Chapters From the Desperate Struggle of a Mother
Words cannot express the grief I feel in forming these thoughts. All my life, I have looked forward to this exact instance, this captured image in my mind’s eye that neither time nor circumstance will ever erase. By all rights, I should be happy. I have heard from far too many others that this is the moment of a mother’s life in which she will be happiest. Nothing will elate me more than how I feel right now.
Instead, I felt sadness, which is now being quickly overtaken by bitterness.
I should not be unhappy. For my foal's sake, I should find the strength to persevere through this trying time. I am looking into its eyes for the very first time. My own flesh and blood, a foal which I created, stares back. Only moments before, it took its first breaths of air; is it not the more innocent of the two of us?
When I look into its eyes—when I see its coat color—when I see the way its face contorts itself as it prepares to emit another wail of protest—everything reminds me of him. He should be here; he should be the one holding my hoof right now, not Lumpkin. Everything about this moment is simply wrong.
His presence here would be the crowning moment of both of our lives—and he isn’t here.
It’s not his choice, obviously. He couldn’t have been more excited than I to see his foal for the first time. The bitterness I feel right now indicates the lack of empathy I hold; none of it feels right. I feel like a thief stealing what happiness he deserved.
The feeling wells up inside me, overpowering, taking control of my mouth and forcing me to spit out the venom. “Get it out of my sight.”
I feel Lumpkin’s eyes on my cheek as she stares blankly at me for a moment. She briefly cannot comprehend my struggle. Then, I see her facial features shift as she forces herself to ignore what she understands for my sake. “Doctor?” The doctor, who has watched my malicious request in silence, slightly shifts his gaze to rest on Lumpkin. “Please take the baby elsewhere.”
The doctor says exactly what would be on any pony’s mind. “What possible reason could a mother have for not wanting to see her own foal?” I cannot blame him for voicing his confusion; all the same, it hurts to have my faults pointed out.
There have been few times in my life in which I am happy; being subjected to extreme amounts of varied hormones, plus my own mental and emotional intricacies, would make this an even more difficult state of mind to obtain. All the same, my heart is warmed at Lumpkin’s next assertion. “Your job as a doctor is not to judge your patients’ desires. You are to care for the mother and infant under you as best you can. Right now, the mother is asking for you to put her foal somewhere safe. Please do your job.”
The doctor’s eyes flicker briefly in irritation, then he gestures to a nurse, who removes the foal from Lumpkin’s cradling hooves and spirits it away.
Lumpkin grabs my hoof between hers and squeezes it gently. “I know this can’t be easy for you.”
I say nothing.
Lumpkin tries to give words of encouragement. “Come on, hun. I know you wanna talk.”
Still, I say nothing.
Lumpkin sighs and leans back in her chair, looking away in discouragement.
It is difficult to put into words what possesses me to refuse to speak when expected to, then finally speak when a pony feels they will not get an answer. Perhaps there is this defiance of expectation, this little rebellious side of me that refuses to do what is expected. Maybe it’s just the little rotten slice of lime garnishing the foul-smelling cocktail of awful personality traits and emotional instability that is who I am.
At any rate, her discouragement is my cue to answer her. “I wish he was here. He would love my foal.”
“You love it too, Fuji. You just have to give yourself time to realize it.”
“I’ll only love it if he loves it first.”
“You know he would if he was here to see this moment. You know he wouldn’t have imagined it any other way.”
“You know I imagined him being here. Nothing is ever the way we imagine it. Let it go. I don’t love it. Not without him.”
“You were exactly how he imagined you, weren’t you?”
The still-tiny rational part of me has conceded the point—but I’m not feeling rational right this moment. “You don’t know what we were like behind closed doors. Maybe he pretended to be good to me when other ponies saw, but you have no idea what he put me through when you couldn’t see.”
Lumpkin appears unconvinced of my claims. “Maybe, you say. But I don’t think he did. I think you’re just being spiteful.”
I try to conjure memories of what may or may not have happened, and that my traumatized brain may or may not have experienced under Apple Cart’s care. “You have no idea how much abuse he put me through, Lumpkin. All of the rape, and the beatings. He destroyed my life.”
All too suddenly, Lumpkin’s hooves have me wrapped in an embrace. I am so shocked that I don’t react immediately, which Lumpkin mistakes for a positive sign. “I remember he’d always hug you when you got like this, and it would help. I want to help. That’s all.”
I get a grip of myself and shove her angrily away. “You’re not him and you never will be. You’re not my friend. You’ll side with a rapist and an abuser over me.” I move to get out of the bed, but the doctor and three nurses mobilize and surround me, trying to hold me to the bed. I feel my face contort into a snarl, my teeth baring and a growl forming in the back of my throat. I bark out a sharp, “Let go of me!” hoping they step back in surprise, but only one of them does.
The doctor calls to the nurse who stepped away from me, “Go get something to calm her down.” The nurse nods and disappears into the crowd of medical staff.
My vision blurs and dims, my mind focusing on how to get out of here. I need to say something, anything. I just need to escape from these monsters. “Help, help! They’re attacking me! They hate me! Help! HELP! I’M BEING RAPED! HELP ME!” To their credit, my ears pick up that some medical staff out of the crowd have halted and are looking at me from the hallway. I take this as reassurance that I will be saved soon and the monsters will be dragged away so I can escape. “They’re trying to eat me! They took my baby away! They’re trying to kill me!”
The staff start moving again, ignoring my plight. I start struggling as hard as I can, adrenaline starting to pump as I realize the absolute helplessness of my situation. They’re going to kill me, I know it. They’re going to shoot me up with something and it’s going to kill me. My body starts lifting up off the bed, despite the three sets of hooves attempting to hold me to it, as I scream at the top of my lungs, “I’M DYING! HELP MEEEEE! THEY’RE KILLING ME! PLEASE! SAVE ME!”
My desperation falls on deaf ears as the hospital continues to ignore me.
My vision focuses enough to make out shapes, then I look at Lumpkin and stare pleadingly in her eyes. “Help me. I’m dying. I need you. Please.”
Lumpkin turns her gaze away from mine.
As I’m staring at Lumpkin’s cheek, trying to comprehend what this betrayal actually means, I hear the nurse re-enter. “This should put her right to sleep.”
