Primum Non Nocere: The Secret of the Mad Mare's Precognition

Primum Non Nocere: The Secret of the Mad Mare's Precognition

Part 3: The Binding of the Tourniquet

Pinkamena couldn’t sleep. Every time it seemed like she was on the threshold of finally sinking into subconscious, something jarred her awake. Her eyes would pop open and she would be left once again staring listlessly at the underside of her covers. Thinking the constant crinkling from the straw might keep her fellow ponies awake, Pinkamena refrained from moving or shifting around as much as she could. But her body ached for movement; it wasn’t ready to rest just yet. No matter how hard she tried, she just wasn’t the type that could force herself to sleep when she didn’t need it. It was impossible for her to tell just how much time she remained half asleep before her body woke her up or how long she stubbornly fought against it. But after realizing how futile it was, Pinkamena sat up, realizing with a rush of cool, fresh air how stuffy it had become under her blanket. She took in a deep breath, which helped, but the new air was more invigorating than it was relaxing. Twiddling her hooves for a moment, she took shy glances around the room, looking and listening for anypony who might be awake. Perceiving none, she hopped from her bed and plopped as quietly as she could to the floor, taking care to be sure nopony had been disturbed. It didn’t seem like it, so Pinkamena made her way to the door which was barely ajar, nudging it open to create a gap just wide enough for her little body to slither through.

Pinkamena stepped into the hall and pulled the door back to where she had found it. She wasn’t sure why she was being so furtive. There were any number of fillies who might wake up during the course of the night and head across the hall to the bathrooms. Nopony would be suspicious of what she was doing. But because of this, the lantern in the hall remained lit most of the night and Pinkamena squinted against it. Her eyes had gotten so used to the shade under her covers that even the scarce light outside of them seemed harsh. For a moment, coming into the hallway was like looking up at the sun and Pinkamena lowered her head away from the light. Her eyes quickly adjusted. She glanced from side to side and blinked. There was nopony else in the halls. Where did she think she was going? She didn’t have to pee and Ms. Sunblossom had even done her the gracious favor of tucking her in. What kind of pony was she if that didn’t set her body at peace? But anything seemed better than going back to her bed and now that she was already out of the room, going back would be tedious. At least that was the excuse she gave herself.

She turned in the opposite direction of the bathrooms, heading into a darkened hallway just to get away from the door in case there was a pony that was actually out for a reason. Sitting just outside the light, she curled her tail around her legs, breathing out a sigh. She sat there for awhile, unsure what to do other than not sleep as her mind wandered from thought to thought until a strange feeling came over her. Her fur curled, standing on end and sending a wave fuzzy white noise across her nerves. Pinkamena shivered. Odd, she thought, she wasn’t cold. But she felt something watching her. She didn’t look up, her eyes fixed on the floor flicking around in their sockets as she tried to resist looking up. Something was there, her mind was sure of it, off in the shadows where her peripherals weren’t enough to make it out. .

Taking in a sharp breath, she jerked her head, stood up, and turned to where it was. There was nothing. Pinkamena found herself suddenly lightheaded, her pulse quickening from adrenaline. She had stood up too fast and sitting back down, she felt like she might pass out. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Silly, she thought, she was psyching herself out.

“Pinkamena?” A voice pronounced her name as a question. She jumped, letting out a sound more like a high pitched yelp than anything else. She stood back up, stiffening as her head gave another swoon. Facing the pony that had said her name through temporarily blurred sight, she found that it was only Archer, tilting his head at her as he stood next to the sleeping room door in the light. He wasn’t what she thought he would be and she was relieved. He must have gone out just before her for an actual reason. It was good that he wasn’t the presence she though she had felt, yet she couldn’t bring herself to loosen her limbs. They seemed petrified and locked in place.

“What are you doing over there?” Archer asked, taking a step toward her. Pinkamena knew he could see her even though she had sat in the shadows to avoid drawing attention. She shifted into the light shyly like a kid who was somewhere she knew she wasn’t supposed to be. But if it was bedtime and she couldn’t sleep, then where was she to go?

“Hi…” She paused. “Archer.” It might have been the first time she said his name, she wasn’t sure. It felt like it was.

“What’s wrong?” Pinkamena flinched inwardly at his question. She felt he cared too much, but he seemed to sense the tension coming from her. If he knew it meant something was wrong, maybe he was a step ahead of her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” She responded in earnest. It was true, but why she couldn’t sleep was still a mystery to her.

“Me neither,” Archer said as if he had been grasping for a commonality between them and upon finally finding one, was more than happy to vocalize and make it clear that it existed. Both of them couldn’t sleep, what a great couple they might make. Wait what? Pinkamena shook her head. Archer’s words seemed to be pulling on her in a way she didn’t like. She felt an imminent danger coming from herself. There was a pain in her chest and she shifted nervously away from Archer as he approached her.

“I guess I’m excited to play baseball,” Archer told her as he sat next to her. “What position do you want to play? Do you think you’d be a good shortstop?”

“Heh,” She laughed.

“Huh?” Archer gave her a funny look.

“Baseball,” She scoffed. “Want to see to see something better?”

“Pinkamena?” Archer barely knew her and even he thought she was acting strange. But she couldn’t help it. Something was tickling her insides.

“I’ll show you a secret,” Pinkamena smiled coyly at him from behind her mane. “It’s a hidden little place I’m sure you’ll enjoy.” Archer seemed curious, but her tone caused him to shift away from her, narrowing his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” He asked raising a hoof from the floor as if to guard himself.

“It’s this way,” She turned away toward the darkened hall, flicking her tail across his face and looking back at him with a smile as she walked slowly, waiting for him to follow.

“But what about-”

“Shh,” she hushed him “No pony has to know. This place can be our secret. Just us.” Archer glanced back at the sleeping room and then to her, unsure of himself and of her. Pinkamena had never acted this way before and he knew well enough that the fillies weren’t supposed to go any further than this hall at night. There was bound to be at least a few adults around at night to check on things. What if they got caught? What did she even want to show him?

“Come on,” Pinkamena urged him. “What? Don’t friends have adventures?” She saddened and her disappointment in his disapproval perked him right up.

“Okay,” He smiled trotting up to follow her. “Where are we going?” He asked as he walked up beside her. It was almost too easy. A mere affirmation that they were friends and he was suddenly on board with whatever she had in store. She walked along, satisfied with her meager feat of cunning, her mane seeming to sharpen and her eyes filling with a plotting confidence.

“Back where I began…” She said.

“What do you mean?” Pinkamena didn’t answer him, but let him follow as she kept walking, the barely lit hall making his hooves unsure of themselves. She felt one of his wings reach for her, using her as a reference so the colt wouldn’t get lost and to make sure she was still there. This was the way she had gone before, she knew it, there were no doubts in her mind now and this time she had what she needed.

“Pinkamena I don’t like this,” Archer complained as they walked. “Maybe we should go back. We’re probably not supposed to be here.”

“Are you scared?” She asked more as a taunt than out of concern. Archer swallowed audibility, his wing flinching away from her as they came to a moonlit doorway that led into a lonely room, the curtainless windows the only source of light.

“A little,” He said. She might have praised him for his honesty had she felt inclined. He certainly wasn’t at the age yet when he might have wanted to impress her with a false show of fortitude. Snickering to herself, she sauntered into the room without hesitation and turned, gesturing with a tilt of her head for him to follow. What he wanted to see was in here. He would certainly like it. All boys loved secrets did they not? Why else would the young colts from before have been so happy with their inside knowledge of the adult world? Archer’s curiosity would outweigh his fear.

“What is this place?” He asked, slowly stepping through the door, less skittish now that there was light that he could see by.

“This isn’t even it yet,” Pinkamena boasted. “Over here.” She stepped lightly to the corner of the room, placing one hoof over the one familiar floorboard petting it with a look of eerie affection. Turning back to Archer, he tilted his head at her, glancing at the wood.

“Stand right here,” She told him. “It’s quite the secret. You won’t believe what you see.” Moving step by step toward it, Archer exercised a strange bit of caution. It didn’t seem like it was because he didn’t trust her, but that he didn’t see the appeal of staring at a wall or the floor. The board was just a board to him, part of the building. Pinkamena smiled neatly at him as he made his way over gradually. He stood straight up and in place where she had told him to, as if he had to have perfect posture to see what she was trying to show him. He glanced from side to side, confused, unable to see the appeal in the wallpaper.

