then there's that.
So I figure if I'm gonna die, I might as well try and tell you my story as quickly as I can. Of course you know its not gonna take ten minutes, but hey, this is a piece of fan fiction thought up by some guy who doesn't seem to have a life. So I'm sure I'll be able to tell you.
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Hellfilly didn't have any wings.
Well I mean, not anymore at least. See, she used to be a thief. And after she tried breaking into some random stallion's house in the middle of the night, she thought it would be easy money. Well, a back full of buckshot and two unusable wings say otherwise. Seriously. And the doctors told her it wasn't the buckshot that made her lose her wings, it was the impact from the fall. He told her if the pony that found her hadn't found her, she probably would have died from blood loss.
The reason she lost her wings was because the buckshot happened to hit her right in the center of her spine where her wings were. She seized up in mid-air and fell, tumbling over a small cliff. All the repeated blows to her wings, and rolling around like a ball didn't help much either. By the time she stopped, her wings were virtually unrecognizable. So . . . Snip, snip.
And then came the therapy. Where I am now. This was a support group for pegasi with wing disorders and diseases, or for those who had lost their wings. The high class thief slobbering all over me was Hellfilly.
"We're still Pegasi." she had said. To which I responded:
"Yes. We're Pegasi. Pegasi is what we are."
Wait. Back up. Let me start just a little earlier then that.
For a long while, I couldn't sleep.
With insomnia it's extremely difficult. It feels as if nothing is real. Everything feels far away, like everything is a copy of a copy of a copy.
It started when I failed my Wonderbolts tryout. Again.
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For as long as I could remember, I had always wanted to be a Wonderbolt. I always thought they were the coolest! Pulling off all those awesome stunts, the bright uniforms, it was amazing. I remember the first time I got in I was so excited, I couldn't stop jumping up and down! But I'm sure as you figured out I didn't make it considering the fact that I said the word "again" in the sentence above. I had tried four different times to be a Wonderbolt. FOUR! And I still couldn't make it. And after that fourth time, the insomnia started. I can still remember what happened.
I was there on a stage in Cloudsdale with eleven other Wonderbolt trainees from the academy where we were sent. After a eight weeks of intense training, the 'Bolts would choose six to begin training with them. After another month of training, there would be a competition that would narrowing it down from six to three and one more that would take it from three to one. That final pony would become Wonderbolt, eligible to move up the ranks and maybe someday fly alongside the best of the best.
"Many were nominated, and honestly, it was difficult to only select six candidates," Spitfire had announced. She was standing on the stage left of the rest of the ponies who were there along with me. "All of you have so much to be proud of, just making it this far. You all flew amazingly, and it was very difficult to only choose three to train with us."
I remember being so excited and smiling so much it felt like my jaw was going to pop loose, but I didn't care. I had just finished my performance, and I aced it.
Most of the ponies that were there were either current or retired Wonderbolts, or those snobby rich Pegasus ponies who often sponsored the Wonderbolts. Even Princess Celestia was there overlooking the event from a booth opposite the one the judges occupied during the performances.
I listened intently as Spitfire read the name of the second Pegasus to make it, waiting for her to call my name. I was thinking that she had been saving the best for last.
"And finally…" she said.
I closed my eyes and mouthed my name, as if miming it with my lips would somehow hurry the news.
The announcement came. "… Lightning Dust!"
My eyes snapped open. Well, that couldn't be right. I thought I must have missed my name while daydreaming. I turned right to see three beaming Pegasi standing a single step ahead of the others. They had heard their names, and stood alone from the others. The winner's circle was full.
"Once again, I'd like to congratulate all of our nominees. And to those whose names I didn't call, we were still very impressed, and I'd like to personally congratulate you for making it this far. As for those of you who were selected, remember, next month, one more competition will be held to choose one of the three selected ponies. The pony that is selected will become a Wonderbolt!"
If the crowd cheered, I sure as hell couldn't hear it. If Spitfire came by to shake everypony's hooves, I didn't notice. I could only hear myself whispering, "I failed." Everything else was silent.
That was the low point in my life. I remember the tears streaming down my face. I remember walking out the stadium and flying as fast as I could to my cloud home. I remember locking the door and sobbing my eyes out, calling myself a failure. That night and every night after for almost a week and a half, I couldn't sleep.
