The Waning Dusk

SIX YEARS HENCE

⁂

Harold woke to the smell of anaesthetic, the steady tones of a heart monitor, and the sound of pressurized air. His eyes flickered open, but were met with a blurred grey. His thoughts were dim. Slowly, as if weighted, he attempted memory. His mind flashed with colours and stung with sounds. No completed thoughts found their way to him.

He lay still, and silent, as colour slowly filled his vision. Then shapes and textures. He saw, above him, soft florescent lights on a white ceiling. He knew this place.

A minute later, he realized he was in a hospital, and he thought of Margret.

It was another half hour still when a nurse came to check on him.

“Mmr Pksfll!” she said, surprised. “Dttr mmfffls rrhnaa.” He glanced towards her and felt exhaustion. His eyes floated to the ceiling, and he rested them. He wanted to close them, but something ached in his chest, almost desperately telling him to stay awake. He needed. But he didn't know what.

He waited.

A doctor strode through the door. He spoke firmly, but slow and calm. “Do you know your name?”

The words came to him clearly, but the meaning was harder to find. It took a few seconds for his thoughts to form, and he gave a slow nod.

“What is your name?”

He didn't move. He wanted to speak; his lips quivered, but he couldn't find the words.

The doctor's voice came in slow and steady. “Try to remain calm.”

He felt stress rise up through his throat and he swallowed. He was deeply confused. His breath caught, and he slowly relaxed into his bed.

His voice was high and muffled. “Harold,” he paused, “Joseph Piggs.”

⁂

A strange creature ran in the night. It smashed through branches, swaying and bumping It's strange, bloated figure through the forest. Ponies followed It. Outside of the occasional shout, they were silent. They were focused and relentless, following the broken path It made as closely as possible.

Soon they came to an enormous, fast-flowing river, where the creature was trying to haul itself to a large, rocky island with a small cottage. The ponies jumped in after It, and as It grasped at the shore, It's hooves slipped on the rock, and It fell into the river. It flailed, as It's bloated body made It unable to keep It's head above water and was pulled down.

The ponies caught up and between six of them began to pull at It. It shook in panic, turning and squirming to get away, until one of the ponies hit It twice over the head with a large baton.

A voice spoke from the island, “Oh no, now that won't do at all. Dear me. Very unseemly.”

The water around the island began to tremble, and, as the ponies stared on in shock, the island rose from the middle of the river, the water pushing away from it and sweeping them downstream in a massive torrent. As they struggled to stay afloat, back where they were forced from they saw an enormous crab, with trees and a cottage atop it, dangling It in a massive, rocky claw.

From atop the crab, an elderly stallion stood staring down at the unconscious creature with a disapproving glare.

“Not good at all. You need a right proper cleaning, that's what.”

⁂

Harold spent most of his time trying to accomplish simple things. Eating healthy amounts of food. Walking more than ten feet. Understanding full sentences. He sometimes put things in his mouth without thinking, or had difficulty with speech and movement.

He hadn't realized his life wasn't his until the third week had passed. He remembered well what happened to his own father, when he was struck by disease in his time. He had first stopped playing badminton. Then he had difficulty eating certain foods. And soon the loud, argumentative man had been reduced to little more than a heartbreakingly sincere thanks for the help he received in using the washroom.

Harold hadn't thought much of his father at all since he died. But having felt such an incredible sense of freedom at having his catheter removed made him wilt in shame when, for the first time in twenty years, his voice reminded him so strongly of a man who had lost all care for pride.

Harold didn't want to lose his pride. And that scared him most of all, because he knew that it was his pride that had made his father who he was.

He didn't want to be his father, not after, not before his disease. But he was afraid that he had already become him.

He couldn't become that man. His daughter had to know he would never be that man.

He waited until his doctor arrived.

She walked through the door with a clipboard and a smile.

“Good afternoon, Harold. Are you feeling alright?”

“I'd like to talk to my daughter,” said Harold. Dr. Kilroy paused. She sighed, then spoke.

“When you first woke up, we went through the procedures of contacting your known relatives. There were very few. Your mother suffered a serious heart attack and passed away some years ago.”

“How,” Harold paused. “How many years ago?”

Dr. Kilroy set down the clipboard. “As the doctor of a recovering coma patient, it is required that talk of the date is restricted until the patient has first largely recovered their mental faculties and is in a rational state of mind. As your doctor I can officially say I think you've recovered to that point. I do need your consent to mention it, though.”

“Please,” said Harold.

“Your mother passed away four years ago, two years after your entry to Toronto General Hospital.” Harold was shocked at the times given, and was saddened by the news of his mother's death. He nearly forgot why he asked.

“And my daughter?”

“Your daughter declined to see you.”

Harold blinked. He felt very, very strange. Like something slipped deep in his chest. He felt thin and tight.

“I see.”

“If you'd like, we can try to contact her again.” The doctor seemed genuinely concerned. “It's been a few months.”

“No, that's quite alright,” said Harold. He leaned back into his bed. “I think I'd like to be alone right now.”