“I don’t get it,” Archer said. “What are you trying to sh-” Pinkamena lifted her hoof before he could finish. He was cut off as the floorboard flipped from underneath him, sending him tumbling hoof over head down a flight of jagged steps. Pinkamena smiled, looked up, and, seeing no one, sunk invisibly into the trapdoor, letting it down over her head with deliberate ease. Strolling casually down without a light, only the darkness was privy to her satisfied expression.

“Ow…urrr…” She could hear Archer’s pained groans as she decended. She knew this path, it circled down, that was all. Feeling it end, she hopped down and stretched out her hoof, striking the switch as naturally as if she had been here a thousand times. A click and lanterns flared to life. Archer was lying on his side curled up in a fetal position, nursing one of his front hooves,f wincing in pain.

“You made it,” Pinkamena said cordially as she silently closed the wooden boards behind her, raising the latch.

“You idiot,” Archer scolded her. “I-ow…” He cringed. “Why didn’t you tell me about that. Mmmm….” His lip pursed as he made an incredibly fearful moan, a realization coming into his eyes in the from of water. “I hurt my leg,” He told her. “I think it might be broken.”

“Oh you won’t be needing it.” Pinkamena gazed down at him, her eyelids lowered like a mother overseeing her child, a normally sweet look that was twisted on her face with a wry grin.

“What?” His eyes shot to hers fearfully.

“Look,” She said, and before she finished the single syllable his eyes had already caught glimpses of the ceiling. He stared up at it, then, bringing his head around, gazed about the room, wiping his eyes to make sure his tears weren’t distorting what he saw.

“Pinkamena…” Archer started to shake. “What is this? What’s all over the walls? Why did you want to show me this?” Chuckling, she watched the fear fill his body, his wings stiffening and turning jagged as his limbs began to shake.

“It made no difference if you saw it or not,” She answered, and clicked the latch behind her shut. To Archer, it seemed like a damning sound, a final tolling of the bell that told him there was no going back now.

“Wh-What are you doing,” Archer shivered. Pinkamena moved to him, leaning her head in close and rubbing a hoof in the dirt next to his belly.

“Do you know what these circles are drawn in?” She asked.

“No…” Archer flinched back and tried to restrain his shaky breathing as she exhaled close enough that the air went down his nose. Taking a step back she lowered her head and brought out her tongue, bringing it a wound on Archer’s leg and lapping up the half dried liquid. He drew back, disgusted, but above all confused. Her tongue felt rubbery and the wetness made his scrape sting. He drew back, disgusted, but above all confused.

“Blood,” She licked her lips, her eyes widening and her pupils sharpening into catlike diamonds.

“G-get away from me!” Archer squirmed, trying to stand, but he tripped, falling to his face as soon as he tried to use his injured leg. Wrenching his face up with the force of just his neck muscles, he spat dirt from his mouth. He got up, turning to face her on three legs, the fourth tucked to his chest.

“S-stay back,” He commanded shakily.

“Why little filly?” Pinkamena asked. “Don’t we want to play? Don’t you want to know the secret?”

“No!” He shouted back at her, starting to cry. “I don’t. I don’t know where I am. I don’t like this place and I don’t want to play. I’m scared Pinkamena. I just wanna go back to my bed. I thought we were friends, why are you doing this?” He sniffled, taking on a stifled statement at the end mostly to himself, “I can’t play baseball with a broken leg…” a tear ran down his cheek. Pinkamena put on an exaggerated frown, showcasing a bitingly sarcastic disappointment.

“Ohh,” She uttered piteously. “I guess you’re no good to anypony but me.” Her face twisted into a wild grin and she took a step toward him.

“Stop,” He stepped back with every step she took toward him, his eyes switching from her to the doors behind her.

“Give me a hug.”

“No!” Archer bolted, hobbling as fast as he could on three legs toward the exit. Effortless, she reached out and tripped him, sending him crashing into the dirt again.

“Silly,” Pinkamena clicked her tongue. “No Pegasus is going to overpower an earth pony.” Her statement must have reminded him in his fear that he had wings. He immediately spread them, but just as he lifted himself from the ground Pinkamena caught him by his hind leg, her hoof twisting around it unnaturally, anchoring him down with a sick kind of greed.

“Come back to us Archy,” She taunted, wiggling him in her grip as he tugged vainly away, squirming in the air. He screamed, louder than anypony she had ever heard. Her ears relished the sound. He was losing his mind.

“Help!” His vocal chords ground together sounding like they might rip if he tried any harder. “Ms. Sunblossom! Help! Anypony! Help! Help me! Help meeeeee!”

“That’s the spirit!” She yelled gleefully as she giggled at him.

“Let go!” Tears were spilling off his face. “Please! Please let go! Mmmm,” There was an abrupt pitter patter as Archer reached the wall, his hooves pawing and scraping at it hoping it might give way. It was his only means of escape. In her carelessness Pinkamena realized she must have allowed him to drag her a little bit. Shrugging, she gave one mighty tug and Archer plummeted to the ground.

“HELP ME!” Archer let out a scream so loud it seemed to rattle the glass of the lanterns, disturbing even the room’s light.

He smacked into the floor and before he could flail his way to his feet, Pinkamena stomped, pressing a hoof to his throat.

“Uck..gaaaak…ah…ah…” His tongue stuck in his throat and his lungs clawed desperately for air. Pinkamena clamped him down with an iron hold, hushing him even as his struggles faded into silent convulsions as his consciousness lost its grip.

“Shhhh, shhh,” She urged him. “Hush little filly, don’t say a word, mama’s gonna give you what we all deserve.” Even as all of Archer’s other limbs were snuffed out and his eyes rolled back in defeat, his wings fluttered uncontrollably in a seizure. They were the last thing to stop moving giving their last sad twitches when Pinkamena finally lifted her hoof.

“Sleep tight Archy,” She said sweetly. “I’ll be with you when you wake.” She smiled satisfactorily, meaning her statement in the most literal sense. Lifting the unconscious colt from the floor onto her back, she brought him over to the table at the end of the room and bucked him up onto its surface. She propped herself up on her hind legs, looking at his deadweight frame, petting the handle of the knife she had jammed there earlier.

“Hm,” She chuckled to herself. “I forgot to bring to a brush.”

________________

When Archer awoke he was latched to a wooden slab, his appendages splayed out obliquely in four directions. Dazed at first, his eyelids flittered open, struggling against some unknown pain. His head ached and when he tried to lift it, he found that the rest of his body would not follow. He held his neck up straining the muscles to look out across his bound body. He jerked against the bindings, the bolts holding them in place clanging in tandem with his squirming. He winced. The stinging in his right front hoof came back to him and without the ability to writhe to ease the pain, he could only grit his teeth and listen to them squeak against each other as he tried to bear it. It was no use, the only things he could move were his head and his wings. He brought them up and down gently, eyeing them, making sure they were still okay. They looked and felt okay, but from his position they could do nothing more than flap and buzz uselessly, their only means of propulsion pushing him further into the woodwork he lay against. Archer shivered. It was cold and the steely loops that held his legs in place felt, especially against his wound, like they were slowly gnawing poisonous frostbite into his limbs.

Yet even as he felt the tingling rush of prickles sweep through his fur, the only thing he could see was the ceiling scribbled and painted in red, the only sound his forlorn and vain thrashings in attempt to get free. He tried his best not to use his injured leg, but every time he yanked against his bindings the one around it seemed to grind its way deeper into the scraped flesh. He wanted to scream, yell out for help, but something about the quietness around him was eerily sublime like if he were to break it, it might retaliate. His pulse quickened and every moment under the intense atmosphere made him want to scream even louder. He was bottling himself up, his breaths gradually quickening to a panic, and sooner or later he would inevitably explode, break into hyperventilation and have no choice but to use all of the strength his vocal chords had to plea for salvation. In his attempts to control himself, the first sound off his tongue was a faint whimper, one of hopelessness and skittish fear.

“Oh dear,” A voice responded. He already regretted the sound. But it had been entirely involuntary and there was no way, even in hindsight, that he saw where he could have stopped himself. “You might have wanted to stay asleep.” The voice was right, of course it was. The only place he would have wanted to wake to was his bed back in the sleeping room. This place was filled with uncertainty. Even the circles painted above him gave off the feeling. He couldn’t read them, he couldn’t move, his scope of vision was limited. Everything reeked of the unknown.

“Hey,” The voice was close, almost in his ear. “Over here, sleepy face.” Everything down to Archer’s eyes trembled. He didn’t want to look; he wanted to will himself to pass out again.

“Turn mongrel!” The voice shouted. There was no point. Sooner or later he would have to look or he would be forced to. He may as well take the easier option. Slowly, but as deliberately as he could manage, Archer turned his head to side. In the lantern light, he was greeted with that familiar pair of diamond bladed pupils and the sharp, sinister straight pink mane that he had thought belonged to a friend. Was he so naïve? She was propped up on the table by her two front hooves, the malice still glowing in her eyes.

