Sisters at Heart

Chapters

Chapter One: The Call
Chapter Two: The Simple Days
Chapter Three: The Fault in Our Doubts
Chapter Four: Undeniable Chemistry
Chapter Five: Our Deepest Fears
Chapter Six: Our Lives to Come
Chapter Seven: The Tournament
Chapter Eight: The Party
Chapter Nine: The Move
Chapter Ten: The Start of a New Life
Chapter Eleven: Our Lives Now
Chapter Twelve: Good and Bad News
Chapter Thirteen: Everything We Wished and Didn't Wish For.

Chapter One: The Call

Sisters at Heart

Lexical Writer

Chapter One

The Call

I became what I am today at the age of eleven, on a rainy, frigid autumn night. I remember the exact moment when it all happened. But that was a long time ago. And although it’s in my past, I still think about it every day.

I’ve learned, from experience, that you can’t simply run from your past. Your past might be in the past, but it’s still with you in the present. Wherever you go, there you are. You can have all the money in the world and you can try to drown yourself in all the hard liquor that you want, but you can’t escape what you’re trying to run from. Looking back now, I realized I have been doing exactly that for the past eight years.

One day last summer, my friend Bon Bon called from Manehattan. She asked me to come to visit her. Standing on my beach house balcony with the receiver against my ear, I knew that it wasn’t just Bon Bon on the line. It was my daunting past creeping up to me. After I hung up, I went for a walk in the nearby park, right along the Las Pegasus beach.

It was a sunny afternoon, and the bright sun sparkled on the blue ocean, like glistening diamonds. Countless sailboats cut through the sparkly water, propelled by a crisp breeze. Then I glanced up and saw a pair of blue jays making rhythmic swirls in the soaring sky. They flew high above the elm trees at the east end of the park, flying like a pair of Wonderbolts glaring down at me and Las Pegasus, the city I now call home.

I sat down on a bench next to an old elm tree. Then I thought about something Bon Bon had said before we hung up. You have to resolve your past for your own sake. Then I heard the soft melodies of the two blue jays as they flew by me. I couldn’t help but think about my fillyhood with Vinyl. My father. Dusty. Bon Bon. Manehattan. I thought about the life I had until that night came. The night that changed our entire life.

Chapter Two: The Simple Days

Sisters at Heart

Lexical Writer

Chapter Two

The Simple Days

When we were fillies, Vinyl and I used to swim in the in-ground pool at my father’s estate and annoy our neighbours with our loud, playful screams and splashes. When we got out of the pool, we sat across from each other on the patio chairs, our wet hooves dangling and dripping water. My father brought us mulberries, from his garden, and lemonade for us when we got out of the pool. Sometimes, if we were in a humorous mood, we would pelt each other with the mulberries and run around the pool, giggling, laughing; I can still see Vinyl running around that pool, her lustrous mane shining in the sunlight.

Sometimes, when we went swimming, Vinyl talked me into throwing water-balloons into our neighbours’ yard just to annoy them. I never wanted to throw them though, but I knew how much fun Vinyl had when she did such silly things. But we always got a really good laugh out of it. Vinyl’s father, Dusty, a white unicorn stallion with a magic wand and hat for a cutie mark, used to catch us and get angry, but his gentleness got the best of him. He would wag his hoof, waving us away from our balloons. He would take the balloons away and tell Vinyl that wasn’t the proper way to behave.

“Yes, Daddy,” Vinyl would mumble, looking down at her hooves.

Believe it or not, Vinyl had lived with me since she was born. Dusty and my father grew up together in the same neighbourhood, and they even went to school together. According to my father, Dusty’s parents went missing and were never found. My father told me that his parents took Dusty under their roof as their own child and raised him along with my father.

Everypony agreed that my father, Jazzmere, built one of the most beautiful houses in all of Manehattan. A cobblestone driveway led to an entryway, leading to the sprawling house of marble tiles and the large bay windows. Upstairs was my bedroom, Jazzmere’s room, along with his study, and Vinyl and Dusty’s room. To Jazzmere, his study was his place of peace, but sometimes he would invite his friends over to join him in a discussion that always consisted of three things: music, business, and literature.

Sometimes I would ask Jazzmere if I could sit with him in his study, but he would stand in the doorway. “Octavia, my dear, this isn’t the place for you to be. Why don’t you go play with Vinyl instead?” Then he would close the door on me. Sometimes I sat next to the closed door for hours, listening to their laughter and chatter, wondering what they were really talking about.

The living room downstairs had a large marble fireplace. It also had a curved wall, leading into the dining room. In the centre of the dining room, there was a beautifully carved table made from teak.

A large sliding glass door lead into the backyard, where the pool was, and two large yew trees stood on the right and left corners of the backyard. My father and Dusty had planted a garden on the west side of the backyard where they grew mulberries, lemons, and strawberries.

One night, Vinyl and I were walking to the Manehattan theatre to see a new play. Jazzmere had bought us tickets before the play even came out so we could have the most luxurious seats. We decided to take a shortcut through the local park where dozens of streetlamps lit up the paths, illuminating the park. At the exit gate, leaving the park, a group of what looked like rough, spiteful, older stallions were leaning up against the gate. I told Vinyl to keep walking and avoid paying attention to them. One of them saw us, and prodded the pony next to him. Then he called out to Vinyl.

“Hey you!” he said, looking towards Vinyl. “I think I recognize you!”

Neither of us had ever seen him before. He was a fat stallion with an oleaginous beard, and his teeth were yellow. The way he leered at us scared me. It was like he was about to do something horrible to us. “Just keep moving,” I muttered to Vinyl in a low tone.