⁂

It woke to the sound of boiling water and the smell of freshly baked bread. It was lying in a soft bed, wrapped in a thick, warm patchwork quilt. The room was very small, with only space enough for the bed, tucked into a corner, with a bedstand at its foot and a bookcase beside the door to its right. The walls were made of thick, gnarled wood, and a window above the headrest was letting a little light in through a set of excessively jolly flower print curtains. It stood from the bed and felt the world shift back and forth slowly, as if It was on a boat, or in a rocking chair.

It looked out the window and saw several squid swimming through the air, being chased by a black cat running after them. The cat leaped through the air, catching one of the squid, which promptly exploded. 'Oh,' It thought, 'A dream.'

It was scared by this. It did not enjoy It's dreams. They were cold, and scary. It did not want to find out what about this dream would be cold and scary, so it crawled back into the bed and under the covers and waited to wake up.

It ignored the sounds and smells beyond the door.

*ggrrrwlwl*

It tried very hard to ignore the smells beyond the door. It's stomach tried especially hard.

*bbrrblwl*

It decided the bedsheets were possibly dangerous, as this was a dream, and they might swallow It up like a fresh loaf of bread. It left the evil bed, creeping closer to the door and the smell of a fresh loaf of bread.

It opened the door slowly.

Through the crack, It could see a counter, with a stove and a sink, and in between It's doorway and the counter, a small table, just big enough for the two sets of a plate and cutlery on it.

Set in the middle of the table was a fresh loaf of bread.

It stuck It's head out and looked to either side for anyone else. Nopony was around, so It hobbled over to the table and laid down. It snatched up the bread and began eating as fast as possible. The bread was warm, and soft, with a taste of something flavourful It couldn't recognize. It was magnificent. Once It had finished the entire loaf, It's stomach felt nice and full. It was a very strange feeling, one that It was determined to enjoy for as long as possible before waking up.

“I see you've woken up. I hope your bed wasn't uncomfortable; I only have the one, I'm afraid.”

It froze up in fear, hearing the elderly stallion walking closer. It curled up to seem small, and unimportant.

“Strange. I could've sworn I made a cinnamon loaf this morning. Do excuse me, I've been quite a poor host, not making breakfast; it seems I'm a little more on in my years than I thought. You wait right here, I'll be back with something to eat.”

It heard a few clanks, and the stallion left the room. After several moments It uncurled. A teapot, two saucers and two cups had been left on the table. The tea smelled very nice.

It heard hoofsteps approaching and curled up again.

“Well. It seems I haven't thought this through at all. I can't even fit this all on the table, it's simply too small. That's alright, we'll just leave the teapot on the floor when we aren't using it.”

It heard several more clanks and hoped desperately the stallion wouldn't take too long eating his breakfast before going away.

“Mmfh. Uegh. Well. Seems I completely overdid the toast. Sorry, dear, I'm rubbish at cooking. I knew a mare once who made the most fantastic brioche au fromage, picked me right up in the mornings. Ah, but that was long ago in Prance. Couldn't stay, you understand, never managed to pick up the language. Kept thinking the chefs wanted to kill me when they asked if I had found the huile d'olive.”

The stallion seemed to pause in speaking.

“Don't know any Prench, eh? Don't worry about it, it was a pretty bad joke anyways. Would you like some tea? I understand if you don't want the toast, I'm sure I have some muffins or a baguette lying around somewhere.”

The stallion paused.

“Well. I suppose you are rather exhausted. Some stoicism is understandable. But, if I may be so frank my dear, you are being perhaps a little rude.”

The stallion looked at It closely.

“That isn't good for your back, you know. Ponies aren't armadillos.”

It did not know what an armadillo was, but didn't really want to find out. It wanted this dream to end. It did not like waiting for the cold and scary to find it. It did not want to see this stallion. It very much did not want him to see It.

“Stop that at once. I went through the effort of pulling you out of that river, soggy and cold, dried you down and gave you a bed for the night. And while my breakfasts might not be the finest this side of Equestria, I at least deserve the courtesy of seeing you face to face.”

It did not like that idea at all, and It curled up tighter, turning away from the voice of the stallion.

“Very well, then.” The stallion stood, walked around the table to face It, and sat down again. “I shall simply have to imagine. You are a beautiful mare, with big brown eyes. You have soft fur, and your muzzle comes down to a cute little nose. Now, in the meantime, I shall enjoy my view of your luscious face while I drink my tea.”

It heard loud slurping from directly in front of It. After a minute of this, It became very suspicious of this dream, and how real it seemed, and how long it had gone on.

Slowly, carefully, It uncurled, looking at the stallion in front of It.

He was a light blue pegasus with blue-green eyes and a long mane, white with age. He was very small, but his confidant posture and lean body made up for this somewhat. It noticed his left wing was crooked and wondered if he could fly or not.

As It looked to him slurping his tea, he looked back at It.

He saw a young earth pony mare, although it was honestly hard to tell. Her body was bloated, and her legs were of different lengths. She had a tattered grey-green coat and a yellow mane, which swelled at a large lump on her back. Her jaw wasn't straight with her face and was tilted open, showing several overgrown teeth. She had brown eyes, one of which was smaller and partially covered by a large growth that distended the left side of her brow and face. They were deep and sad with years she shouldn't have had.

