MAGNUM OPUS DISSONANCE
The final note faded, and the crowd erupted into cheers.
It was a Friday, so of course the concert hall was even more packed than usual. Or maybe Octavia just imagined it was; she’d been almost half-listening when her agent informed her that she’d sold it out for the next eight months. No, upon reflection she recalled him phrasing it differently.
“You sold out.”
Octavia bowed low to the crowd, who were now standing and barraging her senses with the nearly tactile drumming of their hooves on the the hard, unforgiving concrete floor that lay just below the rich purple carpeting. A thin veneer of elegance was all it took to convince them that they were listening to something worth listening to. Not just a paltry, slapdash collection of notes thrown together over two weeks. Not just a pedestrian and barbaric progression of chords without any feeling, without any soul, without any... anything. Empty. Hollow. Inexplicably popular.
The roar of the crowd died down, finally. How many artists would slit throats to be where she was standing right now? Octavia blinked a few times and realized she’d been bowing for too long. That was all wrong. There was a form, a pattern to be maintained. Violating it was... unacceptable. So she straightened herself back up, even threw a quick wave back to the crowd as she walked offstage. Her agent would love that. A carefully calculated moment of spontaneity. ‘Why she’s just like us! She makes music for a couple hours every night, then turns it off and goes out to drink cappuccinos and hang out with her friends for the rest of the day!’
They were wrong. There were no friends. Hangers-on, certainly. Beggars. Parasites. The bright lights of the concert hall were at last blocked out by the velvety curtain as she walked offstage, and she finally relaxed. The forced smile disintegrated, just for a moment, as she allowed herself to just not feel for a few seconds. It was a relief, but an all too brief one as a few stagehooves approached her. The fake smile came back. It was so easy to throw on, practically a reflex by now. And hey, maybe if she lied to enough ponies she’d eventually manage to convince herself it wasn’t an act anymore.
That would be nice. She could be just like all those other ponies, chatting about sports or the weather or oh who even really cared? But they looked happy. Effortlessly happy. They didn’t struggle to find a reason to get out of bed every morning, she imagined. They just opened their eyes and, oh wow! A brand new day! A brand new 24-hour window to go out and be disgustingly cheerful about! Yet the act never seemed to take. But, oh dear, another pony was spouting vapid praise at her. Time to pretend again.
“Thanks!” she said, twisting her soul that much further. “I worked really hard—” Kill yourself “—making it special, and I’m glad you liked it.” Lie number eighty-seven and eighty-eight of the day. She couldn’t remember when she’d started counting. But the counter seemed to be creeping higher and higher with every passing day.
“It shows!” The stagehoof gave her an empty and meaningless pat on the shoulder before running off and leaving her alone again. The serenity was not to last. A half-dozen ponies were already coming up to congratulate her. For the briefest instant, she allowed herself to hate them.
“That was amazing!”
“How do you do it?”
What’s your secret?”
I imagine every one of you as miserable as I am. I twist your necks until I hear the sharp, wet snap of your bones breaking. And just for a second, I imagine I can feel whatever happiness is, just for a moment. If only because I’ve ended your misery. You’re welcome.
“Oh, just practice,” is what she ended up replying. “It’s a lot of work, but on nights like tonight I remember why it’s all worth it!”
Lie number eighty-nine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this was worth it. Like anything was worth it. “Well, it’s certainly paid off. That was amazing!”
Another quick pat on the shoulder, and the stagehoof retreated to attend to... whatever it was that they did. Octavia had never managed to bring herself to care enough to find out. Quite a few voices rained down on her, their praise bouncing off her without leaving any impression. Walking past them without any acknowledgement, she shoved the door in front of her open and walked out into the storm that raged outside.
It wasn’t the most pleasant of surprises. She’d neglected to check the weather report for the last few days... weeks.... months. It didn’t deter her, though. The cold bit straight through her coat, and it felt awful. It felt amazing. She stopped, there in the alley behind the theatre, and let the pain sink further in. It felt... well, wasn’t that enough? It felt, in contrast to the room full of ponies who wanted to shower praise on her for coming up with the most most vacuous and empty combination of sounds that had ever existed.