The doctor says, “Perfect. That will do nicely.”
The syringe the nurse is holding comes into focus as it advances on my leg. I start bucking harder than ever before. One of the nurses lies down on top of me, pinning most of my body, while the doctor and the other nurse hold my leg totally flat. The nurse shoves the syringe into my leg.
I let out a high-pitched scream, as if I’m being murdered. In all likelihood, I am. In fact, I am. This entire hospital will be closed down. All of the hospital staff will be executed. None of them will be allowed to treat ponies like this when word gets out. Lumpkin will make sure they all die for how they killed me.
Except... Lumpkin hates me.
The needle is no longer in my leg; its contents were ejected into my body. I cannot stay awake much longer. This is the last moments of my life. I won’t go down without a fight. I continue my valiant struggle against the monsters. Maybe I can stagger back to other ponies before I die so they know how I died here. My attempts to force myself out of their terrible hooves gain a renewed fury, my entire body geared to defeat them so my death will not be in vain. I scream with a renewed fervor. “THEY’VE KILLED ME! YOU MONSTERS WILL PAY! EQUESTRIA WILL KNOW YOUR EVIL! YOU WILL ALL BE KILLED IN TARTARUS! MURDERED! MURDERED! MURDERED! MURDERED!”
My vision fades again, my muscles beginning to weaken. Still, I struggle to survive just a bit longer. I keep up my assault as best I can, refusing to stop repeating my accusation. “MURDERED! MURDERED! Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!” I know my words fall on deaf ears, but I cannot stop repeating what I know to be true. “Murdered! Murdered! Murdered! Murdered!”
I repeat the word until my mouth refuses to move anymore and my body goes limp. I cannot remember where I am or what I am doing. All I can remember is my word. “Murder. Murder. Murder. Mur....”
And then, nothing.
Author's Note
Coming out of retirement to write about crazy ponies.
From the Desperate Struggle of a Mother
My eyes are fixated on a plain white ceiling above me. A light protruding from a lazily rotating fan is the only decoration currently within my field of vision. It is the only ripple of change in the endless white landscape that is existence.
I am the fan.
As a younger mare, I used to lie down directly below these light fans and stare directly in them, till my eyes got black spots and blinking would make them keep appearing. I’d watch the blades rotate, often wondering why they didn’t just fly away from the light, falling down and chopping me to pieces. I wondered what would happen if the light was above the fan, instead of below; would the light fall down into the blades and shatter? Would the glass shards fall down and cut me to pieces too? If the fan was moving air, why not solid objects? Couldn’t it suck me up into it and chop me up even where it was?
I used to ask Mama these questions when she was home. She would always tell me that I shouldn’t think about such scary things, that I shouldn’t stare into the light for so long and that I should just be happy that the fan and the light are where they are and not hurting me because I shouldn’t want to know what it feels like to hurt like that. I don’t think I ever really listened to her.
Here, in the hospital, I see the fan that breaks the otherwise congruently white ceiling. It is an ugly thing, a pimple on the otherwise perfect face. The fan is a whirling blade of death, and it sits there, nopony even noticing it’s there, until all of a sudden it flies apart and breaks the light and the blades and the glass go everywhere and all of a sudden their lives have been disrupted. Then they clean up the mess and they pretend it never even happened, and the perfect white goes on unbroken.
The crazed ramblings of an insane pony, clearly. I can’t help who I am, but I can pretend I’m not her.
I break my vision of the light, the black spots hovering around while I look down and survey the rest of the room. Lumpkin is lightly dozing in her chair, her boredom post-outburst overtaking her. The male doctor has been replaced by a female unicorn wearing a simple knitted vest with a checkered pattern, who is sitting aside and scribbling some notes on a clipboard with a pen held by magic.
I stare at the unicorn for a few moments, uncertain of how to break the silence. I want her to know I am here, but it is important that she know I am awake and didn’t want her attention. I go with the first option to pop into my mind. “Ah-choo!”
The unicorn’s head snaps up, expecting me to be looking at her, but I am staring at the ceiling again, seemingly disinterested in her presence. She exclaims, “Ah, you’re awake!”
I don’t look at her.
“I heard you gave us quite the scare a little bit ago there. Lumpkin told me that some behavior like this is typical, but that you don’t usually go that far. Do you feel like talking about it?”
The pieces click in my head. This pony is a psychiatrist. Or maybe a psychologist. I always mix them up. I look at Lumpkin, who is now awake thanks to the unicorn saying something. She smiles at me, imagining some scenario in her mind wherein I only needed some sleep and I would get all better. She betrayed me.
The unicorn asked me a question, though, and I need to answer her. “Oh, no, not usually! It was probably just nerves, I had a lot of emotions and the hormone treatment and—oh, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” I laugh nervously. “But I’m not that crazy! Oh, and where are my manners? What is your name, Miss?”
“Doctor Heartwell,” she offers. She smiles broadly, visibly encouraged by my normal-seeming behavior. “Are you feeling all right now, then?”
“Oh, very much so!” I respond jubilantly. “I can sometimes get myself in a tizzy, but never anything major. My emotions just get the best of me sometimes, right?” I grin as naturally as I’m able and try to prevent the creeping sneer from appearing.
“All right. Just ignore me over here for now, then. I’ll just observe your behavior for a bit and make sure the restraints aren’t necessary.”
All too abruptly, I am aware of leather bandings pinning my four legs to my hospital bed. I blanch internally, feeling the sharp spike of panic strike my heart, but I quickly master myself, hoping Heartwell didn’t see it. “That’s fine, I totally understand your reasons for wanting to do that. I nearly hurt somepony earlier. We don’t want a repeat of the situation.” I pause in feigned thought for a moment, then ask, “May I see my foal?”
“As soon as I no longer see you as a potential risk, sure.” I can tell that Heartwell has been reassured by my request; she lapses into silence, then begins idly scribbling on her clipboard again while keeping an eye on me. My hunch is that she has some kind of incident report of my earlier actions and is writing follow-up notes on what she’s observing.
I shift my attention to Lumpkin, who has watched the entire exchange in silence. I know the truth, but I pretend I don’t realize it. “Sorry about... all that.”
Lumpkin grips my hoof between hers. “No, no, no need to apologize. I know you’ve been going through a lot. Ever since Apple Cart—”
Apple Cart.