“Hi,” Pinkamena said almost sweetly. “You put up quite a fuss. What’s the matter?” Why was she asking him this? Was it to mock him? Did she even want an answer and if she did, what was she going to do with that information? Archer’s mind swirled and his vision seemed to sway, an imbalance brought on by lying down for too long.

“Who are you?” Archer managed. To his surprise, he sounded rather calm. But everything seemed calm after he had pleaded for his life and clawed at the walls to try to escape. There was still fear written and littered into his speech and his body language, and with whatever sense Pinkamena was using, she could see all of it.

“Hehe…” She giggled. “You know who I am silly.”

“No…” He shook his head. “I don’t.”

“I’m Pinkamena. Did you lose your memory?”

“No,” Archer replied again, the repetition of his response causing his hopelessness to sink in. “You’re not! What happened to Pinkamena? We were gonna play baseball? If you didn’t want to play you could’ve just-”

“Stupid foal!” Pinkamena interrupted him. “Does your mind not go beyond what game you want to play tomorrow or what soup happens to be for lunch?” She plopped down from the table, walking over to another smaller one near the middle of the room against a wall.

“I-I..” Archer didn’t know what to say. He was only a filly; he wasn’t prepared for these kinds of questions. Pinkamena eyed a blank piece of parchment before grabbing the hilt of a knife with her teeth and yanking it from the table’s surface. She made her way back over, her eyes glinting in the light along with the knife.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Wham! The blade plunged into the wood at Archer’s side, sticking up at the edge of the table, vibrating with residual force. Archer flinched closing his eyes and suppressing another squeak. Opening his eyes, Archer found Pinkamena back in front of him propped up on the table and shaking her head.

“You have no fortitude,” She said.

“It’s a knife,” Archer said pleadingly. “I hate sharp things. Please, just let me go! I’m scared. I promise I won’t-”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Pinkamena yelled at him. Reaching out, she smacked his face with a hoof and recoiling, Archer looked back at her through teary eyes.

“Wh-Why?”

“Look at you. What do you have in this world foal?”

“Tch,” Archer grit his teeth through his tears. In the midst of his fear, he felt anger surface. Down here there was nothing for him to lose. He was bound, trapped, and left with only his words to defend himself. He began to hate the mare in front of him. It wasn’t his friend. It never was.

“That’s a stupid question!” Archer yelled at her. Pinkamena, losing her disinterested demeanor, smiled slyly.

“Oh?” She uttered, intrigued by his response.

“I have friends! I have Ms. Sunblossom and everypony else here!”

“And what do you mean to them?”

“Wh-” Archer stopped. How was he supposed to know. “I-I don’t-”

“Don’t know!?” Pinkamena finished. “I can make you worth so much more. Your friends don’t know what they feel for you, but I can make them. I can make everypony feel what they’ve lost! No one sees meaning in life you see little filly. But death, everypony loves it. They think about it, analyze it, they dive into its mysterious depths. How can they really find any answers? Those looking can know now, the truth they seek lies in the noose. Only in death can they discover death. No book or fancy yarn will ever let them pass beyond the veil. If you want to know, then die.”

“I- I don’t think about-” Archer stopped, not wanting to say the word that Pinkamena, someone he thought shared his innocence, was throwing around like trash.

“Of course you don’t,” Pinkamena agreed. “And what a blissful existence you had. Have we lost the wisdom of children, the one being that can see meaning in existence without the inevitability of death? You see Archer, you’ll never be anything to anypony. In the story, they’ll say the most meaningful characters are the ones that die. We love heroes, especially the ones that ruin themselves. If you die, you’ll be a memory, the greatest memory. They’ll praise you for all the nothing you’ve done, all the everything that you never meant to them and all the moments they were never thinking of you, always. But don’t listen me. No, no. The biting force of reason is quick to be called con. The starving intellectual will be more than happy to do so, saying it doesn’t express itself in a way that’s proper. It is broken underneath his mighty, infallible thrall of words. I’m one of those melodramatic fools. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. The poetic fancy of life without the end is an illusion held only by those with minds not yet big enough to grasp the full scope of what they are a part of. But posses they not the greatest wisdom? Yes! The sense of wonder! The awe inspiring loyalty to the imagination! With absolute faith they can even create their own friends, deviations of their own minds to talk to, a grand tulpamanicing that takes adults years of forced meditative thought. You see Archer, If I kill you now, you’ll always be that colt. You don’t have to lose your wonder. I’ll immortalize it! Your friends, even Ms. Sunblossom, will think you an angel!”

There was silence as she finished. What was Archer supposed to say after something like that, he wondered? What was she talking about? Why was she talking about it? What happened to Pinkamena?

“Y-you…” Archer studdered, wanting to respond out of fear but not having the words.

“Well?” Pinkamena smiled. “What do you think?”

“You can’t make me want…” He paused, swallowing. “death.”

“Hahah!” Pinkamena chuckled. “I guess not. It was worth a try. Such a rationale only suits the living. The dead can never know their legacy. But I'm sure you would never consider that…” She trotted around to the foot of the table kicking something on the way. It sounded hollow, almost like a bucket. She hopped up on the table and approached Archer. He lifted his head, looking down the length of his body at the small pink mare standing at his feet, always the spark of malice in her eyes. Stepping over him, she straddled her hind legs over his torso, sitting and pressing her front hooves to his chest and leaning in close, her breath hot against Archer’s face and her mane falling down across his cheek.

“P-Pinkamena…” Archer stuttered nervously.

“What?” She hissed in his ear. “Aren’t you curious?”

“P-please…” He turned his head away. “I just wanna go home. Can we please? I’m scared. If this is a prank its not funny.” Archer started choking on his words, his eyes wetting the wood below him in streams. “Come on Pinkamena. We’re friends…right?”

“You know It’s great that I’m here,” She responded in disregard. “A filly like you is perfect for what I need. No prospects, no family…no friends.” She grinned at him, bringing her face all the way to Archer’s cheek even as he turned his had away from her as far as he could.

“But…” He trembled. “But…you played four square with us. Didn’t you have fun? Didn’t you…care?”

“I sure did,” She pressed her nose to the side of Archer’s head, her tongue extending from her lips and sliding across his fur. It was wet, covered in nervous sweat, and clammy. A shudder went through his body and he seemed to give up, stifling his shivers.

“This is what you wanted wasn’t it…?” He asked. Pinkamena sat up reaching over and plucking the knife from the table bringing it over and spinning it on her hoof, catching it deftly as it slid off.

“I did,” She said. “And I’m sure I didn’t.” Archer looked up at her, angry, but broken.

“You’re a monster.”

“That’s the spirit!” In one clean hissing swipe, the knife came down like a guillotine, slicing through flesh and cracking through bone. Archer wailed. It was worse than before. His screams sounded as though they would rip his throat apart and every end of the colt’s body convulsed, squirming desperately against his restraints. One of his wings buzzed, violently flailing, doing whatever it could to fight the pain. The other lay motionless, cut from its body and leaving behind nothing but a stub to do the flopping for it, its nerves clawing vainly at a phantom limb. The knife, buried in the wood past Archer’s wing was splattered with red, the wound flowing with fresh blood.

“Ahahaha!” Pinkamena laughed, pulling the knife back to her and watching Archer writhe beneath her. “You’re pretty loud.” She leaned in close, pressing their chests together, watching as his head jerked from side to side, his neck rippling as Archer’s vocal chords burned hoarsely against each other. “Don’t get too excited. If you pump your blood out too fast there won’t be any left for me.” Pinkamena went to kiss his neck, but in one swift jerk, Archer flicked his head up, bumping the knife in Pinkamena’s hoof, sending it slicing across the flesh just beneath her eye.

“Tch,” Her eye snapped shut and she quickly sat up, holding onto the blade but raising her other hoof to her cheek. She touched the wound, brushing some of blood across her fur. Opening her eye, she looked at her hoof, startled, but happily intrigued. Giving a lick, she grinned, watching as Archer’s writhing subsided into hopeless gasps for air, every corner of his mind clawing franticly for life.

“The survival instinct is truly the strongest!” Pinkamena yelled. Archer was too bewildered to speak anything back coherently. Pinkamena’s hoof swung down a second time, her blade taking away his second wing this time. He could do nothing but bellow more, blood curdling in his throat, his nerves being shattered by waves of obliterating pain. The only real word that came out of him was ‘no.’