I figured it was because of all the pain and emotions that I felt after failing so hard. But after another three weeks I knew something was up. So I went to the doctor and he told me I was suffering form secondary insomnia. She gave me some nice little red pills that help me get sleep at night. It worked for a while. And after a couple of months I forgot about the whole thing and went on with my life. But after three months, it started again.
I went to my first support group a little bit after I’d gone to my doctor about my insomnia again.
Three weeks and I hadn’t slept. Four and a half weeks without sleep, and everything becomes an out-of-body experience. My doctor said, “Insomnia is just the symptom of something larger. Find out what’s actually wrong. Listen to your body.”
I just wanted to sleep. I wanted little blue capsules, 200milligram-sized. I wanted red-and-blue bullet capsules.
My doctor told me to chew valerian root and get more exercise. Eventually I’d fall asleep.
The bruised, old fruit way my face had collapsed, you would’ve thought I was dead.
My doctor said, if I wanted to see real pain, I should swing by The First Church of Celestia on a Tuesday night. See the brain parasites. See the degenerative bone diseases. The organic brain dysfunctions. See the cancer patients getting by.
So I went.
The first group I went to, there were introductions: this is Dusty Mane, this is Thunder Maker, this is Steel Whooves. Everyone smiles with that invisible gun to their head.
I never give my real name at support groups. And going to different ones every night became an addiction. And I couldn't stop. Every night I'd been going, I'd sleep like a log.
And so here we are.
Hellfilly's hooves were closed around me, and I was squeezed so tightly I blacked out for a second. Going around the church basement full of ponies, was the same thing: hugs all around. Each night we met: this is Star Shine, this is Brick Wall, this is Hellfilly.
My hooves wrapped around her and I can feel the small stubs where her wings used to be.
“It will be alright,” Hellfilly says. “You cry now.”
Hellfilly's shoulders inhale themselves up in a long draw, then drop, drop, drop in jerking sobs. Draw themselves up. Drop, drop, drop.
I'd been going here every week for two years after the doctor visit and every week Hellfilly would wraps her arms around me, and I'd cry.
“You cry,” Hellfilly says and inhales and sob, sob, sobs. “Go on now and cry.”
The big wet face settles down on top of my head, and I am lost inside. This is when I’d cry.
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This is how I met Pinkie Pie.
Around us in the Night Church of Lunas' basement with the thrift store plaid sofas are maybe twenty mares and stallions, all of them clung together in pairs, most of them crying. Some pairs lean forward, heads pressed ear-to-ear, the way wrestlers stand, locked. The stallion with the pink mare has his head and face up against her neck.
I peek from Hellfilly's hug, lifting my head from neck slightly.
“All my life,” Hellfilly cries. “Why I do anything, I don’t know.”
The pink mare here at Remaining Pegasi Together, the no wings support group, this mare, smiling under the burden of a stranger, and her eyes come together with mine.
Faker.
Faker.
Faker.
Big, poofy, curly pink hair, big blue eyes, bright pink coat, a trio of balloons for a Cutie Mark. This mare was also in my tuberculosis support group Friday night. She was in my melanoma round table Wednesday night. Monday night she was in my Firm Believers leukemia rap group.
When you look for these support groups, they all have vague upbeat names. My Thursday evening group for blood parasites, it’s called Free and Clear.
The group I go to for brain parasites is called Above and Beyond.
And Sunday afternoon at Remaining Pegasi Together in the basement of the Night Church of Lunas' this mare is here, again.
Worse than that, I can’t cry with her watching.
This should be my favorite part, being held and crying with Hellfilly. We all work so hard all the time. This is the only place I ever really relax and give up.
This is my vacation.
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I didn’t cry at my first support group, two years ago. I didn’t cry at my second or my third support group, either. I didn’t cry at blood parasites or bowel cancers or organic brain dementia.
This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can’t touch anything and nothing can touch you.
Then there was Hellfilly.
The first time I went to no wings group, Hellfilly moved in on me in Remaining Pegasi Together and started crying. The mare sauntered right across the room when it was hug time, looking down at her hooves, her shoulders rounded, her chin on her chest, her eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. Shuffling her hooves, taking small little foal steps, she slid across the basement floor to heave herself on me.