It felt. Octavia stopped there in the sidewalk, the cello she didn’t remember strapping to her back weighing her down, and she started to laugh. The ponies passing her by gave her a collection of skeptical glances, but moved on without asking her what was wrong.
There was so much that was wrong. Pretty much everything, really.
The laughter subsided too quickly. Was that what happiness was supposed to be? Octavia vaguely remembered that she’d been happy, once. A little filly, for whom joy came so effortlessly. Her mother’s hoof brushing against her back as she combed her mane. Her father telling her to sit up straight while she played the cello. She did, and he smiled, and so did she. It had all been so easy. So natural.
Why wasn’t it that easy anymore?
“Ms Octavia?”
Princesses damn it. A fan. The weariness that sapped her strength with every moment redoubled in intensity. “”Yes?”
“Oh wow!” She was just a little filly, maybe fourteen? Still too young to understand... well, anything, really. The joy of getting to meet her idol for the first, and hopefully only, time was painted in broad strokes all along her face. She loved Octavia. Octavia hated her all the more for it. She charged down the icy sidewalk and threw herself into Octavia’s forelegs with such force that Octavia nearly toppled over.
“Wow!” the filly repeated, “Ms. Octavia! You’re, like, wow!” The filly gasped for breath, and Octavia stopped struggling underneath her hooves. Just a fan, and not somepony who wanted her dead. What a shame.
“I am pretty wow,” said Octavia. She forced a smile, her agent would have her head if she didn’t. He’d drilled it into her. Smile. Be pleasant. show them your best side.
As if there was any side of her worth seeing.
“I can’t believe it’s really you!” The filly’s words snapped her back to reality. “I have to tell you, the Arpeggio Destructio? It’s just... I mean... I mean wow!”
The barest hint of once might have been pleasure ignited in Octavia’s soul. “Well, I’m glad you liked it. Have you listened to anything else I’ve composed?”
The filly... by Celestia, she was so young.. the filly nodded. “Yeah. I liked the Arpeggio best, though. Have you thought about doing a sequel?”
It was a supreme effort for Octavia to force the smile that remained plastered on her face. “Maybe someday. I’ve been happier...” she paused of a fraction of a second, registering lie number ninety, “...composing other pieces. Have you heard any of those?”
When the filly hesitated to answer, Octavia’s smile became that much more difficult to maintain. “I have, and they’re okay, I guess. But not as good.”
This was absolutely typical. She’d found success. She’d inspired and motivated so many. She’d hit the highest high she ever deserved to, and who was she to complain? She had money. She had success. She had, by any reasonable measure, made it beyond what a humble cello player should ever expect. So obviously, she was happy. It went without— Kill yourself, you worthless piece of trash —saying. So happy. Always happy. No reason not to be.
Octavia gave the filly a final, desperate squeeze and carried on. Keep going, that was what she needed to do. Keep pretending to be what everypony thought she was. Just for a couple more decades, then she could rest. She ached for that. How sweet would it be just to... well... not be anymore. Just for a minute. Just for a day. Just forever. “Hey, kid!”
She hadn’t even realized the voice was her own until it rang out through the empty, snow-covered street. The filly stopped and turned around. “Uh... me?”
“Yeah.” Octavia walked up to the... by Celestia, she was so young. So full of promise. So full of potential. She hadn’t squandered it, not yet. She would go out and find something that made them feel right and full and good and anything but what Octavia felt every night when she laid her head down on her pillow and wondered where it all went wrong. Wrapping her forelegs around her, Octavia squeezed desperately even as the filly stiffened in her grip. “Be happy.”
“Uh...” the filly squirmed in her grasp, “...I’ll try, I guess.”
“No.” Octavia squeezed a bit tighter. She could kill her, if she felt like it. And why shouldn’t she? Buck’s sake, she’d be doing her a favor. She wouldn’t have to grow up. Wouldn’t have to be disappointed when all the stories her parents had turned out about ‘happily ever after’ turned out to be blatant lies. Just grab her neck and— Kill her then you can kill yourself, you sell-out, you worthless waste of breath. Who do you think you’re fooling? Stop lying and just drag a razor blade up your foreleg, So much easier. Why are you fighting it?— give her a great big hug. She returned it, and that only made Octavia squeeze even harder.