The old stallion, without an ounce of sarcasm, spoke softly, “As I said. A beautiful, brown eyed mare.”

She stared at him and cried.

⁂

“Harold?” his doctor asked. “I've brought Dr. Steiner to see you.”

A large, bearded man stepped through the door.

Harold greeted him. “Hello, Dr. Steiner.”

“Hello, Harold.” Dr. Steiner sat in a chair by the door. He nodded to Dr. Kilroy, who left the two alone, closing the door behind him.

The room was very quiet.

“How are you today, Harold?”

“I'm good, thanks.”

“Will you take a seat?” said Dr. Steiner, gesturing to the bed across from him. Harold sat down.

Dr. Steiner took out a small, brown notebook and flipped several pages.

“Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“I have, yes.”

“Mm-hm. Good, good. I heard you visited the senior's home yesterday. Quite the adventure. Did you make any new friends?”

“Mr. Tony was very nice.”

“Wonderful.” Harold didn't think so. He didn't think so at all. He felt small, and unimportant.

Dr. Steiner adjusted his seat.

“I'm going to ask you a few questions now about what happened to you. I want to find out how you feel. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I want to recall what happened the night you crashed. Take as much time as you feel you need, there's no rush.”

He had hit his little girl. He hit her and went driving. He hadn't known what to think, or what to do. He simply left. He drove away. Harold's mouth started moving in a very strange way.

“Are you alright, Harold?” asked Dr. Steiner. Harold felt like everything had gone horribly wrong.

“I'm not a child.”

“I'm sorry. What do you mean?”

Harold was hurt. “Fuck you. There's nothing to say. I'm not a child. I don't need help to chew my food. I don't need someone to come with me to the bathroom. I don't need someone telling me what decisions I should make. I don't need you telling me how wonderful it is that someone gave me a second glance at some crusty sack of senior citizens.” Harold's heart beat hard in his chest. He felt strained. He sunk into his seat on the bed and felt empty.

The doctor slowly set down the notebook on his lap. “I'd think there's quite a lot to say.”

Harold had a headache. He felt so much like he was right. He knew he wasn't. He sometimes couldn't eat his food. He often couldn't walk. And more than ever he was far from able to make his own decisions. It hurt him very much to know that.

He felt lonely and anxious.

And still he remembered.

Somewhere, far drifted from the highway, he swerved and crashed into a large, white horse. He felt the briefest sense of vertigo as his body flew towards the expanding airbags from the unbuckled seat.

He fell unconscious. And left his only daughter alone. Without a mother or a father.

He hadn't even introduced her to his own parents.

Who would take care of her? Who would feed her and clothe her?

“Harold?”

He looked over towards the doctor, blinking.

“I can see you've a lot of things to think over. I'll give you some time to collect yourself. A nurse should be by in a half-hour to check on you; if you need anything, just let them know.”

Harold nodded slowly. He lay back on the bed, relaxed, and the world faded away.

⁂

Harold was on a bed, falling. He remembered this. He had fallen asleep in the car.

He did not enjoy the feeling at all.

The inky sky above him felt cold and filled with fear. He thought sometimes he saw things moving in the blackness, but he couldn't tell.

Then something moved in the blackness.

A small fuzz of dark blue was barely distinguishable. It seemed slow at first, but he quickly realized it was only very far away. He felt scared.

It drew closer, and as it did, it began forming into a distinct shape. An enormous horse, dark as midnight, with a cloak of stars trailing behind it, growing larger with every breath he gulped. His fear grew, and he felt an unbearable pressure, as if he was being pressed into his bed.

He stared into its eyes.

Harold was a man who believed that the world was complex and impossible to understand. He was not very imaginative, and he tried his best not to be.

He felt very much that his limited descriptive tools were woefully inadequate then.

He felt as if, were an ant atop an elephant, and the elephant atop the tallest mountain, upon the greatest continent on a massive planet within a distant galaxy being drawn into an endless swirling singularity, he would have been a small piece of leaf the ant had eaten for lunch that day.

And the universe the rage inside those eyes.

He clutched his sheets with aching hands.

And woke suddenly.

He was falling, on a bed. The stars were strewn above him, and the wind whistled sharply across his body, his sheets flying off the bed, floating away above him. The stars were a beautiful and brilliant sight, more numerous than he had ever seen before, swirling elegantly through the peaceful night sky, framing the massive and delicate moon.

He had barely the time to realize the body the wind flew across was not his own before the bed hit the ground.

It smashed to pieces, and a familiar agony jumped through his new and strange body. As he lay there, his muzzle cracked open on the bedside, he saw a seagull glide down onto his chest. It waddled up to his face and stared down at him with coal black cavities where its eyes would have been. It seemed to judge him sharply.

“Good enough, about,” it said. It cocked its head once and flew off into the night sky. Harold lay there for a moment, still, and in pain. He screamed and choked on his blood.

Harold passed out.