“Hey, I remember you now! I use to know your mother! Did you know that I was her ex-stallion friend?”

Vinyl never talked about her mother, as if she never existed. I always wondered if she thought about her. What she would be like. What her favourite colour was. What she even looked like. I always thought about these things when I thought about my own mother, who passed away after she had given birth to me. When Vinyl’s mother, Medli, gave birth to her, seven months after I was born, she left Dusty because she didn’t want to deal with her newborn.

I had heard, from my father, that Meldi wasn’t the most positive pony to have around. My father once told me that she was an unruly, unscrupulous mare that had a horrendous reputation for using other stallions. And since Dusty had quite the income, at the time, it made him an easy target, for her at least. And Dusty, being the gentle and kind character he was, didn’t feel like he had the right to judge somepony else, despite what they may had done, so he fell right for her with ease.

It wasn't until Medli got pregnant with Vinyl that she started to shun Dusty from her life. Shortly after she gave birth to her new filly, she called things off with Dusty, leaving him with nothing but the little filly.

“What a worthless piece of trash your mother was! You must be a lot like her,” he said, while he leaned against the gate. The stallion then proceeded to thrust violently against it. “That’s what I used to do to her all the time!” His friends laughed loudly with him. I wanted to say so many things to him, but I kept myself collected and witted, as we finally walked passed the stallions.

When we made it to the theatre and took our seats, the play began in less than ten minutes. After the play had started, I began to hear short, rhythmic sobs in between breaths. Tears were streaming down Vinyl’s cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot. I reached over to her in concern and wrapped my forehoof around her neck so she could rest her head against my chest. “Don’t worry about those awful stallions, Vinyl. I’ll always be here for you,” I softly whispered into her ear. “I’ll always be here for you.”

After the play, we were on our way home, but, this time, we didn’t go through the park. Vinyl still seemed pretty shaken up from what we had heard earlier that night.

“Vinyl, are you sure you’re all right? I hate seeing you like this,” I said facing her, my voice soft and sincere.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll always be fine as long as I have you,” she said turning to face me, giving me a warm, comforting smile.

Then leaning in, I softly kissed her on the cheek. Her face flared red, her features seemingly brightening.

“W-what was that for...?”

“You’re my everything, Vinyl. And I love you.”

“I-I love you too, Octavia.”

We didn’t exchange any more words on the rest of the way home. Looking back on it now, I realized that everything that followed after that night was because of those three words.

Chapter Three: The Fault in Our Doubts

Sisters at Heart

Lexical Writer

Chapter Three

The Fault in Our Doubts

Folklore has it that my father won the Equestrian Classical Music Contest on his very first attempt. If the story had been about a random contestant, it would have been dismissed as nothing special. If ponies bragged about having their fillies competing in the contest, chances were they competed in a paltry music contest at their fillies’ middle school, since this contest only selected the best musicians in Equestria to participate.

Bon Bon, a loyal friend of my father, whom he had met at Manehattan University, always called him “The Magical Stringed Musician” since he had a miraculous gift to play most stringed instruments. Specifically, the cello. My father was a force of nature, with a small beard, a cutie mark of a music note with a glowing fissure in the middle, a simple black mane, and an ivory coat.

Jazzmere was nearly impossible to ignore, even in his sleep. When he slept, his snoring sounded like an angry hydra. I used to bury myself under my wool blanket, and still the sounds of his snoring resonated through the thick walls of our house. I wondered how my mother managed to sleep with his chronic snoring. That was one thing of the many things I would’ve asked her if she was still alive.

When I was about three years old, Jazzmere had contested in the ECMC for the first time, so he could prove that music comes from the heart, and not from anywhere else. I heard this story through Bon Bon. She told me Jazzmere had written a two and a half minute lament that expressed his sorrow for the loss of his dear wife—my mother—through the use of musical form.

When he submitted his own written music piece for the competition, everyone laughed at him because he wasn’t a “professional composer”; they told him to use a piece of music that was already well-known since his piece wouldn’t catch the audience’s attention.

But, of course, Jazzmere refused to use anything but his lament. And he did. When he got on stage, everypony shook their head in doubt at his supercilious ways. Then, through all the doubt, he succeeded, winning the contest with flying music notes, and everypony in the audience sat there stunned, speechless.

I remember, precisely, the day before the contest started. Jazzmere took me, Vinyl, and Dusty to the Manehattan lake for a picnic, so he could play his lament with his cello for us while we ate. What I heard was heartwarming. And it wasn’t until that day, at the age of three, when I took a serious interest in music and the cello.

The euphonic melody had attracted what looked like outsiders, and other ponies of the Manehattan community. They all stood around us, in awe, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever become a successful musician like my father.

On the day of the contest, at Manehattan City Music Hall, they, for the first time in years, ran out of seats. Many ponies were forced to stand to watch the contestants play. Luckily for us, Jazzmere had managed to get us front row seats. We didn’t see Jazzmere up on the stage until near the end. And when he got on stage, he turned the entire hall into something impossible to explain: I saw ponies began to cry because of how stirring it was; others sat there with their jaws dropped in silence.

When he finished his lament, ponies stood up and cheered for him in admiration. He was declared winner of the ECMC that year, and his name was put on a plaque, along with the other past winning contestants.

Yet—despite Jazzmere’s success, ponies were always doubting him. They had told him that musical talent wasn’t in his blood, or in his family’s heritage. That, instead, he should go to medical school and study biology—and become a doctor, like his parents were. Yet, he proved them wrong by winning one of the hardest music contests in all of Equestria. Even then, ponies still doubted his abilities.

