Pinkie, You Are Safe, Now
This story will be one of many, a beginning, middle and end, all that creates more than an acceptable piece of literature. Other qualifications will be mere additions to it, making it superb, bringing your writing to life. This ramble has gone on longer than anticipated, let's ante up the pace, place you in the eyes of a technicoloured pony, all would know her as "Pinkie Pie", you will be her for the remaining amount of time from now, to what may separate you from the story, until the end. It you are not ready, get ready.
"Awake, you insufferable plush ball of utter annoyance!", a ringing, deep, monotoned voice that rung your ears and lifted your eyes from the deep sleep, in which confined your joyfilled and gay thoughts by a dream, uttered sternly by a notorious stallion, Dark Clouds.
"Hurry up, off my floors, you degenerate waste of life, your pick up are on their way, be lucky I chose to spare your execution through connections I have with your, so called, 'Friends'.". He gave a gawk over towards you and turned to trot away, shutting the cell door behind his soot coloured tail.
The harsh words that profusely implanted themselves within your ears, from yesterday to now, were ignited by a trick you chose to pull on Dark, depressing how heat can snap such a youthful, innocent filly, as yourself, into 'that'. It seemed that you are moving peripherals throughout the holding cell you were uncomfortably placed in, the chilled, metallic door that stands at a great height in front of you, as if some vast giant. From the lefts and rights of you, all there is that can take up the majority of your visuals are a vivid wall pattern with the same colours intertwining with each other to form different shades, a dark green with a paste red. Behind you, lies a neatly done bed with covers that caress the hoof with an orgasmic felt to compliment the memory foam mattress, cozy for a holding cell. The other pieces of matter that take up the vicinity are the flower pot, cornered off, near the cell door, variety of paintings done my foreign freelance artists around the world, one from Germaneigh, another coming from a Middle Eastern country,
Celestia forbid you try to pronounce it, but, one painting catches your pupils, one with an oddly named country you never heard of, letters spelling out 'Clauvedeliea'. A self portrait of Dark Clouds in a military suit, it comes to be that he is some sort of highly ranked official. Your eyes are absolutely focused on the portrait, on the exact right of you. Hush now, I believe you're hearing hoofsteps, I would stop chatting with myself before somepony thinks your psychotic.
A language you barely even comprehend is echoed throughout the corridors in which you are forced to withstand the words and let paranoia tell wether they are talking about you, another, or everyday topics, like sports, now isn't that much better? Yeah, it is, let's go with that.
"You," Dark peered into your cell through the plexiglass window, splitting your potential danger from him,
"You're still not up, I thought I asked for you to get up," The monotone lifting up to a voice that singes your ears with absolute animosity. The voice mixes with a click the door just made you had noticed, took with consideration, you don't remember how you got here, not sure where you are, you're just a fuddled mess. The door swung open with anticipation, horrifically grasping at your mind as you just witness a greatly statured stallion trot patiently towards you with a five-shot cylinder revolver, heavy frame, an eight inch barrel, you could just slip into that already watering pussy, wires circulating the hammer to the cylinder, then barrel, like an anime pony, wrapped inside the tight tentacles of a beast that no one but the animators could come up with. As soon as you know it, your eyes are gazed inside his soul-empty eyes, lacking emotions of compassion, replaced with a fire that burns happiness. Dark's hoof is raised, the pegasus' revolver stood high above you, beyond intimidating than the cell door, he brings his hoof strikingly down, knocking you to your side, on the floor, for your mouth is gapped open, a tooth cracked, an aftermath of a ghastly jaw rupture. An already tattered up mare, forced to only see the hooves of an abusive type of stallion, what did you do to make him do such a horrendous task as to collide a revolver barrel to your fragile jaw?
"I SAID, 'OFF MY FLOOR', WHY WON'T YOUR KIND FIND THE DESERVED RESPECT TO FOLLOW ORDERS?!" Another blow to the face as he swung the handle of the revolver to your cheek, bruising and swelling up the harmed strike. Dark proceeds to grab your right fore hoof and drive you up with compelled desires to pummel you down, again, with his gun. His mane is straightened down to just barely shielding his right eye, you look into the eye just to steer away, back to the ground, it feels as if he's inducing a more indescribable, sinister stare with a deplorable act already planned in his brain.
"Drittsekker, say your name, before I decide to splatter more of your filth blood over these walls--" your mind was racing, along with a sporadic pulse, too frightened to even answer, as well as trying to find out what he called you, stuttering over even little quivers that are inaudible to Dark's hearing, he begins to continue his demand.
