I Die at the End

They call me Sunshine.

Ironic, really. My coat is grey, my mane and tail black. Only my eyes shine, a brilliant gold in a dark landscape.

But that's just when I kill somebody.

My eyes are what got me into this mess into the first place, strapped down to a table, harsh lights seeming to burn away at my very essence.

They say my eyes used to be blue.

They also say that I'm a homicidal madpony.

They want to know why, though which "why" never really mattered to me.

They ask me about my past, about my urges, but they're never satisfied with the answers.

Why ask if they won't even listen to me?

I here ponies talking, just out of sight.

Hm. I can't move my head.

I don't like this.

I need to be able to move, to run, to jump, to hunt, to kill.

I need to feel the blood soaking my fur, my hooves crushing somepony's throat.

They say I killed my sister. That I attacked her without provocation.

They know nothing.

I had to kill her. She would have gotten me first.

Her name was Mockingbird. I don't know why this is significant to me. She tried to kill me, too.

I killed her with a pillow, slowly suffocating her.

A terrible way to die. No blood. A long, prolonged death.

I want to die quickly, with barely any pain. I want, and try, to grant others the death I wish upon myself.

Is that fair or equal? That I would do unto others that I wish upon myself?

Hm.

They stopped talking. I can hear the clopping of hooves as they approach.

The sound sounds fake, synthetic.

Wrong.

Maybe a plastic tile floor?

I can't see them, even when the clopping stops.

Heh. Clopping.

I can't move my head to look.

Why did they strap my head?

The straps feel like leather.

It has to be synthetic.

They hate leather.

Why are ponies so against leather when they adore silk? Animals die for both materials.

They're asking me something.

"Can you repeat that?" I implore.

My voice echoes too much in my head.

"Are you comfortable, Mr. Sunshine?" They ask me.

"No," I reply stoically. My left hind leg is falling asleep, pins and needles seeming to poke and prod all along my leg.

They laugh. It sounds forced.

Fake.

Liars.

One is a mare. She sounds young.

Sadistic.

Like my sister.

She needs to die.

The other is a stallion. His breathing is heavy. He's old, tired.

Needs to be put to rest.

"Now, please relax, Mr. Sunshine," the mare tells me.

"It will all be over soon."

I feel a prick in my foreleg, quickly followed by a feeling of dizziness and exhaustion.

And cold. So very cold.

They drugged me.

Drugs have negative side effects. Don't do drugs.

If a drug is something that chemically alters a body, is food a drug?

Why don't ponies want foals to eat?

What was I thinking about?

It's hard to think...

Drugs. Yes, drugs.

They plan on "treating" me.

They think they can cure me of insanity.

How can they cure what isn't there? I don't do the same thing over and over, expecting different results.

I am sane. They are not.

Wait.

The sensation is wrong.

And they told me it would all be over.

I'm going to die.

Or just sleep until my heart decides it's had enough dicking around.

I feel a sensation of falling.

It's dark. I can't see or hear the doctors anymore.

I don't like the dark.

Scary things hide in the dark.