“I don’t really see the appeal that Sapphire Shores has, honestly. She’s just really flashy and overrated. All the mares my age are just swooning over her, though.”
Apple Cart rolls his eyes. “A little younger than you, I think. The fillies who grew up with the new electro music, not traditional orchestral. Keep in mind that most of our musical numbers tend to be orchestral still; Sapphire Shores is a real stage musician, so she influences future musical numbers in some way. I figure the colts and fillies raised now will do more electro numbers. Still, it’s not meant for us to enjoy it.”
“Why is she on TV, then? If she is only liked by young fillies with no money.” I feel a little flustered by how dismissive he is of what I said, but maybe he’ll sound better this time.
“Well... it’s tough to say.” He grins sheepishly. “Maybe media’s got it all wrong, but I figure they’re making money somehow.”
Wrong again. “You just like telling me I’m wrong, don’t you?”
Silence. Apple Cart’s smile fades and he looks thoughtful for a moment. “Have you ever thought of having your own foals, Fuji?”
“Foals? Why?” He isn’t caring to defend himself from my accusation, it appears; I’ll see where he’s going with this.
“I’ve always wanted foals, is all. You and I have been close for so long, I figure I oughta ask.”
“I...” I never really thought about it, but I won’t admit it.
“Never really thought about it?” As if he read my mind. I nod silently. “I always worry about the name. I can’t think of a good name if it’s a filly. I can only come up with a single colt name.”
“What is it?”
“Tell me what names you want to give your foals first.”
I shrug. “I never thought about having foals—not seriously. I never thought of a name.”
“Oh. Right.” He rubs the back of his head with his hoof and smiles again. “Well, the only name I could think up was... oh, it’s a little silly. We Apples aren’t very imaginative folk, see. I thought you’d have lots of ideas of names.”
I sigh. “Just tell me.”
“All right, fine. It’s, uh... it’s Jack Apple.”
I snort a little. “You Apples and your names.” I approach him from across the room and kiss him deeply. “Not that I’m complaining. Jack Apple it is, for a colt.”
“I swear I’ll think up a name for a filly, too—just in case she’s not a colt. Just give me time to think up more apple puns.” He grins, then kisses me back. “Speaking of which, how about we work on that foal now?”
All too abruptly, I realize that Lumpkin is still talking. “—not that I’m really that shy, but you know, going out shopping with a pony I don’t know? I still get the feeling that Sweepy was trying to hook us up, but I never got a straight answer out of her. I’ve always wondered about that.” She pauses before continuing her story.
I interrupt her. “Lumpkin?” She realizes that I’m still there. “I want to go home.”
Lumpkin looks over at Heartwell, who shrugs. “They don’t know if you’re well enough to go home yet, hun. Otherwise, I’d take you home myself.”
I sigh sadly. “I don’t like the hospital. I want to see my foal.” My foal... my foal! “Doctor Heartwell, do you know anything about my foal?”
“Um... no, I don’t work in any departments relating to infants, sorry.” Heartwell continues scribbling.
“Get someone who does?” I ask with as much urgency as I can muster.
“I guess so, sure.” Heartwell gets up and leaves.
Lumpkin looks at me in concern. “What are you trying to figure out?”
“I need to know if it’s a colt or a filly.”
“Oh, I know that. The doctor said it’s a filly.”
A filly.
Jack Apple is a colt’s name. Apple Cart never gave me a filly name.
I miss him.
“Jack... Apple.” I say the words out loud.
“Beg pardon?”
“Her name is Jack Apple.”
“Jack Apple? Isn’t that a colt name?”
“No, it’s her name.”
“Oh.” Lumpkin seems confused for a moment, then she once again accepts what she doesn’t understand. “Jack Apple it is.”
From the Desperate Struggle of a Mother
The uninteresting parts of life tend to take place in blurs. Not that they aren’t crucial or whatever. They simply aren’t worth remembering, so they are represented by this overarching theme, like “when I was an impressionable filly” or “when I was a younger mare.” I don’t remember much of what made me into the pony I am today.
Perhaps even more inconvenient is that the happiest moments of life tend to happen in blurs as well. Like “when I was with Apple Cart.” I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything, but they happened all too briefly and ended all too soon. Now, as with all these isolated capsules of important times in my life, it has been relegated to the past. Try as I might to unpack every moment I spent with him, they are locked away in this smear of color and smells and sounds and an overwhelming feeling of being content with how things were, even if they weren’t perfect.
This part of my life is not uninteresting, nor is it happy. Instead of remembering Apple Cart, I will remember Jack Apple instead.
The remainder of my hospital visit, thank Celestia, was an uninteresting blur. I got Jack Apple back, the psycha-whatever decided I’m sane, and we got to go.
Now, I am forced into this reality of the moment between the uninteresting blurs and the blurs of happiness. I am forced into this—purgatory of mixed emotions. No, that’s a poor descriptor. More like a stasis. Every moment is experienced, every agonizing piece of time is paused and reflected upon as the misery of a mare who is utterly alone and has had a foal dumped out of her womb and onto her doorstep.
Whatever pony was in charge of making memories at the beginning of all things chose how we remember events very poorly.
These memories of me staring down at my foal in her crib while she inexplicably cries are crystallizing. They are meaningless after the fact, yet they will stick with me far more vividly than even a single day with Apple Cart.
“I wish you’d shut up,” I snap at her, prompting an even louder wail. A wise pony whose name is lost to the smear of memories that is my fillyhood once told me, “Foals can sense your emotions, so always be happy and nice around them and they will be happy and nice too.”
There is no happiness and I can’t be nice. This foal has woken me three times in one night with her nonsensical and frustrating crying. Some maternal instinct boils up inside me every time; I can’t just tune her out and keep sleeping, I have to go and see what’s wrong. She doesn’t want food, she doesn’t want stuffed toys, she doesn’t want to be held, she doesn’t want more blankets. She just cries for 30 minutes then goes back to sleep.
I do remember a specific moment with Apple Cart.
I was looking out the window and he said, “You don’t belong out there.”
I looked at him in confusion. “Why? Why can’t I go out with the other ponies?”
“Because you’re not like them,” he replied. “You’re mine, not theirs. And they’re not ready for you.”
“I don’t want to be stuck here. I want to go see other ponies.”