When I started the fifth grade, we had a teacher who taught us about the history of music. His name was Crazy Strings, a short and stubby stallion with a pencil thin mustache, a quaver for a cutie mark, and a deep, raspy voice. He lectured us about the fundamentals of music, and how it came about in the first ages of Equestria. Then he made us memorize notes used in musical notation, telling us that we could only become a successful musician by creating something everypony would love.

“I want you to remember this, fillies: You can’t be a passionate musician, and be a successful one at the same time,” he said to us before the bell rang. “You cannot, and I’ll say it again, you cannot be a passionate musician and be successful!”

On my way home that day, I thought about what I had learned in class. I didn’t quite understand that statement he made: “You can’t be a passionate musician, and be a successful one at the same time.” Why couldn’t one be successful and passionate at the same time?

When I got home, I went to the living room to lie down and relax for a little while, but I noticed Vinyl, sitting on the couch, scrawling something on a piece of paper. She quickly concealed the piece of paper with her hooves when she saw me, and hid it under the couch.

“Um..h-hey, Octavia...how was school?” she asked me, her voice choking midway in her sentence.

I took a seat next to her before telling her what was on my mind. Vinyl was always the one I turned to for advice when I was unsure about something.

“It was...well, I’m not really sure,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Strings, my music teacher, had told us that we couldn’t be both a successful musician and a passionate one at the same time. Everypony in the class seemed to agree with him, but I didn’t. Now I’m not so sure if I’ll ever be a successful musician.”

“You not being successful? C’mon, Octy, don’t be crazy! You’re the most talented pony I know,” she said, getting up from her seat to stand in front of me. “Although I don’t go to school like you, I know what your teacher taught you today is totally stupid.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so. You’ll be a very successful musician! And you shouldn’t doubt that for a second,” Vinyl said with confidence. The way she spoke was unlike anything I had heard from her before. Never had I thought that she would be this persistent to help me.

“That means an awful lot to me, Vinyl,” I said, getting up to give her a warm hug. I just didn’t want to let her go. It felt like I was melting right into her hooves. Not wanting to let go, I slowly withdrew from the hug before we continued our conversation. “Perhaps I should go talk to my father about this. I’m sure he’d like to hear about my day.”

“I’m sure he’d like that. I’ll catch ya later for dinner,” Vinyl said as she went back to do what she was doing before I interrupted her.

I went upstairs to Jazzmere’s study and stood in front of the candle lit fireplace when I told him what Mr. Strings had taught us in class. Jazzmere was pouring himself a cup of tea from the tea-bar he had made at the corner of his study. He listened to me intuitively, bobbed his head, absorbing everything I was telling him about today, and took small sips from his teacup.

Sometimes when I told him things, I wondered if he was actually listening to me.

Then he took a seat with me standing in front of him, on his reholpulsered sofa made from synthetic material. He put his teacup on the side table, then propped me up on his lap.

“I noticed, from what you’ve told me, that you’re obviously confused with what you’re learning in school, from actual education,” Jazzmere said, his voice deep.

“But if what Mr. Strings said is true, does that mean I won’t be a successful musician?”

“Hmm.” Jazzmere picked up his cup of tea, took a small sip. “Do you want to know what I think about this?”

“Yes, of course, father.”

“I’ll tell you then,” Jazzmere said, “but I need you to understand this, and understand it now, Octavia: You’ll never learn anything from those senseless idiots, we call teachers.”

“You mean, Mr. Strings?”

“I mean all of them. I would set their university degrees on fire to have them dismissed as teachers,” Jazzmere said, before taking another quick sip. “I’ll have you know, they do nothing but fill your minds with absolute nonsense that you’ll never use in day-to-day life.”

“Then why do I go to school if I don’t learn anything that I’ll ever use?” I asked in between Jazzmere’s periodic sips. “I mean, I thought school was a place to learn.”

“Octavia, my dear, you asked me about being a successful musician, are you listening or not?”

“Yes, father. I’m sorry.”

“Good, now listen up. These buffoons who we call teachers nowadays aren’t doing their job correctly. If they were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?”

I kept my lips sealed, not saying a single word since he asked me to listen. But then I noticed that Jazzmere was heaving a sigh of impatience. If I had known he wanted me to answer his question, I would’ve. But he answered it for me.

“The answer is no to that question, Octavia. Anypony who thinks that you can’t be a successful musician because you have too much passion for playing music, should go back to kindergarden school. When somepony says music doesn’t come from the heart, they’re lying.

“And when you lie to ponies, you steal their right from the truth. And in this case, this idiotic Mr. Strings has done exactly that to you. Don’t believe anything he tells you from now on, all right?”

“Yes, father,” I mumbled, trembling with my speech. “But may, I ask you something?”

“You may,” Jazzmere replied, finishing his cup of tea.

“What if I don’t become a successful musician? I mean, there’s always the chance of failure, and I don’t know if I can do it,” I said, my voice hasty and nearly indecipherable. I looked down at the beige carpet that had a diamond pattern.

“You will be. Never doubt yourself, Octavia,” Jazzmere said simply. Then he propped me down from his lap and went back to his tea-bar again.

I watched him refill his teacup and wondered when we would talk again. For some reason, I always felt that my own father disliked me a little, but I never understood why.

Then Jazzmere turned around. “I think dinner is ready. Why don’t you go back downstairs and eat dinner with Vinyl while I have some alone time up here?”

“Yes, father,” I said, leaving quietly, my ears drooping down.

After I had dinner with Vinyl, we lay in front of the fireplace. It was a rainy night, and it was quite cold. Vinyl nuzzled into my chest as I softly held her by the fire. She was still a little rattled from the other night, and I promised that I would be her protector when Dusty wasn’t around. And I intended to keep that promise.