“Haha!” Pinkamena loosed her mental restraints. A filly that wouldn’t respond past his screams was no longer entertaining. She turned the knife, yelling as she stabbed at any part of his body beneath her that struck her fancy.

“I’ll always remember you Archer! Always! Always! Always!” Every syllable was proceeded by a squishy, sloshing thump with each strike of the knife. From afar, the scene must have looked surreal, streams of blood trailing from every swing. By the time Pinkamena put the knife down, Archer was reduced to nothing more than a corpse full of holes, his face a congealed mass no longer recognizable. Drops of blood dirtied everything surrounding them and even Pinkamena’s fur was polka dotted in red. Pinkamena dismounted the body and rolling it off the table, let it fall to the dirt with a lifeless and gag inducing splat. Following after it, she hopped down, lifting the corpse up and putting it into the bucket at the foot of the table. She cut into the legs with the knife, letting whatever blood was left in the body drain into hollow basin. She smiled satisfactorily as she watched the bottom quickly disappear underneath the thick runny liquid, breathing it in, the uniquely bitter stench biting her nostrils. Leaving the body sit, Pinkamena moved back to the paper on the other table, snatching it from the surface and heading back to the bucket.

It was odd. She might, had she not just borne witness to Archer’s wailing agony firsthand, have thought she was deaf now. Compared to the chaos of only moments before, everything seemed deathly quiet save for the ringing in her ears. It was a residual curse for what she had done, temporary, and almost sweet.

Pinkamena set the paper next to the bucket, spreading it flat and dipping her hooves into the pooling mass of blood. From memory, Pinkamena set them to the paper, smearing the matter into a circle and with each subsequent dip, began to reconstruct the spell circle she had pressed her hooves to the first time.

“Blood,” She spoke to herself. “The blood of fillies is what we need. Paint, paint, paint in the circle and show us the future so we can pay heed. That’s it!” Pinkamena stopped, all the lines and patterns from the original circle replicated and in place. She picked up the page, spinning around kicking the bucket over, its contents flopping like a limp fish. Shifting over to the table, Pinkamena spread the page out over it, success glowing on her face. With one last façade, she willed herself to cry, letting two of her tears drop to the page, one from each eye just as she remembered.

“This is it,” She said to the air. “The second step. Only one to go. The future will be ours soon Pinkamena. I’ll get it for you. And we’ll be gods!” Pressing her hooves to the circle, the room lit up in thrashing red lightening bouncing from circle to circle until snapping its way to Pinkamena, biting at her body from every end. It hurt, but she laughed in the face of the pain, relishing in the fact that she knew it gave her power. Her mind would soon be clear. In one last sudden burst, Pinkamena was struck in the back of the head and recoiling forward, smacked her head against the table and fell still. The spell stopped and the room was silent.

Laying on the ground, the malice seemed to fade from Pinkamena’s face. Her mane was soft and innocent again and the farthest thing from a murderer is left unconscious and covered in blood.

_______________

It was cold. Before her eyes came open, Pinkamena knew she wasn’t in her straw bed like she should have been. Her fur tingled, curling and curving ever so subtly to keep her body’s warmth from escaping into the hard surface beneath her. Seeing the eerie light against wall she didn’t recognize, Pinkamena shot up in a panic reflex. She struck her head against something and was forced back to her stomach, curling up and wincing as she gripped the back of her head.

“Mmm,” She uttered shakily. Rolling over, Pinkamena slid her way out from under whatever was above her feeling the soil scratch against her skin as she scooted her way along, eyes closed, making sure that there was light above her before attempting to raise any limb above where it was. She opened her eyes and seeing the ceiling above her, assumed it was safe to sit up. She did and was greeted with the door to the basement room that she had found before only it was latched shut.

“Wh-” She stared at it, disorientated. “How did I…Archer?” She called the name faintly. It was the last thing she remembered. She had been talking to Archer in the hallway outside the sleeping room and then…and then…what? Her eyes flicked around listlessly, searching for an answer inside of her head, trying to retrace the memories that should have led here. They weren’t there. Hadn’t she gone back to bed? She remembered being uncomfortable and that was it; it was like there was space that her head had deliberately left blank just to confuse her.

“Wh-what is…” Pinkamena looked down at herself. Her fur was covered in splashes of red, spots she didn’t remember and when she touched them, they felt like sand paper, the substance dried and caked into her fur, packing it together in spiky textured masses. It was everywhere, on her hooves, on her legs, scattered down the length of her body, and even, she found as she touched them, on her face, across her eyes, and in her mane.

“Ms. Sunblossom?” Pinkamena squeaked. She knew it was no use. She had been here before and remembered at the very least that the last time she called for someone down here, no one answered. But that was all she remembered. Last time she had gotten herself down here with no memory of how she got out and now she was down here with no memory of how she arrived and was left, for all she knew, to find her own way.

Pinkamena stood and turning around immediately flinched back. On the table before her was a large piece of parchment smeared in red, singed at the edges, and looking like it was ages old.

“What is this stuff?” Pinkamena panicked. Her head turned to the side, catching a glimpse of something in her peripherals. She screamed. It was horrible. She had never seen anything so mutilated since the fire and it brought back the images with an intensity she never wanted. She could almost feel the heat of the blaze on her back and the stench, whether real or imagined, of burnt flesh. She toppled back, tripping as she called hopelessly to the air.

“Ms. Sunbloss-! Mmm,” As she belted the name something stifled her as she hit the ground, a strange numbing sensation coming over her as she wrestled against the hoof in her mouth. Somepony was standing over her and the light fanned out over the shadow of their head, making the bladed pair of eyes stand out in the shade.

“Hush now,” The figure said pulling its hoof away as it started. “I’ve grown tired of screaming. At least for a little while.” Pinkamena rolled over, quickly springing to her feet and backing away. Unfortunately, it meant the mangled mess was behind her and between it and her likeness before her, she felt suddenly paralyzed.

“Wh-what did you do?” Pinkamena asked it only to inspire a smile on its face, an expression that was beginning to feel like its default, possessed with an eerie happiness that reveled in suffering.

“You mean we!” It said elated. “We did it Pinkamena! And you were perfect. So piteous and sweet in your demeanor and so helplessly seductive that the poor colt had no choice but to follow you. Were we only done Pinkamena. But once more! I get to see you beguile one more foundling from the mess hall! It’ll be grand…” The figure seemed to daydream wistfully casting her gaze about the room.

“What are you talking about?” Pinkamena’s knees shook, the presence of the thing behind her pressing on her senses.

“You don’t remember?” The figure relished in her cluelessness. “But we were beautiful! Coercing him that way, so trusting and such a wonderful friend. Archer’s blood is as good as any.”

“Archer?” Pinkamena’s fear only lifted for a moment, because in all the unfamiliarity, Archer was a name she recognized. But it quickly settled itself in again, a force that was almost tangibly pushing on her nerves. “What happened? Where is he?”

“Oh you silly thing,” the figure mocked her, approaching and brushing her face with its tail. Pinkamena scratched the resulting itching sensation away, keeping her eyes on her doppelganger. “It’s no secret. He’s what you see, a great sacrifice.” Pinkamena went pale, turning her head to the bloodied mass that was tipped over, flopped lifelessly half outside a tin bucket. She suppressed a gag reflex, shaking her head. It wasn’t even recognizable, this couldn’t be him. It had to be a lie. This horrible voice was lying to her.

“No…” she muttered. Suddenly she could feel the figure’s breath against her neck behind her. It whispered in her ear,

“You’re pretty good with a knife…” sending ice through her senses.

“NO!” She screamed, attempting to run away. She got no further than a single step and she was hung up, grasped by the neck and clotheslined, her hind legs flying into the air in front of her.

“Ahgk,” She choked, flopping to the ground and gasping for air. Pinkamena didn’t get up, but rolled over, burying her face in her hooves and weeping. It was the only way she could hide from her own twisted face.

“Why…?” She whimpered. “Why did you do this?”

“Me?” It questioned. “It was you! You and your crazy desires!”

“Liar!” Pinkamena’s voice shook. “Archer was my friend, I’d never do this! I…I liked him…”

“As well as any child can!” The figure agreed. “But you still drove the knife down the sockets of his eyes.”

“No!” Pinkamena protested in hopeless sobs. “It was you!”

“I AM you!” It yelled back at her. “I am your hope! Your future!”

“I hate you…” The figure stood over her and leaning down brought its hooves to her face. With one motion it lifted her from the ground, staring into her wet eyes nose to nose, the mucus on Pinkamena’s nose cold against it’s snout as it mixed with tears.