“No you don’t,” he told me. “You want to stay here with me, where you can’t be hurt, where I can take care of you. They don’t deserve to see you. Only I do.”
No, that was Mama. I'm just angry at him.
Does Jack Apple deserve me?
If Apple Cart was here, I wouldn’t have to worry. He deserves all the happiness, and if Jack Apple’s existence made him happy, then this would all be a foregone conclusion.
That was him, though, and this is me.
Jack Apple was born out of love. That love no longer exists. She is not Apple Cart and she never will be Apple Cart. Why should she selfishly be allowed my love and affection without ever earning it? She is not Apple Cart and she will never be Apple Cart.
I can’t replace him. Not with a foal. Not even if she’s ours.
What am I supposed to do with Jack Apple, then? She is ours. I can’t abandon her; Apple Cart knows me better than that. He would never forgive me if I did such an awful thing.
I have to take care of Jack Apple. This is the only way out of my predicament.
Sleep had finally overtaken me again, for what felt like the dozenth time that night. The cold, logical part of my brain told me that it was at worst the third time Jack Apple had cried. It didn't make me any more pleased to be awoken by her wailing.
My bleary gaze looks out into the cresting morning, Celestia's namesake bent on trying to instill happiness in the ponies it burns over. Then my eyes lock miserably onto the damp, ugly face of my foal. In the light of day, I can see the same freckles that dotted her father's face glistening under her tears.
I can't help but see him, can I? I remember seeing his freckles inching closer and closer to my eyes before I lost sight of them, on account of his mouth being pressed up against mine. At the time, those freckles intimidated me; he was a pony who loved me, the first and the last. To see anything of him in this squealing mess is a disservice to the memory I have of Apple Cart.
Yet, Jack Apple's freckles don't anger me. In fact, their presence is soothing.
Something is ruining what sense I do have. This situation is wrong, but it just feels... right to me, for some reason. Some motherly instinct is overtaking my thoughts, forcing me to see those freckles and see happiness, where the sight of them ought to bring pain. I know better than to think I am actually happy. As if in disdain for what she's doing, I tell her, "You don't fool me. I won't be tricked by you. You're not him."
As if she understood my words, Jack Apple simply begins crying more loudly. Despite my bold statement, my resolve fails me as biology forces my hooves to cradle my foal. I begin rocking her, her crying continuing unabated, as if she knows she's not fooling me, so she's trying even harder to do so. Very suspicious behavior, for a newborn.
I need to go talk to Lumpkin about this.
From the Desperate Struggle of a Mother
On some level, I think Mama always knew that my mind was in the wrong place. In my most lucid moments, I see her actions in raising me as worthy of condemnation, my certainty that her heavyhooved and sheltering lifestyle stunted my ability to socialize and empathize, causing a mare with acute disorders to become the monster I saw myself as in those clearest of moments. I feel certain that, had she put more care and attention into my upbringing, my problems would have been fixed and I wouldn’t be like this.
Then, the sky becomes cloudy again, and what small amount of comprehension I managed to hold onto for those few precious moments slips back out of my understanding. I forget what Mama did. I thank her for hiding me from the world. I, a mare raised to know that there is something wrong with me, can see with perfect clarity what she was thinking.
She was never the monster; it’s always been me. She just knew to cage a monster.
I gaze balefully down at Jack Apple, pondering my mother’s lessons for me. Is she me? Am I Mama? Was Mama me? Maybe my upbringing is cyclical, and it is my chance to raise Jack Apple differently.
My own mind scoffs at the outlandish prospect. Mama raised me. She obviously knew something about foal-raising that I don’t. Perhaps if I emulate her example....
I plod along the street, several doors down to Lumpkin’s. She told me what her talent is once, but I didn’t think it necessary to listen and it hasn’t come up in conversation since. All I know is that she’s always home and she always has time to talk to me.
Two swift knocks upon the door causes Lumpkin to open it. She lets me in and I sit down. “Hey there, new mom. How are you doing?”
“I can’t raise a foal.”
My bluntness causes her to pause briefly while she’s closing the door. “Why do you say that?”
“I hate her.”
Lumpkin comes and sits next to me, her face contorted in a most unappealing way. “Why?”
I sigh in exasperation. She has to ask the most pointless questions. “Because she is wrong.”
“... Wrong?”
“She wasn’t created right. I look at her and I get confused. I just want to take her back to the hospital.”
Lumpkin’s mind is working overtime, trying to grasp the information that I’m feeding her. After several long moments, she seems to decide on a course of action. “I can help you if you want.”
“I don’t want help.” I stand up angrily, my patience wearing thin, and turn toward the door. Seeing Lumpkin was a mistake. She never makes anything better. “I hate her and I don’t want her anymore.”
Lumpkin puts her hoof on my shoulder. “Fuji, I know this is confusing, but Jack Apple needs a mom. You’re the only mom she’s got. Do it for her sake, not yours.”
I shrug Lumpkin’s hoof off my shoulder. “Fine, whatever. I’ll give it a few more days.”
Lumpkin calls at me through the closing door. “Come talk to me if you need anything!” As if she helped at all.
Jack Apple’s sake.
What is for her sake? Mama’s lessons? Are those what’s best for her? Lumpkin’s care? What about me? Is my motherly instinct not enough?
Maybe it’s none of those things.
It’s possible that I am not the pony Apple Cart believed I am. Maybe he fell in love with a dream, a fake pony telling him fake lies. He gave a foal to the one pony in Equestria that couldn’t do it, but he believed she could. All of the hopes and feelings that he instilled in this fake pony, his dud of a wife, were wasted. She couldn’t do right by his foal, no matter how hard he believed in the dream.
I can’t.
The Moon’s eye glares judgingly at me through a window, my sins laid bare before Her. She knows the monster that I am, just as Mama knew. The first and only real challenge I will ever have is causing me to crumble before I even try.
Every day is a struggle. Every night is a fight.
How many days has it been since I saw Lumpkin?
Is Jack Apple growing? Does she remember me? Does she know I exist? Do I want her to know I exist?
I hate Mama. I hate Apple Cart. They’ve left me. All I have is a foal I don’t love. I hate her.
Do I hate her?