Eventually, Dusty called Vinyl up for bed. I gave her a quick kiss goodnight and told her I’d see her in the morning. Then I went to bed myself. But before I went to bed, I noticed Jazzmere’s door was slightly ajar. I saw him sitting behind his desk, on his wool chair, talking to somepony on the speakerphone. When I heard the voice on the other end, I knew who it was: Bon Bon. She was talking to Jazzmere in a really serious tone.

“So what’s really the problem, Jazzmere?”

“I-I don’t think I have a lot of faith in my daughter. She’s a very smart pony, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like she’s going to make a poor decision later on in life.”

“What? What got you to believe such rubbish? She’s a young filly for buck sake! How can you expect so much from her?” Bon Bon said. It sounded like her voice was starting to cut out from the rain.

I heard Jazzmere’s chair creak as he shifted on it. “I don’t know, Bon Bon. She told me earlier tonight that she doesn’t have much faith in herself to be a successful musician. If she doesn’t have faith in herself, why should I?” Jazzmere said, his voice thick and stern.

“Because you’re her father!”

“I don’t know, Bon Bon. Not to mention, she’s way too polite in social situations. She doesn’t seem to have any guts to stand up for what she believes in. I mean, she’s smart enough to tell the difference between a truth and a lie, yet she couldn’t tell that her teacher was lying to her today.”

“So what if she comes off as naïve. It’s expected with young fillies such as herself,” Bon Bon said. Her voice started to sound staticky, yet clear enough to be decipherable. “There’s nothing wrong with not having a mean side, especially for a pony such as herself. I can’t picture Octavia being mean to another pony. You’re overthinking this too much.”

“No, I don’t think I am.” Jazzmere sounded frustrated, almost angry.

“Do you have to always be this stubborn?”

“Arrgh! There’s just something missing in her. I know it,” Jazzmere said.

“Yes, a mean streak.”

“Stop playing with me, Bon Bon please.” Jazzmere inhaled deeply. Then he exhaled afterwards. “I just feel like a failure as a parent. I promised my wife, before she passed away right in front of me, I would do my absolute best to parent our dear Octavia.”

I didn’t want to hear anymore of their conversation, so I withdrew myself and went to bed. I heard the rain tapping against the roof. I couldn’t help but sob into my pillow remembering their conversation, every word of it. Eventually, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I went downstairs to make myself some toast and marmalade, my favourite breakfast. Vinyl usually woke up earlier than I did, so she was already at the table eating her breakfast. She saw the despondent look I had on my face and asked me if something was bothering me. I didn’t answer her, though.

So we ate our breakfast in silence.

Chapter Four: Undeniable Chemistry

Sisters at Heart

Lexical Writer

Chapter Four

Undeniable Chemistry

Dusty and Jazzmere grew up together as foal playmates—just like Vinyl and I grew up together a generation later. Jazzmere was always talking about all the obstreperous mischief he and Dusty used to create. Never in Jazzmere’s stories did I hear him refer to Dusty as a “brother” despite them growing up like brothers.

The interesting parallel was I never called Vinyl my sister. Not in the usual sense at least. Never mind that Vinyl taught me to ride a tetracycle, like sisters or brothers would do, or to teach each other how to play a specific instrument.

But Vinyl and I were fillies who had learned to crawl, speak, and walk together. We even fed on the same bottle and slept in the same crib. Nevertheless, Vinyl and I weren’t blood sisters—and nothing could ever change that. Nothing. I spend the first eleven years of my life growing up with Vinyl in that house. Sometimes, it felt like it was just one long hectic summer with her, running around my father’s pool, throwing water balloons at each other, playing hide and seek, understanding the ways of life, and learning how to play musical instruments.

We played our first musical instrument at the age of six—in the studio my father ran as a business in the Manehattan music district. When I played the cello for the first time, it didn’t go as well as I had anticipated. It sounded like somepony scratching on a chalkboard. But Vinyl didn’t have any impediments playing the acoustic guitar. Her calloused hooves struck the strings, full forced, syncing each note accurately, and I would sit in front of her, wondering how she did it.

I remember asking Jazzmere if I could play the way he did during the ECMC after a few at plays. Jazzmere burst into peals of deep laughter, and, when he could speak again, explained that it takes years for a somepony to master the cello—since it was one of the more arduous instruments to play.

As the years went by, we got better at our selective instruments and started to practise less and less in my father’s studio. Instead, we did other activities, playing tag and reading, when we weren’t at practice.

We played tag in the outskirts of Manehattan, near the meadows to the north. The open fields made it easy for us to play, and it was more enjoyable to play there than in our backyard. We ran and ran, all day, and neither of us could catch our breath, let alone each other. We kept playing. Playing and chasing each other around, losing our breath even more.

By the time we completely lost our breath, we had lain in amid meadows, wheezing, not being able to speak to each other. But as we lay still on the quiet meadow, Vinyl crept closer to me, poked my nose with her hoof. The fact that she touched me didn’t help. My heart was racing from the strenuous running we did, and her silken touch made it race even faster.

We drank cold water from a nearby stream, and it was among the freshest water I ever drank. It had come from the mountainous plateaus, the snowy peaks, just north of us. After several minutes of drinking, Vinyl grinned, leered, at me in a mischievous way. It looked like she was up to something, but she did a fine job of hiding it.

“Vinyl, why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, curious.

“Just admiring your cuteness,” Vinyl said nonchalantly, taking another drink.

“You’re too adorable, Vinyl. ” Then I went back for a last drink.

“Hey, Octy, look out!” Vinyl said, splashing me with cold water. “Ha ha, gotcha!”