Hellfilly's arms wrapped around me.
Hellfilly was a thief, she told me. And a damn good one. No one had been able to catch her until the night she lost her wings.
See, when Hellfilly was young, and she wasn't called Hellfilly, (apparently she changed her name. It's a bit funny because she said she doesn't remember her real name) she always loved the idea of rebellion. She said she didn't have a bad life or anything, and her parents tried to help her out of it, but she just loved doing bad things. She didn't even really know why back then. She just liked doing it, so she did. Her friends, usually in that rebellion phase, came and went almost daily, either because they grew out of "rebelling" or because they couldn't take how much of a jerk she was. For a while, it stayed like that, until one day she stole something (she said she'd forgotten since then, but she told me it might have been a slinky or something) and apparently got her Cutie Mark. At that point, she decided she was going to continue this sort of thing and go down in Equestrian infamy as one of the greatest thieves ever seen... Once she got out of school, of course. But when she dropped out, she changed her name to Hellfilly after an album she really liked and decided to style her entire self after its cover, making herself all green with this dreadlocked mane, and drew a (very sloppy) pentacle on her Cutie Mark. Heck, she even gave herself an "X" scar on her forehead 'cause she thought it looked really cool... At the time.
This was all I remember because then Hellfilly was closing in around me with her hooves, and her head was folding down to cover my neck. When I finally stepped away from her soft shoulder, there was a wet mask of how I looked crying.
That was two years ago, at my first night at Remaining Pegasi Together.
At almost every meeting since then, Hellfilly has made me cry.
I never went back to the doctor. I never chewed the valerian root.
This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom. If I didn’t say anything, people in a group assumed the worst. They cried harder. I cried harder.
Walking home after a support group, I felt more alive than I’d ever felt. I could still use my wings (even though I chose not to), I didn't have any blood parasites; I was the little warm center that the life of the world crowded around.
And I slept. Babies don’t sleep this well.
Every evening, I died, and every evening, I was born.
Resurrected.
I had two years of success and sleep until tonight, because I can’t cry with this mare watching me. Because I can’t hit rock bottom. And if I can't hit rock bottom I can’t be saved, and if I can't be saved, and if can't be saved, then I cant sleep.
I haven’t slept in four days.
With her watching, I’m a liar. She’s a fake. She’s the liar. At the introductions tonight, we introduced ourselves: I’m Hellfilly, I’m Star Shine, I’m Brick Wall.
I never give my real name.
“‘This is cancer, right?” she said.
Then she said, “Well, hi, my name's Pinkie Pie.”
Nopony ever told Pinkie what kind of cancer. We were all busy cradling our inner child.
To Pinkie, I’m a fake. Since the second night I saw her, I can’t sleep. Still, I was the first fake, unless, maybe all these ponies are faking with their lesions and their coughs and tumors, even Hellfilly.
Would you just look at her mane. All those locks.
Pinkie looks at me and flashes a huge grin.
In that one moment, Pinkie's lie reflects my lie, and all I can see are lies. In the middle of all their truth. Everyone clinging and risking to share their worst fear, that their death is coming head-on and the barrel of a gun is pressed against the back of their throats. Well, Pinkie's smiling like a maniac, I’m buried under a sobbing thief, and all of a sudden even death and dying rank right down there with plastic flowers on video as a non-event.
“HF,” I say, “you’re crushing me.” I try to whisper, then I don’t. “HF.” I try to keep my voice down, then I’m yelling. “Hellfilly, I have to go to the can.”
A mirror hangs over the sink in the bathroom. If the pattern holds, I’ll see Pinkie Pie at Above and Beyond, the parasitic brain dysfunction group. Pinkie will be there. Of course, Pinkie will be there, and what I’ll do is sit next to her. And after the introductions, when it comes time to hug, I’ll grab the little bitch.
Her arms squeezed tight against her sides, and my lips pressed against her ear, I’ll say, Pinkie, you big psychotic fake, you get out.
This is the one real thing in my life now, and you’re wrecking it.
You big tourist.
The next time we meet, I’ll say, Pinkie, I can’t sleep with you here. I need this. Get out.