Maybe I hate the thought of her. She represents my loss. She is the symbol of my love with Apple Cart, but the other half of that love is gone. I see everything I love about a dead pony in her. It’s not her fault, but I hate her nonetheless.
Maybe I don’t hate her. I can’t decide.
I do love her, just not like I should. Lumpkin hasn’t left me. I could never hate Apple Cart. I could never hate Mama.
I desperately want Jack Apple to know I exist. Maybe she already does. She only knows me as a provider. She is slowly growing, but imperceptibly slow.
It has been four days since I saw Lumpkin.
How many days has it been since I saw Lumpkin?
Another wail pierces through the night. Jack Apple still refuses to sleep like a normal pony. She’s stubborn and loud and infuriating. Sometimes she wants something. Sometimes she just wants to cry. I wish I could ignore her, but something inside of me won’t allow it.
I hate motherhood. I hate that this foal relies solely on me. I probably haven’t been feeding her enough; I probably haven’t been giving her enough blankets; I probably haven’t been showing her as much affection as I should be. No matter how much food I give her, no matter how many blankets I wrap her in, no matter how much affection I show her—she simply craves the things she doesn’t deserve.
In a twisted way, this could be considered penance for all of the undeserved love that Apple Cart showered me in. The twist, of course, being that I don’t love this foal, but perhaps being miserable now is my just desserts. I never deserved Apple Cart, but he still cared for me with no questions asked.
Am I crazy for hating my own foal? The sentiment propagated through all of ponykind is that foalbearing is its own reward. The sheer joy of raising a creature born of love far outweighs the inconvenience that is impressed upon the couple. Either ponykind is in a shared delusion or I am the deluded one.
We tend to favor our own viewpoints, and I am no different. Even if my feelings are a lie, they still feel very authentic. I don’t love my foal, despite how I was assured I would feel. There’s no helping who I am.
Night. Why does every noteworthy thought in my brain occur at night?
The darkness lets me ruminate more easily on things, I think. My impaired eyesight allows me to delve into the depths of my madness clearly. Daytime is simply a blur of anger and pessimism and frustration; at night, there is only the silence of my own dark brooding.
Jack Apple hasn’t cried for... several hours now. This is the longest that she has been quiet for. I suppose I should be concerned. I can’t drag my apathetic hooves to the floor, though. The blessed peace which has fallen over the house is too good to ruin. If she’s not crying, then the stupid motherly feeling doesn’t overtake me. I need to take what rest I can get instead of fret over my foal’s well-being constantly.
In the distance, I hear a giant clock chime. Three chimes means seven hours since I last saw Jack Apple and assured myself that she was okay.
Even when she’s silent, Jack Apple is a presence looming over my life. When she’s not crying, I’m worried about when she will cry. When she is crying, I’m worried that she’ll stop so I’ll stop caring. The part where she’s crying is obviously the worst—but the moments in between, those opportunities that I have to not simply be a baby-caring machine... I take no pleasure from them. They’re simply those moments of dread between the moments in which she needs me.
I have been dozing across the room on my bed, but right now, even when it is too dark to see her, I cannot help but stare at the dark shape that has drained me of my free will and my happiness. She is the bane of my existence, the source of all my misery and bitterness. If she had never happened, maybe Apple Cart would still be here.
On some level, I know that I am lying to myself, but I cannot shake my conviction. The simple sight of Jack Apple is enough to anger me, and the only thing that has kept me from simply ignoring her at this point is the way she makes me feel when she whines. I am wired to care, whether I wish it so or not.
I don’t want her. I never wanted her. My life is no longer my own, and she is the one to blame.
What do I do?
I have an opportunity. This is a small window of time in which I am myself again. She isn’t crying. I can do something.
What can I do?
Apple Cart gave everything to have a foal with me, but he died. Without Apple Cart, I am unworthy of raising the foal.
Should I give her away?
I have never been a pony to force my problems onto other ponies. That would require a conversation that I wouldn’t ever want to have. That doesn’t really seem like an option.
I feel cornered, trapped into this circumstance, and am growing to despise it more every day. Who says that I shouldn’t be the one to decide where I go with my life? What prank is fate playing on me by dumping this foal into my lap? I was already struggling with Apple Cart gone, and Jack Apple’s arrival has only compounded this. I am drowning in my responsibility to this foal, and I want to be able to breathe again.
I have to remove her. I need to.
What should I do? Lumpkin said she would help. She never helps, though. She only makes things worse. I could give her back to the hospital, or to Foal Protective Services. All of them feel like me avoiding the issue.
I get out of bed and walk to the crib. I look at Jack Apple's features.
She looks... peaceful, I guess. She has no idea how torn I feel about her. She is unaware of anything. Almost as if she’s...
Not alive.
I quickly move my hoof toward her face and feel a slight breath on my hoof. She’s not dead.
What if she was?
If Jack Apple wasn’t here, I wouldn’t need to ask Lumpkin for help. I wouldn’t be causing problems for the hospital or Foal Protective Services. I could reclaim my life and be the mare I want to be.
The more I think about it, the more appealing this idea is. No more time spent dreading the next time she’ll cry. No more fumbling blindly to find out what she wants. No more asking myself why she deserves to be here, alive and happy, when Apple Cart is dead and I’m so miserable.
She is the manifestation of everything negative in my life. There is only one reasonable conclusion for me.
I reach down as gently as I can, my hooves threatening to shake themselves into uncertainty. I grasp the pillow from under her head and carefully slide it out. Her tiny neck, unable to support her large brain, lets her head go limp and thud weakly against the mattress of her crib. She doesn’t deign to notice, continuing to sleep fitfully.
Then, I press the pillow against her face.
I feel a thrill of electricity go through my body, the spark of liberation from the awful monotony that this foal brought down upon me. I am finally ending it. The struggle. The hatred. She’ll be gone. Just a few more moments.
Under the pillow, I feel her mouth open as she tries to take a breath. I plant the pillow more firmly, feeling the beginnings of a struggle, her tiny feeble hooves groping at the fabric that is obstructing her airway. She’s helpless without me. She can’t even prevent this. It’s utterly pathetic.
A tiny whine escapes from out of the pillow. I feel it more than I hear it, her voice echoing through the object. Her voice is just powerful enough to get me to feel it.
I know... in my head, somewhere, that this is wrong. I have to see it through, though. Apple Cart wouldn’t want to see me finish this halfway.