“That’s re-ally…c-cold!” I said, my teeth chattering rapidly. “I knew you were up to something!”

Vinyl came up to me, gave me a hug. “I’m a cheeky imp. You know how I get.”

We played another game of tag, chasing each other until the sun set to the west, until we lost our breath again and were forced to go back home with our sheer exhaustion.

It wasn’t until the school year when my time with Vinyl was affected. She didn’t go to school because Dusty didn’t have a high enough income to pay for his daughter’s tuition at the private school in Manehattan.

Everypony had a daily routine when the school year came into play. When I shambled my way to the bathroom to get ready, Vinyl had already washed up, lit the living room fireplace, and prepared a breakfast for me, with the help of Dusty. It varied from day to day, but I had no complaints. She had always insisted on helping me during the school year because she wanted me to have a “stress-free life.” When I ate my breakfast and apprised the balderdash I learned in school the previous day, Vinyl made my bed and gathered my saddle bag I used for school.

Then, Jazzmere and I rode in his personal carriage, pulled by drivers, to my school. Vinyl stayed home with Dusty to help with the day's chores: washing the dishes, putting fresh water in the pool, harvesting the fresh fruit from the garden, and sweeping the patio.

After school, Vinyl and I met up, grabbed a biography of a famous musician or documents relating to music, and bustled to the left yew tree in our backyard. Then we sat down underneath it. Awhile back, Vinyl had used one of Jazzmere’s knives to carve our name into that very yew tree. It read: “Octavia & Vinyl will be best friends forever!” Those words made it official: that tree was ours, and our friendship would be evermore.

There were red, fleshy arils that fell from the yew tree, and we ate them when they were in season. Dusty had told us that we could only eat the red fleshy part of the berry since the seed in the middle was toxic. After we had eaten the plentiful berries, we wiped our hooves on the grass, staining it with a blood red colour. Then I read to her.

Sitting cross-hoofed, shadows of yew branches gyrating in Vinyl’s face, Vinyl, not knowingly, chomped on amid arils as I read material she couldn’t read herself. She grew up as an illiterate pony since she never went to school to learn how to read and write, so I read to her. She could, however, write simple things, and speak fluently when essential.

Despite her illiteracy, or maybe because of it, Vinyl was drawn to the enigma of words. I read her novels, poems, and biographies my father kept in his study, and, when I read a new poem or story to her, it never ceased to amaze her. We sat for hours under our yew tree until the sun set to the west, but Vinyl insisted that we had enough time for one more story, one more chapter, one more poetic verse.

The next day, I decided to try a different approach with Vinyl. Instead of me reading to her, I played a song with my cello from some sheet music my father had bought me to practise with. But I wasn’t playing from the sheet. I was turning the pages regularly, but I had abandoned the sheet music altogether and made my song forthwith. Vinyl was oblivious to this. She sat there, hind hooves and eyes wide open, her forehooves touching the grass, staring at our home as if she wasn’t coherent of what was going on around her.

After I had finished my song, I asked Vinyl if she liked the song I secretly extemporized, tittering building in my throat.

“Vinyl, what in Celestia’s name are you doing?” I said.

“That was one of the best songs you’ve ever played, Octy!” she said, jumping up and down.

I choked in my laughter trying to talk to her. “Really?”

“Really, really.”

“You’re too charming,” I muttered.

“It was great, Octavia! Without a doubt!”

“Charming,” I repeated, a little agog, feeling like a young pony who just got her cutie mark.

Walking back to the house with Vinyl, perpetual thoughts were going through my head. Best song you’ve ever played, she’d said.

That same night, I wrote my first music piece, after Vinyl went to bed, using the chromatic scale, and it took me an hour to write. It was a sad lament relating to a story I read to Vinyl once. The story was about two ponies who were happily together, but, when they grew old together, they developed an unknown disease, and neither of them remembered each other. They died without knowing their lover was right next to them. The lament consisted mostly of minor strings, and it ended with a shift in the pitches to deepen the tone.

Then I climbed the stairs and made my way to my father’s study with the three sheets I wrote my music piece on. Jazzmere was sitting down on his couch reading a newspaper when I came in.

“What is it, Octavia?” Jazzmere said dryly, turning around to face me, his hooves touching the arms of the sofa. His glare made my throat dry, but I cleared it when I approached him and told him about the song I wrote.

“Well, that’s good now isn’t it? Practice like that is good for you. May I see it?”

I stood in front of him for what seemed, to this day, the longest minute of my life. There was an uneasy feeling in the air, and it got denser as each second passed, making it nearly suffocating, and my heart raced, beating more violently.

“This is quite good,” Jazzmere said, looking dumbfounded to see such a piece from me. “It’s very good.”

Then he said nothing more. He didn’t even ask me why I wrote it, or what the song was about. He gave me back the sheets, got up from the sofa, and walked to the door. But he didn’t leave yet because Bon Bon was standing in the doorway.

“I was looking for you,” Bon Bon said. “You ready to go? I need to be home soon.”

“Yeah, I’m going to get ready now.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh, Bon Bon.”

“Yes?”

“Good business talk this evening. I enjoyed it. I’ll see you downstairs when I’m ready,” he said, leaving.

At that moment, I collapsed to the ground with tears pooling in my eyes. Convulsive gasps suffocated me with each breath I took. Bon Bon, when she could, always came to me with reassuring words when she saw me in a despondent mood. It was never my father who asked me how I was doing. I always had a feeling that he expected others to cheer me up, in spite of me being his daughter. It was either Dusty, Vinyl or Bon Bon who asked how I was doing. Never my father.

“Octavia, please don’t cry,” Bon Bon sad, kneeling before me.