“Don’t say such a dreadful thing,” It consoled. “You don’t hate yourself. You hate everypony else don’t you? All those puffy fools that pretend to care.” It nuzzled their noses together as if trying to be affectionate, but Pinkamena writhed, forcing hers away only for it to be brought back by the figure’s forceful hooves. Their intensity and presence were undeniable, but there was something about them that seemed empty. “How insulting right?” It continued. “In the midst of despair how can anypony pretend to care? They’re just talking at you to make you feel better aren’t they? You know it deep down. Even Ms. Sunblossom is just another voice, a voice trying out of all it’s happy go lucky pretentiousness to look like it’s trying to lift you up, save you from your inevitable suicide. But we’re smarter than them aren’t we Pinkamena? We know the nature of their insults and we know they can’t possibly care. After all, who can know the hell inside the head of an orphan filly? Isn’t that it? How can anypony care who doesn’t share the cast? No one out there cares and it’s insulting to pretend that they do.” The figure dropped her. Pinkamena fell flat, and vomited. Her stomach gave a lurch and in a single wave all the nothing she had eaten in the past hours came up in an amalgamation of disgustingly chunky orangish yellow fluid. It hurt, the pain rippling through her stomach forcing her into a convulsion that tasted bitter as much as it burned in her throat. She coughed, spitting out the rest as it dangled from her mouth in a trail of drool while the figure turned away from her, standing up on two legs, a knife on the ground to its right.

“But what of such attitude?” It yelled to the ceiling. “It’s only spite that resonates in such words. But I applaud you, really. It takes courage to be a pessimist, living life staring at the dark end of the tunnel. You have no family right? Why not make a deal with the reaper and end your suffering? One less mare for the world to try to pander. We’ll outwit the cynicists though won’t we Pinkamena? We’ll grab our future with our own hooves! Now show me! Show us our future vision!”

Leaning to the side, the mare scooped up the knife and tossed it into the air above her, throwing her front hooves up in glee as she balanced upright, watching as the blade twirled gracefully through the air. Pinkamena’s head felt an aching wave and her tail suddenly began twitching uncontrollably. She couldn’t stop it and her anxiety was more than likely the cause, her stomach still contracting in residual tremors. The knife, finished with it’s ascent, came plummeting back down blade first. It hissed straight through the figure before Pinkamena without resistance and stabbed into the dirt, the handle vibrating. Pinkamena’s tail ceased and she was finally able to hold it still. Nothing had happened and the figure came back down to all fours and turned to the knife like something should have been different.

“What’s this?” It questioned. “Where are the visions like before, the active foresight, the rock farm!?” It seemed distraught, something Pinkamena hadn’t seen from it before. It was always full of malice, and now it seemed vulnerable. Maybe this was her chance.

“What’s wrong?” It shifted quickly to the table, opening a large tome and with the familiar thud of the front cover, Pinkamena recalled a rush of memories like a wave of bad nostalgia. She remembered opening that book herself the first time, seeing all of its bewildering scribbles and lists of everything she had never heard of.

“I don’t understand,” It said. “I drew the circle just as it appears. In the blood of a filly!” Pinkamena thanked herself for being naturally clumsy and stupid. It had undoubtedly rubbed off on her double.

“There was a lot more on those lists,” She told it. There was one line in particular that Pinkamena seemed to remember from the end of the book that mattered. “an imperfect mixture will give imperfect results,” She repeated it. The figure cast its first truly hateful glare at her and suddenly, without being moved, Pinkamena found herself suspended in the air by it’s hooves. It closed them about her throat, strangling her in frustration.

“I had the necessities!” It denied. “Your job is to get me another!” It forced her to the ground and proceed to pummel her. Its hooves swung in arcs, striking across her jaws, her head recoiling like a pendulum as the blows jostled it from side to side. “Now go get our future!” It yelled, and with one last strike, it picked her up and threw her toward the doorway. Pinkamena landed on her stomach and it immediately gave another heave and the last of whatever it had left soaked into the soil in front of her. Her throat and tongue felt scratchy and parched now and she gasped in breaths as her lungs heaved along with her abdomen. A wound under her eye had reopened and Pinkamena felt the blood trail ooze lazily down her cheek. She wiped it away, only for more to follow and replace it. It was suddenly quiet, the atmosphere calmed. Looking behind her, the figure was gone. Standing up, there was nothing left but her and an unrecognizable corpse that supposedly belonged to her friend.

And worse, Pinkamena hung her head, she had done it. The blood, the cuts, and her singularity all proved that. The figure didn’t seem like it was lying to her and if she were to take its word, they were one in the same. She teared up, looking at the butchered body and turning, ran from it. She slammed into the door, full body, recoiling off it when it didn’t open. She fumbled clumsily with the latch, but in time managed to loosen it, tossing it to the side where it hung limply, grinding heavily against the wooden door as she flung it open. Pinkamena was glad to see stairs leading up into the darkness. She didn’t care where they led, as long as they were a way out or at least away from here. Bolting up them, she left the room full of her nightmares behind, tears mixing with the blood on her cheek following her in a trail as she ran. The narrow corridor spiraled upward, a hopeful sign and when she finally pushed her way out of the floorboard she recognized where she was. The hidden door flipped shut behind her and in her despair, Pinkamena kept running. There was no safe haven for her now. She was a killer, a horribly maniacal and merciless lunatic who robbed children of their lives in a dungeon at night. She was worse than the blaze that swept away her town. At least it had taken lives in indifference and without prejudice. She had done it for her own sick, selfish, and hidden reasons, reasons she didn’t even know she had. There was no way for her to know how it happened, but something had given life to the twisted, insane portion of her head that had lain masked under her shyness. Now it was toying with her like a puppet master, awake and pulling at her strings from its cage in the corner. Poor Archer. Her pity was all she could offer. She had meant none of it, and yet some part of her had wanted nothing more than this.

Running far past the sleeping room, Pinkamena found herself in the mess hall suddenly wondering where she was going. She slowed to a trot, quieting her steps, suddenly aware her racket might wake somepony. Yet there was no question as to why this was the place that her hooves has taken her. It was her instinct, the one option she knew in her small world. Ms. Sunblossom’s room was back here and her mind, rattled and lost as it was, still knew the way to her one safe haven. But was it safe? Pinkamena looked at herself, she was still covered in blood that wasn’t hers. She hadn’t been in worse shape since the fire. For how different the occurrences were, this was like a repetition. Despair, no matter the form, still seemed the same.

Pinkamena entered the dark corridor adjacent to the mess hall, its lanterns out for the night. As uncertain as she was about confronting Ms. Sunblossom this way, this was the most certain thing she could count on. Going back to bed was no question. How could she sleep now? She paced back in forth in apprehension outside the room at the end of the hall. The door was shut and she knew if she wanted in, she would have to knock. But the idea of making noise in her state seemed frightening, like the slightest word would indict her, the manner of her crime unquestionable. She was covered in evidence and Celestia herself, despite her infinite kindness, would find no place for a wretched filly like her in Equestria. This feeling was worse than the fire. For the first time, she felt she deserved to die.

Curling up in a ball, Pinkamena settled outside the door, unwilling to reveal herself. Maybe she was a coward. She felt like one. Inevitably, she shivered and wrapping her tail around to her face didn’t help. It wasn’t the cold that made her shake and in the dark she was unable to suppress her fearful whimpering, sounding like a poor, lost, beaten dog. She sniffled several times and the sound seemed louder than her screams had. She wiped her eyes, hoping in some wild circumstance that dawn would come and the blood and vomit would evaporate from her fur and she could will herself to forget what she had seen. It wasn’t so and Pinkamena’s heart throbbed, missing two or more disposable beats as she heard sound from within Ms. Sunblossom’s room. She inhaled, stifling her whining, realizing just how loud she had been. There was shifting and shortly after, the soft thump of hooves against wood making their way to the door. Pinkamena wanted to run away again, but there was nowhere better to go, so her better nature kept her from fleeing even as she stood up, facing the door in anticipation, the nerves in her body jumping without her consent. Her ears flopped, slapping the side of her head, her eyes fluttering in tandem as the feeling rippled into her knees causing them to twitch uncontrollably. It was completely random, a jittering that Pinkamena assumed was the result of her frightened nerves, but there was a strange succession to it. Her body stopped and the door opened. As it swung back slowly on its hinges, Ms. Sunblossom shifted cautiously out from behind it, looking over Pinkamena’s head, drowsy, suspicious, and still in her socks.

“Hello?” Ms. Sunblossom said. Pinkamena tried to say something, but the words stuck in her throat, getting caught against her scratchy vocal chords. She kept trying, her mouth open, but nothing coming out as Ms. Sunblossom scanned over her.