Apple Cart.
I lay awake in my bed one night, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep has eluded me; sometimes, this just happens.
Sometimes, I feel lonely, and I ask myself why. Mama loved me. I have a loving husband. My life couldn’t be better. Yet, it feels pathetic and unfulfilling. As if there were so many opportunities, and by being here, in this moment, I missed all of them.
I want life to have a reset button. I look back on all of the decisions I made, and I ask myself, What if things were different? If I hadn’t asked Mama a certain question, or if I had told Apple Cart what I was thinking at a certain moment in time, or if I had decided to cross the street at the wrong time and get hit by a cart on a specific day.
I think that my life is utterly important, here in bed with Apple Cart. What if I wasn’t here, though? Would he have found a different mare to make him happy? Would she be better than me? There are so many seemingly inconsequential things that could have changed only slightly that would have resulted in the two of us never meeting. It’s sheer luck that brought us together.
Apple Cart stirs, his hoof draping over me in a sleepy embrace. He mumbles, “Still awake?”
I ignore the pleasantry. “If I wasn’t here, would you have married another mare?”
Apple Cart is silent for several moments while his brain catches up with him. “That’s a very odd question to have in the middle of the night.”
“I just want to know. Would you have been happy without me?”
“Probably not. I can’t imagine a life without you.”
“So if I wasn’t here, you’d still be alone?”
“If I wasn’t here, do you think you’d have found some other stallion?”
I ponder on this for several moments. I don’t consider myself very desirable, whereas I see Apple Cart as one of the more highly sought-after stallions. He could have his pick of a mare, and he chose... me, of all ponies. I guess I never exactly understood his reasons behind it, and every time I asked him why me, he’d say something vague or noncommittal. I just always assumed because he knew I would be desperate and certain that I was with a pony too good for me. “Probably not.”
“Then why do you think it’d be surprising for me to be alone without you?”
“Every mare in Equestria would be lonely forever if it meant a night with you.”
“Actually, only one mare would do that.” He looks at me in amusement.
I’m silent for a few moments while I process this information. “So... you would just be miserable and alone if I’d never come along.”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” he replies flippantly.
“What?” The way I say the word implies that he said something irritating. Maybe he’s not taking this conversation seriously enough.
He sighs, his still-impaired brain trying to formulate the words. “I don’t care what might have happened without you. What matters is that you were there, and I was there, and our moment happened. And I’ve never looked back. You are my one and only, Fuji. Asking what could have happened if things had been a little bit different doesn’t change the fact that you are here, now, in this bed with me, and that both of us are happy that things happened the way they did. I am satisfied with the outcome of my life, and pointlessly asking myself if things could have happened differently doesn’t help anypony.”
“So, if I had never been born, you’d be single?”
He sighs again—endearingly, as if he appreciates the question. “Yes, I am absolutely certain that if you hadn’t been there, I’d never have found you, thus I would never have found the one and only pony to experience love at first sight with.”
“So, even if Mama—” He cuts me off with a kiss, my thought dashed away.
“Whatever it is, probably yes. If it means you’ll finally get some sleep, then yes to all of it. I am glad you’re alive, here, in this moment. Love found a way to have you here, and I won’t question it. Now just be happy that you’re here, alive, and that things hadn’t been different.”
My grip on the pillow eases up slightly. A large, choking breath sounds underneath.
I’m... killing me?
Mama didn’t kill me. If Mama had killed me, Apple Cart would have been alone. He’d have died all alone too. I wouldn’t have had Jack Apple. I wouldn’t have been led to this choice. I wouldn’t have had to end the cycle—
What if she is somepony’s true love? What if this was me under the pillow? Would I kill me?
I am trying to end a pony’s life. I am trying to end my life.
Apple Cart is dead. I lost the only pony that I will ever love. I lost the only pony that ever loved me. I want to end everything. I want to end her, I want to end me. I want to end our life. There is no me without him. Without Apple Cart, I am just a very disturbed pony.
I want to end a pony’s life to be nothing again.
She is something, though. She is somepony’s true love. If I kill her, then her true love will die alone, just as she’s dying alone. Just as I will die alone.
Another choking breath is released into the pillow. I am no longer certain that this is what I want. She’s a bother, but... she’s me. I don’t want to be alone, and if I kill her, I doom another pony to be alone. Apple Cart... wouldn’t want that.
Abruptly, I remove the pillow from Jack Apple’s face. She takes in a very deep breath, then begins wailing.
I have lain here, in this pose, for... hours. Jack Apple cried, then her breathing normalized, she stopped panicking, and she went back to sleep. The pillow lays on the ground, its implementation as a murder weapon forgotten as it fell from my shocked hooves.
I almost killed my own foal.
This thought has been mulling over and over again in my head, causing a parade of quandaries to enter and exit my realm of thought. Was I just frustrated and angry and tired? Did I genuinely despise her that greatly? Did I truly hate my life so much that I would murder her for it?
The thought repeats itself: I almost killed my own foal.
I stare into her tiny features, only partially visible in the first creeping rays of the rising sun. She doesn’t realize what happened. She doesn’t care what happened. She is innocent, more innocent than I will ever be again. Come morning, she’ll wake up, she’ll cry, and she’ll keep crying until she’s fed, or her diaper is changed, or her blanket is wrapped around her. She doesn’t care that I just tried to murder her. She doesn’t care that I’m not okay. She. Doesn’t. Care.
Once again: I almost killed my own foal.
More rays of sunlight creep in, causing her face to screw up slightly, then her eyes open. She looks at me, utterly uncomprehending of the monster that looks back at her. In her soft eyes, I see a tiny reflection of myself.
I do care what I did. I know that I’m not okay.
I know what needs to be done.
From the Desperate Struggle of a Mother
After Mama passed away, I got moved to a temporary family, one that would take care of me until I was old enough to live on my own. They lived close to the water in Manehattan, so we would hear the loud, deep boat whistles from the house. Mama had never taken me to see the boats before. I couldn’t remember her taking me anywhere.
I don’t remember much of the family I stayed with, only that the new mom kept telling me to do things and kept telling me she’d answer my questions when I was older. I think she wanted a younger foal, but she got stuck with me instead. I don’t remember the dad at all, he was always at work or sleeping or something. I think their foals had grown up and all moved away and they were lonely again.