“You heard everything?” I asked, rubbing my eyes while trying to sit up properly.

“I did, yes.”

“I don’t think he meant any of it,” I croaked.

Bon Bon wiped a tear that was streaking down my face with a tissue she had with her. “You know how your father can sometimes get. May I see what you’ve written, Octavia?”

Before I said what was on my mind, I pushed her hoof away and smiled. “You’d really look it over for me?”

“I’d love to look it over for you. I took advanced music classes with your father in university, so it shouldn’t be a problem. And coming from you, Octavia, it has to be awesome.”

Once those words registered in my head, I gave her my sheets. “Thank you, Bon Bon. It means a lot to me.”

Later that night, when the sky dwindled from a pale blue sky to a star-painted one, Jazzmere left to take Bon Bon home. On her way out, Bon Bon handed me a note along with my sheets. She gave me a smile of a good impression.

“This is for you. Look over your music sheets again before you read my note.” Then when she made her way to the front door, she turned around and said one word that meant everything to me: bravo.

After they had left, I went to my room to lie on my bed. I read her note over and again. It read like this:

Octavia, I enjoyed reading the piece you wrote here. When I got the first-line playing in my head, it was heart melting. You have a gifted talent. From what I learned and experienced in university, writing music, through musical notation, takes years of practice to do well. You have done just that with your first try at the age of ten. And I can tell you why. You have a passion. And you clearly showed that in your piece. I highly encourage that you continue to write more songs. And when you do, please show them to me.

The door is always open to you with me. Your friend Bon Bon.

Reading her note enkindled the fiery confidence I needed again. And with that, I grabbed my sheet music and rushed to Vinyl’s and Dusty’s room. They’d been asleep for awhile now, since it was quite late, but I wanted to play my song to Vinyl when I still had my slowly decaying credence.

I shook Vinyl, trying to wake her up, but I also took the precaution not to disrupt Dusty. She slowly rubbed her weary eyes in confusion and stretched her stubby forehooves. “W-what time is it, Octavia?”

“It’s late, but that’s not important right now,” I said, clearing my throat quietly. “I want to play you a song.”

“But, Octavia, it’s late.”

“This song is special. I wrote it myself, and I want you to hear it.”

“If you wrote it, it’s gotta be dope,” Vinyl said, jumping out of bed.

When we got to the living room and got settled in, I acroed my bow against the strings of my cello, in front of the crackling fire, and the notes played out just as I had imagined. When the song came to an end, Vinyl silently, but lightly, bashed her forehooves together. The way she grinned with her wide eyes told me everything she thought of it.

“Well done, Octy! Bravo! Bravo!” she said, her expression beaming.

“You liked it?” I asked, surprised.

“I loved it! It was, how did you put it…charming!”

“You exaggerate too much, Vinyl,” I said, loving her for it.

“I’m not kidding! You’ll be an amazing musician I just know it,” she said. “Did you show your dad?”

Those last five words punctured through me—worse than a thousand acupuncture needles ever could, and it left me in a hunched, curled, form on the ground. Tremors radiated out from my stomach to my extremities, and I wanted it to be over. And I knew what to do. Because Vinyl could take me to paradise—a place where I could forget about life and be with somepony who cares about me.

“Octavia! What’s wrong? Why are you on the ground?” Vinyl said, her excitement fading to genuine concern. “Was it something I said?”

I kept quiet because I was about to do something that’s would change my life. Actually, our life. I told her to sit with me in front of the fire. Neither of us spoke nor took our eyes away from each other. The way she looked at me was invigorating. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I pressed my lips against hers, and that’s when she shrieked. Her lips were dry and cracked, but they quickly moistened as I kissed her.

By the sounds of it, I had thought, when she squealed, that she would immediately shove me away, run upstairs, and tell Dusty that I had kissed her. But she didn’t. She kissed me, and my blood boiled, which electrocuted me. As minutes went by, each kiss filled me up with her warmth. And then she finally did it: she took me to paradise. Our lips were glued together, and I never wanted it to be over.

The fire eventually diminished down to embers, leaving us in the quiet, dim room. Vinyl let me lay on her chest as we silently endured each other’s company in the stillness of the night.

And that’s when our lives changed forever.

Chapter Five: Our Deepest Fears

Sisters at Heart

Lexical Writer

Chapter Five: Our Deepest Fears

The next morning, I found myself still on the floor, where Vinyl and I had our special moment, and I was still lying on her. But something was different: Jazzmere wasn’t home. If he did come home last night, he would have broken Vinyl and I apart, and we would have been lectured on how being intimate with a pony of the same gender wasn’t a moral declaration in society.

Instead, I woke up to a blanket being on top of us, the fireplace rekindled, and the fresh aroma of oatmeal and toast. Dusty didn’t have a problem with Vinyl and I being intimate, considering that he put a blanket on us—after seeing us together in each other’s comfort—so why should my father have one?

Then again, Dusty had a recalcitrant attitude when it came to the views my father had. Dusty had a more liberal standpoint than my father did, and they would get into heated arguments, Dusty often being the one who gets angry, about topics such as this.

In these types of situations, I wished Dusty had fathered me instead of Jazzmere, because Dusty was not only more understanding, but he was also more interested in me.

Sometimes I imagined giving Dusty a hug, crying into his chest while telling my father that I hated him, in hopes I would feel Dusty’s gentle, warm touch to make my foreboding vanish.

After I had that thought, I bolted to the bathroom and threw up in the sink, releasing the revolting guilt that built up inside of me from the thought. Vinyl, apparently, wasn’t too far behind me, and she hasted to the bathroom to see if I was well.

