They’re coming for me.
The eyes in the dark that seems to glow, wearing blood-stained aprons that conclude that this must be a dream. Then the clankity-clank sound that can melt steel by its sheer intensity makes you fully realize this is not a dream. You can run, I’ve tried to run away from that very sound, but gravity increases and you are stuck in one place. One wandering eye surrounds the bars of my cage and Kicker emerges from nowhere. My first mistake when I arrived here was looking directly at Kicker. Aside from the beating he gave me, his face is enough to be adequately horrifying. A scar crossing his right side of his face and the drooping eyelid is enough to give me nightmares. Even if you can get past his deformed face, the fact that he is wearing a prosthetic leg will only seal the deal of disgust and anguish.
“How are you? I suppose you’re not doing so hot. Here, let me…warm…you up.”
One of the assistants to his right hands him an iron-hot poker, the kind you move ashes with in a fireplace. He delightfully receives the poker, and stabs my kidneys with it. He grins with an expression of pure joy as he tries to kill whatever is left of my soul. The pain seems distant, but my scream comes out nevertheless. This is nothing new, as he does it at least once a day.
There are tears streaming down my muzzle, but I begin to wonder why. Why do they come when I need them the least? When I lay down on my wonderful floor that also serves as my bed, kitchen, and living room, I can’t express words that describe the harsh reality of this place. I think that I should save my tears so I can use them later on, then the next minute I’m balling my eyes out. It seems like my mind can’t make a decision.
I used to be a world-class journalist. I would often forgo any research I had to do for a story and rely on my witty remarks to sell newspapers. My Cutie Make is a quill, one that had profuse style and grace on it. Every-so often I look at it, and I am surprised to see the once high-caliber style of my writing now has only a scribble of nonsense. Wonderful, but complete, nonsense.
I laugh as I think of this, much to the dismay of Kicker. He orders the iron door to be opened, and he stands over me. Not that he’s taller, it was just that I was on the floor and he was standing up…you know what I mean. He gives me several good kicks to the stomach (his name is Kicker, after all), and all he gets for his efforts is some gross green stuff on his shoes. The look on his face was priceless and his assistants outside my pony-made cage stifled their laughter. Kicker made a haste exit, leaving me to laugh my head off all by my lonesome.
My days don’t usually start off as cheery as the one I experienced this morning. Sometimes Kicker leaves me alone to attend to his genocide until 5, then he makes up for lost time in cruel punishment. If ponies were words, then Kicker would just be one: unforgiving.
I can’t be the only one. I can’t be the only pony in existence to feel this kind of pain and sorrow every day. Sometimes, when I think long and hard, I realize that all of pony-kind must feel this way. Even the ones below my hooves, a million miles beneath the pounding of the machines and the ponies are so incompetent, so imperfect, so stupid, as to not realize what is being done. We don’t live in the Middle Ages! We live in 2014, where technology is taking control subconsciously all around us and the ponies who create them will one day feel the wrath of…I don’t even know what.
I wonder the use of thoughts. What was the point of thinking? The non-existent flow of words and images that flash through my head is nothing short of idiocy. New is scary; new is bad. New is bad; new is scary. Over and over, being repeated a thousand times again and again. My thoughts are like dreams. As soon as you wake up, you forget it. Except for that one constant thought. New is…
Oh Celestia, the screams! The never ending screams of the children! My head is extremely fragile at the moment, but even in my vague state, I can hear the faint sound of crying. Then it stops, and only a boiling sound of water comes into existence. I started clawing my way through the cement wall, begging it to stop. Blood comes blistering off my hooves. They got another one.
I am ashamed that you (the reader) have to read these words and express pity. Not over my pain, or where I am, or Kicker, but the way my words flow. I always thought the pain was best expressed through words. The right word choices, said at the exact right time, with just enough emphasis, can make ponies think new thoughts, have new experiences, have new…
SCARY! SCARY! SCARY!
I pound my head against the wall. SCARY! SCARY! SCARY! I shiver and become a useless pile of mush on the floor. SCARY! SCARY! SCAR-! Blackout.
Light seeping through, seeping through, now it’s gone. Wait, its coming, it’s coming, it’s coming, gone. Crap! One more time. Coming, coming, finally! My left eye opens, then my right. I look around to see the glowing red eyes glare at me once again.
“I see that you were quite hungry. Do you prefer spit or snot in your soup? I added both, but I’m curious to your suggestion.”
My mind forms the words, my words take shape into physical contact with my muscles, thus transmit the signals into my lips, and… no sound comes out. Not surprising, as I haven’t spoke in over three years. All I could ever hope for was the pleading look of my scarlet eyes that say, “Please go away”.
I give him this look, then wonder what he was talking about. He hasn’t feed me yet. My eyes quickly go over to a empty bowl right next to me. The only trace of food ever being on it was the smell of mildew. Perhaps that was what I ate. I don’t remember eating it, but I just shrug. Happens all the time in my case.
Kicker is still looking at me, with his nightmarish eyes that seem to never blink. Although his eyes are red, they seem to be very dark. The window to his soul is dark, thus he has no soul. That was what my mother told me when I was a young filly and since then I tried to see if it could be disproved. So far, it wasn’t wrong.
I’m not allowed near any mirrors, so I can’t see my eyes or any other part of my body. My mane grew 10 inches since I arrived, and I can see that it is greyish color. I don’t even remember what color my eyes are anymore. I can imagine them being scarred, with a little twinkle in them that suggests that not all hope is lost.
Kicker, not being amused, goes away to stalk another victim. I hear him mumble into his walkie-talkie, “Sunny Dayz appears to still be alive, sir”. I don’t think of myself as a kidnapped victim. All the ponies in the world, even Princess Celestia, are all prisoners in some form or shape. I call myself Prisoner Infinity, as I vow to be the last prisoner in the game of life. The only sane pony on the face of the Earth. SCARY! SCARY! SCARY!
Author's Note
For those of you who have read my other stories, you might notice a slight pattern. I personally like dark stories, where hopelessness and sorrow lay. I hope that you comment below, as any criticism is beneficial. I have a dark, cruel mind. And yes, I expect to write more about Prisoner Infinity. I haven't included her name as yet, a mistake I have caught after it was submitted. I appreciate that you think I am a human (wouldn't mind being a pony, though...) and I love the use of .... Anyway, I will get going. I'm going, going, going, gone.
P.S I'M BACK!!
P.S.S Seriously, I'm gone.
P.S.S.S Please read my other stories, as they need love and attention too.