New mom didn’t feel right to me. She cared way too much and made sure I would eat and kept telling me she loved me. Mama knew I wouldn’t try to hurt myself. Mama knew I would eat when I was hungry. Mama knew that I knew she loved me and didn’t need to remind me about it every 5 minutes. Everything about new mom was all the things I already knew being repeated to me over and over.
Sometimes, I’d just get tired of new mom’s words and need to go. I would leave and go down to the waterfront and watch the big ships come and go. I would wait for their horns and feel their deep bellow vibrate the ground under my hooves and feel them call me away. I would look down into the water, where the ships tread, and wonder if I’d get a voice like theirs if I swam like they did. I wanted a deep, powerful voice. One that could tell new mom that I didn’t need her, that Mama was dead and I didn’t need anypony because she taught me everything.
I never did anything about it. On some level, I knew nothing could ever match that voice. I was weak and pathetic, like Mama knew, and that was why she tried so hard to make me strong. New mom didn’t want me to have a big boat voice, she wanted me to be quiet and do the things she told me to do.
As an older pony, I was able to reflect on these feelings of inadequacy that I was having. I was doubting my reason to exist without Mama, thinking that maybe if I’d grow up and stop being so needy all the time that it would bring her back. I wanted to be more powerful than I was, to maybe stop death from ever happening, to turn back time and save her. She was my world, and losing her meant my world was gone.
I was looking out over the docks one evening and wishing I’d hear one more big boat whistle, but it was getting late and the big boats were probably going to moor out in the bay for the night and come in to dock early in the morning. I glanced back through the marketplace briefly and saw some ponies still milling about, getting their last-minute shopping done, and realized that it was about time to eat and new mom would be even worse than usual if I wasn’t there to eat.
My hooves began carrying me back to home, my steps slow and methodical on the cobbled street. As I listened to the melody of my body’s rhythm, I began to feel acutely aware of something. Eyes on me. I realized a pony was following me.
I stopped and snapped my head back and saw a pony standing there, walking behind me a short distance. As I looked at him, his head jerked downward, as if he’d been looking at me and didn’t want me to know. Something about him felt right, but I didn’t trust him nonetheless. My hoofsteps quickened.
My ears were perked to listen for him, and I heard him begin to walk faster.
I began to move more quickly, gaining distance between him and me. He let this happen for several moments, then he called out, “Wait!”
I stopped and looked back at him again. Our eyes met and I... stared. He stared back.
Something... changed.
Jack Apple lets out another whimper, indicating that I still haven’t fed her in far too long. She cried some, but I ignored it. I just... gave up, I guess.
My fellow passenger looks up from his newspaper at me. I can feel his gaze shift over to Jack Apple, then onto me, then back to his paper. I can hear a weak sigh from him.
Normally, I would try to defend my actions, but there is nothing to defend. I have realized that I was never worthy of Apple Cart, that I would be better off bothering nopony, and that if Jack Apple stays with me, either she will die or she will become me again, just as I became Mama.
Let this passenger see me as the unfit mother that I am. I deserve to be known for my actions.
The train slowly rolls through the countryside, the garish colors of nature a stark contrast to my demeanor. They are nothing but a reminder of the life that I was robbed of, first by Mama, then by Apple Cart. I don’t blame either of them; Mama did her best to raise me with my unique problems and nopony’s perfect anyway, and Apple Cart didn’t ask to die. Regardless, circumstances led to this happening to me now, after everything I cared about was already gone.
Still, I can’t help but wish I could be out there, in those green fields, playing in the arrayed splotches of bright flowers with Jack Apple and laughing and singing and being a mother. I wish I didn’t have to admit just how flawed I am.
I am flawed, though—so flawed that I cannot do the one thing Apple Cart thought I was ready for. Without him, I can never be ready for this. Without him, I can never be ready for anything.
“Are you going to take care of your foal?” I am interrupted from my daydreaming by a mare sitting in the booth across the aisle, on the opposite side of the stallion holding the paper.
If I respond to her, she will ask me a series of uncomfortable questions that I don’t want to answer. If I ignore her, she will probably not pursue the issue further. She waited this long on the train to say anything, she can handle a short time longer.
“Um, excuse me, miss?” She persists in trying to get my attention. Maybe she thought I didn’t hear her.
I look up and lock eyes with her. “No. Now leave me alone.”
A shocked silence falls over the car. My gaze shifts quickly back to the floor in front of me. After several moments, she speaks up again. “I can help if you want. You look like you’ve been through a lot.”
I respond with silence once again. Inviting conversation or pleasantry or action only forces me to repeat everything I say when I arrive at my destination. She seems to get the picture and doesn’t talk to me, despite a few more whimpers of protest from the hungry, dirty, neglected Jack Apple. Even my foal is sick of this arrangement.
The train pulls into Ponyville Station and I depart, carrying Jack Apple with one of my hooves and walking with the other three. I immediately realize that I’m somewhat lost and approach a station worker. “Where is Sweet Apple Acres?”
The station worker gives Jack Apple an odd look. She probably looks somewhat emaciated at this point; her eyes do look slightly hollow. The worker looks back at me, then over the tops of some buildings. “That way, you see Carrot Top’s house there? Sweet Apple Acres is right next door to her.”
I nod and depart. He calls behind me, “Welcome to Ponyville, ma’am!”
I am reflecting on this misadventure of my life. I have problems, I don’t doubt that—innate problems with my head. Maybe, if things had happened differently, I’d have turned out different. Mama’s upbringing, Apple Cart’s glimmer of hope, the subsequent dashing of that hope, and the culmination of Jack Apple’s arrival is simply too much for my naturally fragile psyche. I see too much and feel too little. I don’t know how to act, what to say, or how to cope. I am troubled, too troubled to be normal.
From my random outbursts to my inconsolable anger, I am broken inside. Things could have been different, but the truth is that they’re not and never will be. However I might try to glue the pieces of me back together, I’ll never be the pony that I could have been.
Am I crazy? On some level, yes. Not all rational thought has departed from me, but I have gotten progressively worse over time. The longer I lie to myself for, the longer I and everyone around me will suffer.
It is time to stop pretending that I am something I’m not. I had my happiness, however brief it was, and I need to accept that my life as the pony I could have been is officially over.