“H…” She managed finally. She must have been trying to say hello, but only the first consonant came out in a forced exhale.

“Hm?” Ms. Sunblossom looked down, squinting in the dark at the silhouette of a filly. “Pinkamena?” By whatever distinguishing feature Ms. Sunblossom knew, the mare recognized her. “Dear, what are you doing out here? Did you have another nightmare?” Pinkamena nodded. She was close enough. Yet Pinkamena couldn’t cry. She couldn’t do anything. Now that she was in front of Ms. Sunblossom her mind seemed to have sucked away any ability for her to express emotion. She sat there, wondering why her caretaker hadn’t already killed her. Wasn’t she still wearing her guilt?

“Hmm,” Ms. Sunblossom considered. “Come on then,” She gestured for Pinkamena to follow her inside her room and mechanically she did without trembling or hesitation. “What’s all over your fur dear?” Pinkamena didn’t answer, but knew something had been wrong. There hadn’t been enough light for Ms. Sunblossom to see clearly and as soon as she had touched the filly’s fur, she had felt the spots, the hardened, caked fur and the cold skin. Leaving the door slightly ajar, Ms. Sunblossom moved for a lantern above the desk at the side of the room. With a click, it’s flame sparked to life and the room was filled with its pale yellow illumination. Ms. Sunblossom turned back to her and gave a shriek. It was loud and it stung Pinkamena’s ears.

“Pinkamena are you alright!?” Ms. Sunblossom sat hurriedly in front of her, inspecting the filly’s wounds with her two front hooves, Turning her face every way looking for cuts. Outside the room there was a panic of muffled movement and the sound of opening doors, the hall lighting up.

“Pinkamena, what happened?”

“It’s not mine,” Pinkamena said, her eyes empty and her voice listless. Ms. Sunblossom didn’t hear her. The door was forced open as Pinkamena replied and her words were lost to the striking of the wooden door against the wall. A tan furred, chestnut maned stallion stood at the threshold holding a lantern up with his magic.

“What’s wrong?” He asked as other’s piled in behind him.

“Chester, Go get the first aid kit,” Ms. Sunblossom told him urgently. He didn’t hesiate, taking one look at Ms. Sunblossom then at Pinkamena and took off down the hall, a group of other adults eyeing the scene from outside the room, murmuring.

“It’s not mine,” Pinkamena repeated to assure her caretaker.

“What?” Ms. Sunblossom asked, her wild concern turning mystified. “Pinkamena what did you say?”

“It’s not mine,” She said again, staring straight ahead past Ms. Sunblossom.

“What are you talking about?” Ms. Sunblossom said. “Honey…?” She turned Pinkamena’s head toward her, the filly’s gaze half present. “Pinkamena? Pinkamena!” Ms. Sunblossom gave her a light jostle, shaking Pinkamena from her empty daydream. “Look at me.” She did and she could see Ms. Sunblossom was scared, haunted by the implication of what she had heard. “Honey? Whose blood is this?” She figured it out. It was almost a relief. Pinkamena’s eyes filled with water. It felt like she could breathe again. As long as Ms. Sunblossom knew she wasn’t innocent, she could cry. Pinkamena dissolved into a piteous bout of sobbing, unable to answer, content simply to let them know that the blood on her hooves wasn’t hers. It was sompony else’s. She was guilty.

“Shhh, shhh,” Ms. Sunblossom brought the filly to her chest, sheltering her in her hooves, brushing Pinkamena’s mane and hushing her to try to quiet her wailing. “Hush. You’re okay now.” She wasn’t. Pinkamena knew she was far from okay. That thing was still around somewhere and it could choose when and where to appear. It was only a matter of time before it showed up again.

Presently, the stallion from before came running back into the room with a white tin case with a red cross painted on the front. He presented in to her, but she waved it away.

“Wh-” The stallion was confused.

“Call the guard,” Ms. Sunblossom whispered to him, the other adults filtering away from the door.

“Why?” He questioned. “Aren’t you overreac-”

“Just do it!” She shot back. “We don’t know who hurt her.” He nodded and leaving the first aid kit next to Ms. Sunblossom, took off once again. Pinkamena didn’t know what she meant by guard; she was content to be able to cry into the only set of welcoming hooves she knew. The few moments Pinkamena was cradled in Ms. Sunblossom’s embrace, her mane brushed in in calming strokes, were the most blissful she had experienced in her memory. She would have continued cry as long as she could just to remain there, but before long Ms. Sunblossom lifted her away, looking her in the eye with an empathetic gaze.

“Pinkamena,” Ms. Sunblossom said earnestly. “Can you tell me who did this? It’s important.” Pinkamena shook her head.

“Pinkamena, please. How did this happen?” It hurt. Ms. Sunblossom was looking at her with an expression that cared so honestly that Pinkamena’s refusal to tell the truth seemed just as damning as her murder. With every action, she was sealing her fate. But how, how could she tell Ms. Sunblossom that Archer was dead and it was her fault? Her reflection had stepped out of the mirror and was tormenting her existence and anypony who shared in it. Would she even believe it?

“Alright,” Ms. Sunblossom sighed after an interval without a response. “I’ll let you think about it. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Ms. Sunblossom removed her socks, biting the edges and tugging them off, leaving them on the floor. Then, the way cat’s carry their young, Ms. Sunblossom picked Pinkamena up by the skin of her neck carrying her out of the room. Pinkamena hung loosely as she was brought across the hall, some of the other adults still in the corridor, eyeing her and whispering their rumors in each other’s ears as Ms. Sunblossom opened the door across the way and disappeared from view. A light clicked on, the door closed, and Pinkamena found herself being set down on tiled, ceramic floor that was cold against her hooves. There was a metallic squeak and the gushing of water as Ms. Sunblossom pulled a crank on the wall, filling a wooden basin up with stored, preheated water.

“In,” Ms. Sunblossom said flatly. Pinkamena wondered if Ms. Sunblossom wasn’t upset with her. Hesitating, she stepped into the lukewarm water as Ms. Sunblossom filled a smaller bucket that was nearby. The water soaked into her fur and it alone made her hooves feel cleaner, as if the water itself somehow purified the guilt they carried. Yet even if the blood was gone, it still pervaded every corner of her head and for now, she couldn’t see a future where it wouldn’t bother her with the same intensity every day for every moment as long as Archer was never avenged.

Without warning, Pinkamena’s tail spasmed furiously, tossing the water around before stopping as she was doused over the head with a cascade of warm soapy water. She sputtered, her mane dripping onto her nose as Ms. Sunblossom picked up a sponge and started stirring up the suds and scrubbing her back. Pinkamena sneezed, her body splashing the water as it jerked. Wiping her nose, she pushed her mane to the side, letting the drops slide down the hairs and harmlessly into the basin. Ms. Sunblossom’s cleaning was gentle and thorough, making sure to get all of the red blights out of her fur and applying extra shampoo to get it out of her mane and tail. The scrubbing was relaxing, practically a massage, especially on her back. But even though it calmed her, she didn’t feel like she deserved it. Even the taste of soap on her tongue was a welcome replacement to the bitterness that had been lingering there. Still, she should have been punished, not rewarded for her actions. The whole scenario seemed backwards. The light searing of the cut under her eye from the soap was her only retribution, barely a slap on the wrist. Her mind kept crying out, ‘Ms. Sunblossom I’m guilty can’t you see?’ but nothing came out of her mouth. She was rendered mute by fear. Nopony would love her if they knew she was a murderer. She may as well have taken her doppelganger’s advice and hung herself had she known the vice that would grip her nerves, that would bar her from admitting her guilt, penning her up eternally in her own self-pity. Not even Ms. Sunblossom’s gentle touch, or her calm, honest, sweet voice could break her. The balmy cleansing water was washing over nothing more than a prison. Pinkamena was trapped inside herself.

When all the spots were out, Ms. Sunblossom lifted Pinkamena from the basin and, opening a tall wooden cabinet in the corner of the room, tossed a towel over the filly’s head. It formed a nice canopy and Pinkamena would have been content to hide under it for as long as she could. She wasn’t given such privilege and justly so. Ms. Sunblossom lifted the cloth from her head began drying the filly’s body off using a comb afterwards to tidy and straighten her mane.

When Pinkamena finally exited the washroom, she was the cleanest looking criminal she knew. Then again, her young mind didn’t know any others, only herself and the fire that led her here.

“Well?” Ms. Sunblossom said in the doorway, balancing the basin of used water on her back. “Have you had a chance to think?” Pinkamena didn’t answer, keeping her back to Ms. Sunblossom.