“You doin’ okay there, Octy?" Vinyl asked.

“I’m quite all right, thank you,” I said, rinsing the sink. “I’m comfortable with you here.”

“Is this about what happened last night?” Vinyl asked, walking in.

“No, not at all. I have no regrets with what we did last night,” I said. “It felt good. Really good.”

“I know, right? I was surprised you’d make a move like that, Octavia. I didn’t expect that at all, you crazy filly.”

“You make me happy, Vinyl,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “How about we go get breakfast? I’m sure you’re hungry, and I think Dusty is calling us.”

Vinyl wrapped a hoof around me and smiled. “Let’s get some grub.”

We found our breakfast laid out neatly on the dining table: hot oatmeal, dry toast, and apple juice. Dusty was already at the table eating his breakfast. Vinyl and I took our seats opposite of each other, so we weren’t sitting next to each other for obvious reasons.

“Thank you for making breakfast, Dusty,” I said. “And for putting a blanket on us when we were asleep. My father wouldn’t have been too happy to see Vinyl and me sleeping together.”

“Yeah, that was cool of you dad, thanks,” Vinyl said, smiling. “Means a lot to us.”

“I was happy to do it. I know how close you to are, and it doesn’t bother me one bit that you two were intimate,” Dusty said, finishing his meal.

I took a sip of my juice. “Say, where is my father? He didn’t come home last night, did he?”

“I believe he attended a party of some sorts last night. Not sure where the party was held, though. He may still be there. That’s everypony’s guess.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, short sobs heaving between my words.

“He’ll be back, Octavia, don’t worry,” Dusty said, reaching out to me with a hoof. “Say, rather than being stuck in here all day, would you two like to tag along with me to the market in a bit? I have to do some errands, and it’s quite a nice day.”

“Pop, Octavia and I love being outside. Of course, we’ll tag along!” Vinyl said.

My smile broadened. That was another thing I loved about Vinyl. She always knew when to say the right answer when it was called for.

“Okay, then. You two go get ready while I clean up these dishes.”

Vinyl and I went to our rooms and got our saddlebags. Before we left, I had taken the liberty to take some bits that were on my father’s desk, so I could get a present for Vinyl.

We crossed the residential streets and were trekking our way to the busy Manehattan market. Garrulous ponies surged through the many aisles of the merchandised kiosks, articulating indecipherable words. There were sale associates left, right, and centre, trying to sell their newest items in stock. When we approached the market square, Dusty had stopped us midway.

“All right you two. Meet me back here in an hour, okay? Be safe. Oh, and take these,” he said, giving us some bits, not knowingly I already had some. “If you find something you like among the millions of kiosks here, get something nice for yourselves. See you in a bit.”

Vinyl and I hustled to the empty side of the market, to get to the kiosks that sold items to our liking: musical accessories, aluminium balloons, and homemade candy. Vinyl usually cavorted at the sight of homemade candy, a specialty around here, for Manehattan had been, and still is, known for its famous confectioners.

We paced through the multitude of kiosks until, suddenly, a rock struck the back of Vinyl’s head. We whirled our heads around, and my heart sank into the abyss. Bulldozer and two of his friends, Chains and Bloody Knuckles, were approaching us.

Bulldozer was the son of one of my father’s friends, Arrowsmith, a fletcher and blacksmith. His family—despite them being rich—lived in the slums of Manehattan, place where you could get mugged at night, or even killed. If you were a filly or colt growing up in the Manehattan slums, you knew about Bulldozer’s renowned stainless-steel brass horseshoes, crafted by his father, though—hopefully—not through personal experience.

Born to a rich mother, and a devious father, Bulldozer, with a yellow mane, and dark green coat, grew up to be a relentless colt. He towered over the other fillies and colts, tormenting them, physically and mentally, with his brass horseshoes. He attended my school when grade three started, but the principal expelled him the same day for his unspeakable act.

On the first day of grade three—during lunchtime in the cafeteria—I saw him beat another poor colt over his lunch. I will never forget how he grinned—how he laughed—as if he took abhorrent pleasure in his act—as he plummeted the poor colt unconscious.

Flanked by his obeying friends, they roamed around my neighbourhood, like evil minions about to commit sinister acts, through its eager-to-please entourage. His views were purely by law—and, if you needed a little education, those brass horseshoes were the perfect teaching device.

And now he was heading for Vinyl and me, grinning, kicking small pebbles our way.

“Hey, it’s my favourite dykes. How's it going queers?” Bulldozer asked, waving. That had been two of his favourite insults he used against us, merely because Vinyl and I were never apart. Vinyl retreated behind me as the three stallions closed in on us. Their shadows blocked the sunlight, beaming on us, and all we could see were the grins on their face, silhouetted by the sun.

Bulldozer tipped his chin to Vinyl. “Hey, Vinyl,” he said. “How’s your cracker of a father doing?” Vinyl didn’t say anything and took another step back behind me.

“What do you want, Bulldozer?” I asked, taking a step back too.

“What I want is for you two to make out right here in the middle of the market for us. That’d be hot,” he said, laughing among his friends.

“You have a twisted mind,” I said, stammering. “Just leave us alone, all three of you, or else I’ll tell my father about this.”

“Or else I’ll tell my father about this,” Bulldozer said, mimicking me in a whiny voice. “Did you hear what she just said boys?”

Chains and Bloody Knuckles nodded at Bulldozer’s question, their grin widening. They stepped closer, and each step increased my heartbeat.

I wondered if anypony would hear me scream in this remote section of the market. I wished we stayed with Dusty instead.

“Your father doesn’t care about you, one bit.”

“Of course he cares! He’s my father!” I snapped, scowling. “He loves me, as his daughter.”