The fields of Sweet Apple Acres loom up to me. If Apple Cart had... never met me, if he’d stayed in these fields, maybe he’d still be alive. Maybe I’d have come to Ponyville for some reason, and I’d come to Sweet Apple Acres, and I’d meet him then.
He’d still inevitably die. Whether he died when he did or he died after we spend our entire lives together, he was going to end up in the same place.
Three knocks on the door. An uncomfortable wait. A click and a swing. “Yes?”
“Mama Smith?”
“Granny now.” A slightly elderly green pony looks me in the eye, the ghost of a smile present. “New to town, but ya know about me. I figure you’re wantin’ some jam or cider?”
I shake my head. “Apple Cart’s wife.”
“Oh.” The pleasant demeanor erases itself. She looks at me awkwardly, then at Jack Apple. “Who’s this ‘un?”
“Our daughter.”
“Right. We’ll probably wanna sit down and talk about this.” She moves back slightly, opening the lower half of the door. “Best come in.”
I take a step back. “No.”
She looks back at me in puzzlement. “Hmm?”
“I can’t take care of Jack Apple. I need you to take care of her instead.”
“Huh?” She’s completely blindsided. “Now wait a minute here. I know my son’s gone, and I’ve come to terms with that. Now a pony I’ve never even met is here to give me his foal that I never knew existed?” A tinge of anger has crept into her voice. “I never even met you before, Fuji Apple. Now you come in here and talk to me like I’m family.”
“No.” I set Jack Apple down on the ground. “I can’t do this. I’m drowning. I’m dead. I lost him. I lost him.” Tears spring to my eyes, then I shake them away. “I’m not okay, I need to go. I can’t take care of her. I’ve lost him.” I know I don’t make any sense to her, but I have to try to get her to understand. “Apple Cart loved me. Jack Apple is our love. Apple Cart died. I don’t love her. I can’t take care of her. She’s... wrong. I see her and I feel wrong. I know she’s wrong.”
Granny Smith stares at me blankly, then looks down at Jack Apple. She picks up the pile of blankets and looks at Jack Apple's face. She turns her head back into the house and calls, “Mac!” A small red colt appears around the corner. “See what you can do for this little filly for some food. And give her a bath, too.” Mac nods and disappears with my foal.
“Her name is Jack Apple.” I know I’ve said it a few times, but I want to be certain she knows.
“That’s a colt’s name.”
“No, that’s her name.”
“She’ll get teased all her life. It ain’t pretty like a mare’s name ought to be.”
“Apple Cart named her. That’s the name he wanted.”
“He wouldn’t call a filly Jack Apple. He’d call a colt Jack Apple.”
“Please.” This time, the tears do manage to make tracks down my cheeks. “The name he gave me is all I have of him. I don’t want her to be what he doesn’t want. She needs to be his foal.”
“I’ll... see what I can do.”
I stare at her blankly for a moment. I have run out of words to say. There is nothing more for me.
I abruptly turn and leave.
”Who... who are you!?” I ask him alarmingly.
“I’m sorry! I... I’m Apple Cart. I... just couldn’t help but notice. You’re so pretty.”
“... What?”
“I’m sorry!” He hastens away in the opposite direction.
I stare after him, watching him disappearing into the darkness. “Wait!”
He stops and turns around, looking at me inquisitively. I hadn’t thought this far ahead. It’s late, I don’t know who he is. I don’t know what to do.
“Come back here tomorrow.”
If he hadn’t come back that day, maybe I’d be standing in the same place, just as I am now, considering back then what I am now certain is the only outcome for me.
I’m wrong. I don’t want to be wrong for the rest of my life. No matter how much I try to fix myself, I will always be broken. Too much wrong has happened to me for me to ever be right.
I'll do what Mama was too weak to do.
A step. A fall. A scream.
Water fills my lungs.
And then, nothing.
I watch Fuji leave, standing at the door until she disappears around the corner. I’m still trying to process all of the information she just unloaded on me, but I’m pretty sure she’s half-crazy and can’t take care of a foal. Even if she wasn’t an Apple, I couldn’t ignore her pleas for help. Doing anything less than this would be an affront to the Apple way.
I come look over Mac’s shoulder as he mashes up an apple into sauce. I look at the poor tiny filly, a small whimper escaping from her. “Make sure you don’t feed her much, she hasn’t eaten in a while and her stomach’s probably shrunk.” He nods. “And make sure the bath ain’t too hot when you put her in. It’s gotta be closer to room temperature than you prefer.” He nods again. I snicker a little and mutter to myself, “Jack Apple.”
Mac looks at me. “Jack apple? What’s that?”
“The name her mama gave her.”
“Oh.” Mac shakes his head sympathetically, then continues mashing the apple into a fine paste.
“Granny?” I hear Applejack’s voice drift around the corner, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Yes, what is it?”
“If you’re my granny, then who was my mom?”
I smile at Applejack, preferring my lack of knowledge in this instance. “That was yer Mama Fuji, young’un. Why’re ya curious about her all of a sudden?”
“One of the fillies at school was talking about her mom. Will you tell me about her?”
I nod happily and gesture at my leg. “Come take a seat over here.” Applejack sits down on my lap.
“Now, yer Mama Fuji, she was one of the more adventurous ones—kinda like her daughter is.” I look at her in joking disapproval and she giggles a little. “Why, I remember one summer, dead middle of Apple Buckin’, she decided she’d get half of Ponyville tryin’ to help her grow zap apples outta season. She decided to get some of her pegasus and unicorn friends from school and re-enact the conditions of growing zap apples. Of course, she never managed, but you should’ve seen it. They had an army of pegasi moving clouds around, unicorns testing magic on all kinds of objects tryin’ to make timberwolf howls, tryin’ to convince crows to fly in formation, throwin’ bright objects over the trees... and she gave you your wonderful name, though she needed to get some help from your Papa Apple Cart to get it just right. She started out as a farmhand, ya know. Her family moved here from Manehattan when she was a little filly, and she helped out on the farm in the busy season. As a matter of fact, the two of ‘em met here in this very room!”
Even if I knew the truth, I don’t think I’d want Applejack to know. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why she was the way she was, but she was a good Apple, and her daughter should know her the way she was meant to be.