“Well,” Ms. Sunblossom told her. “I’m going to empty this water. I hope you’ll change your mind by then. Stay in my room.” Pinkamena did as she was told, walking heavily back into the picture littered room while Ms. Sunblossom went to get rid of the soiled bathwater. That water had Archer’s blood in it, it occurred to her. The last of him was going to be dumped into the soil to feed the grass. At least that much was going to use, the rest was rotting below her, feeding nothing but the lines of the tainted spell circles and barren dirt.

Pinkamena sat at the foot of Ms. Sunblossom’s bed, waiting for the inevitable self indictment that would soon be forced on her. Behind the drawn curtains she could see hints of light, the sky beginning to brighten as Celestia raised the sun. Had she really been out that long again? This was the second time her night had been lost to a purpose she couldn’t remember and at this rate she would become nocturnal, more of an owl than a pony.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Pinkamena turned abruptly, stiffening to find the stallion from before back, but with a white Pegasus clad in gold armor. She recognized him, one of Canterlot’s royal guards. Everypony, even the fillies knew them. They were around on occasion, but more often than not merely to drop off newly estranged fillies or on a better note, to take them to their new families. Their presence was always double sided and even though Pinkamena had been brought here by those same wings, they frightened her now.

“What happened to Ms. Sunblossom?” The unicorn from before asked.

“I’m here,” A voice came from the hallway. Pinkamena’s tension loosened. If she was going to have to explain herself to anypony, she didn’t want them to be strangers. “Pinkamena?” Ms. Sunblossom made her way past the two in the doorway, approaching her and stopping when she was a few feet away.

“Well?” Ms. Sunblossom asked. “Are you ready to give me an answer?”

“No.” Pinkamena looked away from her.

“Pinkamena,” Ms. Sunblossom said, stern, a new tension in her voice.

“You’ll just think I’m stupid,” Pinkamena protested. It wasn’t entirely what she meant. She wanted to say that they would never believe her, but she supposed thinking her stupid was along the same line, only more derisive.

“Hey,” Ms. Sunblossom sat down next to Pinkamena, putting her hoof around her. It was warm and smelled more like the soap she had been using than Pinkamena did, flowery and sweet. All this caring and warmth that she didn’t deserve, it wasn’t right. “You’re not stupid. Who told you that?”

“I did,” Pinkamena told her. Ms. Sunblossom hesitated, blinking bewilderedly.

“Pinkamena that’s not important,” Ms. Sunblossom said. “We need to know what happened. You’re not stupid. You can tell us who hurt you.”

“It was…” Pinkamena swallowed, following up quickly: “It was Archer.” What was she saying? She hid her face away in Ms. Sunblossom’s leg, hiding the deceit that would be apparent if she let them see it.

“What?” Ms. Sunblossom glanced to the two in the doorway, the guard remaining stoic, while the unicorn gave a distanced shrug, not even sure what was going on himself.

“He said he was going to hurt himself,” Pinkamena said. “He ran off with a knife and I tried to chase him.” This was it, Pinkamena thought, she was even relinquishing her guilt. She was truly a monster.

“Chester,” Ms. Sunblossom said. “Can you and the guard go check the sleeping room for Archer. It’s about time for the fillies to wake up anyway.” He nodded and the guard turned to follow the unicorn before Chester had time to awkwardly turn around and gesture for him to do so, looking a bit clumsy and inept. After an awkward halt, they went urgently on their way. Pinkamena was staring at the floor, pretending to shy away behind Ms. Sunblossom, her eyes wide, horrified with herself.

“Do you know where he went dear?” Ms. Sunblossom asked. Without looking up, Pinkamena shook her head.

“I…Pinkamena…” Ms. Sunblossom hesitated. “Are you telling me the truth?” Pinkamena looked up at her, stunned. She should have known better.

“I really don’t know where he is,” She said. Perhaps that much was true. Archer’s body was certainly where she had left it, but where the filly himself was, was past her understanding. It was in the place riddled at in the speeches of her doppelganger with its talks about death that she didn’t comprehend. Wherever Archer was, Ms. Sunblossom wasn’t going to find him. “I’m sorry,” Pinkamena whimpered. This apology was predicated more around her lie than not being able to find Archer, but she knew how Ms. Sunblossom would see it. Yet it wasn’t for Ms. Sunblossom; Pinkamena uttered it to console herself, letting the second meaning fly to the air because her grief couldn’t wait until she was alone for an apology.

“I’m sorry,” She repeated, feeling Ms. Sunblossom’s pitying gaze on her. She was left without a reply. A set of hooves trotting their way toward the room, averted Ms. Sunblossom’s attention. A stallion, a familiar lanky pony with a navy blue pelt, cantered into the doorway, curious above anything else.

“Emese?” He questioned, his eyes meeting the two, one huddled under the other. “Oh,” He seemed to think he was out of place. “Well, sorry to weasel my way into your mother daughter thing here,” he said. Was that it, Pinkamena thought, was that really what it looked like? Pinkamena didn’t feel like a child right now; she felt fake, her face, once that of a filly, was only plastic. Walter, to her, couldn’t have been more wrong.

“What’s all the commotion?” He asked. “I saw the royal guard. What brings them here?”

“Your timing is perfect Walter,” Ms. Sunblossom told him.

“It is?” Walter cocked his head, but seemed rather pleased with the coincidence.

“Archer is apparently missing. Pinkamena says he attacked her.”

“Himself,” Pinkamena corrected her, regretting every moment she ran along with her fibbing.

“What?” Walter seemed surprised. “That little guy? But I saw him just yesterday. Little tike couldn’t have been happier.”

“I don’t have time to explain,” Ms. Sunblossom said. “Can you watch her? I need to help the guards look for him.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Walter agreed happily. Even presented with the darkest circumstances Walter reacted smoothly and without spite. Pinkamena envied him, his clear conscious, his light demeanor, his ability to smile and make others do the same. Why couldn’t that be her? Why was she the monster?

“Thank you,” Ms. Sunblossom stood up. “Behave now Pinkamena. Maybe you could tell Walter what you can’t tell me.” Pinkamena’s ears drooped. She knew, Ms. Sunblossom knew. Pinkamena felt like an idiot. Had she thought Ms. Sunblossom was stupid? Of course she was going to be able to tell when a child was lying; she probably dealt with fillies far more cunning than Pinkamena was. Just as Ms. Sunblossom was about to turn away, Pinkamena stopped her.

“Wait,” She said and hopped forward, wrapping her front hooves around the mare and stretching herself upward until her lips met Ms. Sunblossom’s forehead. Ms. Sunblossom had done it to her before, and she wanted to return some sign of affection and this seemed like the only one she could remember. A hug wouldn’t have been enough, it was too casual, but Pinkamena clung to Ms. Sunblossom even after she lowered her head, a simple peck to the forehead all she could think to do. To Pinkamena’s astonishment. Ms. Sunblossom touched a hoof to the filly’s chin and lifting her head up, returned the gesture, somehow with far more feeling it seemed like than Pinkamena ever could. Pinkamena felt happy, but somehow humiliated as well, shown up at her own game.

“You’ll be alright,” Ms. Sunblossom assured her, taking Pinkamena’s hooves in her own and setting the filly back to the floor.

“Well isn’t that grand!” Walter exclaimed.

“You didn’t see anything,” Ms. Sunblossom smiled at him.

“Oh no,” He agreed. “But I can’t help but feel. And boy did I feel that. Why I-”

“Hush,” She raised a hoof at him and made her way to the door. “I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

“Oh don’t you worry,” Walter said. “I’ll have plenty of time for that.” Ms. Sunblossom laughed, but it was a misty sort of laugh, the kind uttered when someone is grasping at every moment of relief they can get from a crisis at hand.

“I’ll be back.” With that, Ms. Sunblossom exited, picking up the spare first aid kit and turning down the hall to search for a pony Pinkamena knew she would never find. And now she was left with Walter, a pony that she didn’t understand the way she understood Ms. Sunblossom. Yet following their recent conversation, Pinkamena felt like she didn’t understand anything. The voice in the basement made life sound all too dark and complicated for her. She wanted something simpler. Walter was simpler, but not what she thought of when simplicity came to mind. They stood in an estranged silence, Walter looking brightly down at her, unaware of what she had done, expecting her to say something while she shrunk behind her mane, distracting herself with the floor.

“Well filly,” Walter said, “Care to share? What’s got everypony in such a bustle?” Pinkamena was afraid she might have to answer him. Yet just when she though she had nothing else to say, something occurred to her. She had been hesitant to ask Ms. Sunblossom because she thought it would seem strange presenting a rumor straight to the source. Pinkamena would offend Ms. Sunblossom, confuse her, or worst of all, bring back an unwanted memory. But Walter had none of the attachments to the question that Ms. Sunblossom would and better still, he might know something. He seemed like a knowledgeable pony, good with the other fillies despite just being one of the cooks.