Bulldozer snickered. “Oh, really? You think he cares about you? Then why didn’t he come home to his precious daughter last night? I’ll tell you why. He was at my birthday party last night.”

“You’re lying!” I said, whimpering. “Why should I believe you?”

“You don’t have to believe me. You could just ask your father. He’d tell you the same thing I did.” Bulldozer guffawed with his friends as they exchanged hoof-bumps with each other.

For a brief second, nothing came to me as I stood in front of the towering stallion. Bulldozer gave me a cheeky grin and crept closer to me. His glare made me quiver, and I whimpered at everything he had said and done to me.

“Oh, look boys, is the little filly gonna cry now? Want me to get you a bottle?” Bulldozer said, rubbing his eyes like a crying filly would.

Suddenly, there was a rapid flurry motion behind me. Out the corner of my eye, I saw Vinyl reach out for something on a kiosk and quickly retracted her motion. Bulldozer’s eyes flicked at the movements going on behind me, and his grin widened. I noticed the same look on Chains and Bloody Knuckles as they both witnessed what was going on behind me.

I turned around and saw Vinyl holding a short bow with an arrow. Vinyl had pulled the cock of the arrow all the way back and targeted it at Bulldozer. The arrow had a blunt arrowhead, yet it still appeared as deadly as a broad arrow. Vinyl’s hooves trembled from the sheer strain of pulling the bowstring back, and beads of sweat trailed down the side of her face as she concentrated on keeping her aim steady.

“You leave her alone right now, Bulldozer,” Vinyl said. “Or else you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

Bulldozer burst into peals of laughter again. “You’re gonna shoot me with that? You gotta be joking,” he said. “Put it down, you loose dyke.”

“Get lost, Bulldozer, I don’t want to hurt you!”

Bulldozer smiled. “Did you forget that there are three of us and only two of you?”

Vinyl nodded at the question but didn’t reply. To an outsider, Vinyl didn’t look scared, at all, yet she feared Bulldozer and his friends immensely. Her face told me everything I needed to know, for I knew all of its subtle nuances, since the day we were born, knew every twitch and flicker that rippled across it, and it told me that she had been scared. Scared plenty.

“There may be four of you, but I’m the one holding the bow with an arrow here. And if you make another move on Octavia, you’ll be the laughing stock of Manehattan.” The way she spoke her words restrained me to keep quiet.

Bulldozer’s mouth twitched. Chains and Bloody Knuckles watched this exchange with something akin to wonderment. Vinyl had challenged the great Bulldozer. She humiliated him. And, worse of all, he was humbled by a girl. Bulldozer glanced from the readied arrow to Vinyl. He searched her face with every detail it had. What he found must have convinced him of how serious Vinyl’s intentions were because he stepped back away from us, because his grin, finally, diminished to the humiliating defeat.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, you stupid dyke,” Bulldozer said with an icy glare. “This isn’t over yet, mark my words. Let’s go boys.” They all retreated, stepped back away from us, and ran in the distance, eventually fading to a black dot.

Once they were out of my sight, I rushed over to Vinyl, making her drop the bow and arrow, and clasped her in my hooves. Her silken mane slid through my hoof as I patted it. We both collapsed to the ground, and Vinyl held me in her stubby forehooves.

“Vinyl…he can’t be telling the truth! He…”

My throat closed tightly, and each word pitched higher than the last. I wept into her chest, and my cheeks itched from the tears that were streaming down my face.

“Don’t worry about those idiots, Octy. We’ll get through this together,” Vinyl said, her voice soft. “I’ll always be here for you. I’ll always be here for you…”

After I had collected myself, we both got up from the ground. I turned around to focus my attention to Vinyl, who tried to tuck the bow and arrow in her saddlebag with her quivering hoof. It took her more than five tries to put them into her saddlebag, so I helped her with doing so. Neither of us said anything as we walked back to the market square in trepidation—certain that Bulldozer told the truth of my father’s whereabouts last night.

We got back to the market square and met up with Dusty. He had been standing near a street bench, levitating two paper bags with his magic. We ran up to him, and Vinyl gave her father an immediate hug.

“Dad, dad! Bulldozer and his friends…they said mean stuff to us and wouldn’t leave us alone,” Vinyl said, letting go.

Dusty placed the levitating bags down on the adjacent bench. “Wait, Bulldozer? The one that beats up fillies and colts? What did he say to you?”

“Yeah, that’s him! He said that Octavia’s father never cares about her. Then he went on about how her father went to his birthday party last night.”

Dusty focused his eyes on me. His friendly look made my heartbeat pump at irregular intervals. “Is Vinyl telling me the truth? Did he say those things to you?”

“Well…he did say…” I hesitated in telling him.

Dusty stepped up to me, put a hoof on my shoulder, and smiled. “You can tell me, Octavia. Whatever happened between you and Bulldozer, we'll get to the bottom of it. I promise.”

At that point, I wrapped my forehooves around Dusty, hugging him. “Vinyl is telling the truth! Bulldozer did say those awful things! And I…” My words stammered, and I couldn’t pull myself together.

“Shh, it’ll be all right, Octavia, don’t you worry,” Dusty said pulling me in an embrace. "I know your father better than anypony else in this world. And he wouldn’t do or say such a thing about you. Shh, you'll see. Everything will be, okay.”

I buried my head into his warm chest and wept, again. Dusty held me close, told me everything would be fine, and rocked me back and forth until my tears dried, until my quivering stopped, and my frantic yells dwindled to indecipherable mumbles. In his hooves, I had forgotten everything that happened that day. And that was good.

Chapter Six: Our Lives to Come