"-- if you choose to even lie, I will figure out and I will set a fate, worse than actual death, lasting as long as it takes until your friends get here, state your birth name." The heart pumping the blood at a rate of which your veins could release pressurised, red liquid amongst foals, as if a sprinkler for grass on the intense Summer solstice day. Your head is just hung low, darted eyes just staring away, you don't want to look directly at him. The stutter comes out with letters, then a name, 'Pinkie Pie'. You can just feel his cold eyes, circling your face, vultures scavenging the remains.
"I want you to look back--" a heavy breath is not only heard, but is felt, brushing against your fur and skin as you shiver, just shell shocked, afraid of another strike from him.
"Look back, stare me in the eyes, show some respect for your spared life." His grip tightened, at one point, it cuts circulation, your nerves now reacting in short bursts of paralyzing pain. Liquid woe streaming through your crevised facial features, the combersome weight emassed on your head, trying to keep you down and submissive, you acheive to lift your head up, gandering at his malicious look.
"If I dare see you near me again, I'll be sure to have you erased from memories and existence, now go, show your miserable self out these corridors and to 'your kind'." He had the tone in which it felt like ponies aren't natural, a disease. Nether-the-less, you follow his command, more for your safety than his whim, in hot pursuit for your rescue. Upon escorting yourself out the door, it's a granite interior corridor, completely lacking in colour than the holding cell, the satisfying object about the corridor, the floor was clean and smooth, unlike the jagged walls and miniature stalactite, hung above, like a forever stationary pendulum. With that, there are two directions, the left and right. Left consisting of doors, containing what appears to be nothing, as much as your concerned, the right has a single door, coated with titanium and light being projected from the slits that resemble the sun's beams, heading right, at a pace only slightly faster than a brisk trot, trying to get space between you and Dark. The echoes are replaced by the trotting of only your own, you can't believe it, hoof finally on the door knob, of course, the right hoof goes on the left door knob, right? You open to only face a room with not even enough breathing space for one pony. As soon as you realise that it was just the wrong way, a roaring, thunderous cry from Dark's revolver is heard, six objects protrude inside your cutie mark as another two are slammed against the door. A wall, now drowning in an Equine's gore, muscle tissue, now displayed with partial fragments of bone shot off, a vociferous screech of agony reinstated the once joyous hoof stampers of freedom, then a grave thud, just inducing more sinew to launch in the floor and body of your own, finally, the reclusive-like weeping, only you know this pain, now. The fear of being trapped with a trigger happy stallion, now ready to initiate his plan to murder you. Dark, aiming his revolver still, as smoke is emitted out the barrel, he lowers the revolver to holster it to his belt.
"A twelve gauge buckshot can eliminate any standing foe, forcing them down to barely knees. I see, you are to be one of them, you were the whole time. I lied, there is no 'rescue', I had already taken the liberty of disposing your body in that cell for a year, friends and family believe you passed and resumed their busy lives, without 'you'." He goes on, with a satanic aura surrounding his verbal speech, you listen through the pain and confusion.
"I made sure you were constantly and carefully sedated, like a coma, you have to give it to Clauvedeliean scientists, we have a vast knowledge of medical practice, without the right equipment and expertise, you would be left to rot in a grave, not having to have the pleasure of actually meeting 'me', Subject E, Eighty Three, Clauvedeliean specimen, 'Dark Clouds'."
Your oozing blood, the pressure now accelerating exponentially, not at all to faint, enough to feel it escape.
"Oh, to answer that question--" Not even a word fled from your vocal cords, nothing but the suppressed squeals of horrific, traumatising pain.
"This entire trial was an obvious test, you didn't do anything to me to deserve this, it was a field reaction test--" Dark draws his revolver out again, to only cock the hammer back and hold it, safe by his side, a child, practically.
"--the portrait casted to your right, my right eye and the door knob on the left. You maintained composure when you saw the portrait, you actually looked me in the eyes and just the right eye, opened that door--" He points at bloodied door knob, arranged to be on the left side.
"--with your right hoof, which means, it worked, my device is fully functional." The grin he is showing, the colours of his eyes displaying messages, miniature messages, what do they mean, what is he doing? I am sorry, I am Error.
"Recording," Final murmur of life was a trigger pull and an explosive tragedy of bones bits, organs and the array of absolute blood loss, a potent, yet, relaxing end, for your death was physically proposed just before the self-pleasuring buckshot stream. A seldom end to a pony as fantastic as you were. May the voices you heard inside your head be permanently put to a cold and unmitigated silence.