“Help me.”
“Huh?” The filly jerked back, and Octavia had little choice but to relax her grip and let the filly wriggle away. A wave of guilt washed over her. What right did she have to burden this child with all of her problems? That was what she was: a burden. She played music every night that just made her even more miserable and why did she even bother?
Why couldn’t it just stop?
The rest of the walk was uneventful. The snow coating her back barely registered in her mind until she unlocked her apartment and stepped inside. The fresh heat washing over her made her think, for a tiny fraction of a second, that everything would somehow work out just fine.
For a fraction of a second, she was almost normal.
Then it passed. She heard the door shut behind her, but didn’t go anywhere. The light switch was only a few inches above her head, but reaching up and flicking it on seemed an almost insurmountable trial. So much easier to stay here in the darkness. So much— Kill yourself. You can make it stop. You’re past your peak. Why not go out on a high note? You’ve gotten what you thought you wanted and did it make you happy? No. You’ll never be happy. So why bother?— easier to just stay in the darkness.
After a far-too-long pause at the entranceway of the empty, undecorated studio apartment she called home, Octavia managed to walk a bit further inside. The bare expanses of wall mocked her. Normal ponies— Kill yourself. If you were worth anything you’d have prizes and awards to decorate your walls. You’d have friends. A family— would have decorated it a bit more, but Octavia liked the simplicity. Or she told herself she did, at least.
Dinner was simple: a bare-bones salad and a pint of wine. Halfway into her drink, her salad barely touched, she let her mind wander. Why hadn’t she accepted Vinyl’s invitation to the show later tonight? She’d had a good reason, or at least what passed for a good reason, to skip it. She could still go, of course. Just show up at the door and be one of those obnoxious mares who insisted— You think Vinyl likes you? She doesn’t. She’s faking. Nopony likes you. Kill yourself— she knew the DJ. Maybe she’d even get away with it. Maybe they’d play her song.
Her song. Ha! She’d composed over fifty, but nopony would fail to answer if you asked them what ‘Octavia’s Song’ was. She very nearly let herself give a poisoned smile, just on reflex, as she trotted over to the nightstand and pulled a bottle of painkillers out of the drawer. The half-full bottle her physician had prescribed for a broken ankle, long since healed by now, as a means to treat the pain.
It would be so easy— Kill yourself— to treat it for good.
So easy— Kill yourself— to not hurt anymore. She examined the familiar label. Max dose two pills per twenty-four hours. Do not combine with alcohol.
The sound of the pills plopping into her wine was the sweetest note Octavia had heard in a very long time. One, two... three, four, five, six, seven of them. It would— Kill yourself— be so easy. Just gulp it down. Who would miss her? Her agent, maybe? Or her parents. But then again if they’d raised her better she wouldn’t have needed to do this, would she? She wouldn’t have this monster in the back of her head telling her every day how easy it would be to just— Kill yourself— make the pain and disappointment stop.
The scent drifting up from the wine smelled so good. So easy. Her mouth was watering. Drink it. Why shouldn’t she? If she didn’t, what was waiting for her? She’d go to bed, wake up, and play the same piece for a bunch of worthless ponies who couldn’t appreciate good art when it slapped them in the face, and end up right back where she was right now. Why bother? Why bother? Kill yourself. It would be so easy. The edge of the glass pressed against her lips. She didn’t remember bringing it there. She let her tongue dart forth and taste the wine. It tasted so good, but there was this bitter, angry aftertaste.
The edge of the cup pressed up against her lips, Octavia hesitated. Minutes ticked by, and turned to hours. Then, in a single moment of the darkest clarity, Octavia made her choice.
Author's Note
1-800-273-8255: The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, If you ever have these sort of thoughts, they're there. Or, hell, PM me.
You aren't alone.