“Walter?” Pinkamena started quietly as if she needed to be sure he was paying attention; she didn’t want to have to ask a second time.

“What’s on your mind kid?” He was more than willing to listen and his attentive, kind demeanor put her as much at ease as she could be in her state.

“Is it true?” Pinkamena asked. “Did Ms. Sunblossom really have a daughter?” There was a pause, but Pinkamena didn’t look at Walter to see his reaction; she could only guess by the delay that her question had at least caught him by surprise.

“Who told you that?” Walter asked.

“I overhead some other fillies talking about it,” Pinkamena answered. It was a stupid question, she told herself. Walter’s confusion was enough to tell her it wasn’t true. She should have known better than to take the word of two half informed colts as truth.

“Her name was Aster,” Walter said almost to himself. Pinkamena looked up at him, his eyes suddenly lost in the mist of memory. “That seems like it was ages ago.”

“You…you mean…” Pinkamena trailed off as Walter snapped out of his reverie, brightening when he saw that she was looking at him now.

“It’s true,” Walter said. “I don’t know how your little friends knew that, but either they had a good source or a lucky rumor. Although…” Walter stopped, frowning, something she had never really seen him do before. It gave him an air of seriousness that a simple frown wouldn’t have done for anypony else.

“What?” Pinkamena egged him on eagerly, astonished that the colts had been right, but not wanting her surprise to stop her from learning more. Who was Aster? Why wasn’t she around?

“Ms. Sunblossom isn’t particularly fond of the subject,” Walter considered.

“Why?

“Did your friends happen to mention that nopony knows what happened to her?” Pinkamena thought for a second. She was fairly certain they had, but never said why.

“Not even you?” Pinkamena asked, sounding, albeit inadvertently, like she admired Walter as a pony who seemed to know everything a situation called for.

“No,” Walter admitted. “You know actually…” Walter walked past Pinkamena to the desk at the side of the room and opened one of the small top drawers. Shifting some papers aside, his hoof came back out bearing a small piece of paper, a photo. Walter turned to her and held it up.

“It’s a bit embarrassing that I still know where this is,” He said. “Best not tell her I showed you though.” Walter winked at her, but Pinkamena was far too entranced by the photo to notice. It was of Ms. Sunblossom no doubt. She was sitting on a red and white checkerboard picnic cloth, a basket next to her in the grass and a filly. Pinkamena’s eyes gazed over the small pony several times and her familiar curled yellow-orange mane and soft light tan fur. She was a miniaturized version of Ms. Sunblossom, the only key difference: no cutie mark. Aster, the name echoed in Pinkamena’s head, Aster Sunblossom. She stared, longer than she should have, at the filly flopped across her mother’s back, smiling amidst a fit of giggles, her mother smiling affectionately back. Yet something occurred to her, a poking at the back of her mind. She couldn’t tell if it was the voice again or if her intuition was trying to tell her something or both. Regardless, Pinkamena looked up at Walter after the long interval. He was looking a bit apprehensive, wanting to put the photo away should Ms. Sunblossom happen to come back.

“Who took the picture?” Pinkamena asked. It was a reasonable observation and it took Walter off guard once again. He flipped the photo back into the drawer, burying it under the papers and closing it away.

“Her…father,” Walter said slowly.

“What happened to him?” Pinkamena asked. Walter looked distraught, something in his head visibly restraining him from giving her an answer.

“I…can’t tell you that,” He said.

“Why not?”

“Oh dear. I’ve said too much haven’t I?” Walter stood apprehensively, Pinkamena’s hurt gaze wondering why the pony who had all the answers was unable to give her the one she wanted.

“Ms. Sunblossom!” Pinkamena darted from the room, galloping as fast as her small hooves could take her.

“Pinkamena!” Walter called after her, but as he followed Pinkmena, using her tail like a hook, swung the door shut as she exited, slamming it in the Stallion’s face. Her tail seemed to stretch and recoil like a rubber band, grabbing the door and forcing it shut like an extra hoof. Pinkamena apologized internally for her actions as she ran, but she didn’t have time to turn back. Walter would want to stop her. It wasn’t that his words had startled her or that his refusal to tell her the truth made her want to tell on the Stallion like a baby crying to her mother when another foal takes her toy. No, it wasn’t anything like that. There was some strange aura of forbiddenness in the information that Walter withheld from her that made her fear for her caretaker. Ms. Sunblossom was in danger. Not in a physical sense from Walter or the unnamed father who took the photograph of the mare and her daughter, but from herself. Pinkamena realized that Ms. Sunblossom was a torn mare, she was in danger from her own sadness. For once, maybe Pinkamena could do something about it. She knew the pain of losing family and the despairing depths she had witnessed at the hooves of her own bloody deed were enough for her to relate with any sadness Ms. Sunblossom might feel. The poor pony, Pinkamena thought. This entire time Ms. Sunblossom had been caring for all these orphaned fillies and in the process became somewhat of an orphan herself. How much of her pain was she keeping inside? She could save her from that, Pinkamena knew she could. This was her-

Pinkamena felt her knees pinch, the nerves snapping at her in some kind of warning. She was strung to an abrupt halt, a sudden vice about her throat jerking her to a stop and throwing her down to the hallway floor.

“Idiot!” A voice spat in her face. Pinkamena opened her eyes to find herself glaring angrily down at her, her bladed eyes cutting across her own.

“What petty arrogance compels you!? You think you can ‘save’ her? You‘re naïve!” Pinkamena coughed, sitting up and shoving the figure away from her. It’s body seemed weightless, like pushing air. But it moved nonetheless, keeping its eyes fixed on her. Yet as she glared back, a smile crossed its face slowly as an idea crept into its head.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking she needs you,” It told her. “You were the mess when you arrived here. She was fine. If anything, you cause her the most pain.”

“That’s not true,” Pinkamena stomped back at it.

“Hah!” It snickered. “Even if it’s not, you will.” In a single blink, Pinkamena found herself being whisked away in her own body without her consent. Morning was in full bloom now and the sun slanted brightly in the windows as her legs carried away around corners. She arrived in a place she didn’t want to see anymore. It was that old unused room with the two small windows that seemed to distinguish it from the others. Pinkamena’s double walked seemingly out from inside of her, looking like a spirit trotting out its body. Yet as Pinkamena discovered, she was the spirit. The one left in control of her real body was the one with the bladed eyes. Even as she tried to run, something stopped her and when she reached out to grab the unmoved fallen nightstand, her hoof passed through it.

“You just wait there,” The figure said to her.

“What are you doing?” Pinkamena asked and it calmly placed its hoof on a leg of the night stand, scooting it across the floor only a little as if to show who was in control.

“You want to end Ms. Sunblossom’s pain?” It asked. “You will!” The figure turned away from her, peeking around the threshold of the doorway. Out in the hall, she saw Walter make his entrance, turning in all directions frantically. He turned down a separate hall to the right and the figure grinned, finding Ms. Sunblossom follow only a few minutes in his wake, alone, still with the first aid kit grasped in her mouth.

“Hahaha!” It chuckled. “Could I ask for more?”

“Stop!” Pinkamena cried, but even now her voice seemed distant, and shoved to the side; the figure ignored her.

“Archer!” It screamed as loud as it could. “Somepony bring the first aid kit!” Pinkamena’s eyes widened. She hoped with any amount of desire she might have in her state, that Ms. Sunblossom wouldn’t fall for it, or she would at least bring one of the guards with her. Her double’s ears stood straight up as hers drooped to the side of her head, both of them hearing only one pair of hooves gallop down the hall. Pinkamena tried to scream, but nothing happened. Her mouth came open and a wave of nothingness came from her throat. There wasn’t even air in her screams. The figure waited patiently and exactingly, it’s hooves poised, one wrapped around the leg of the nightstand. The patter of hooves neared and there was nothing Pinkamena could do.

As soon as Ms. Sunblossom’s head crossed the threshold, Pinkamena watched herself lift the nightstand in one hoof and in a single arching swoop, strike Ms. Sunblossom in the back of the head. There was a crack, perhaps the table, perhaps the mare’s skull, but Ms. Sunblossom tripped and propelled forward by momentum, tumbled hooves over her head, bending and twisting like a rag doll. The first aid kit clattered to the floor and against the mare’s teeth with hollow, tinny clunks as she managed to keep it clenched in her jaw as she smacked against the wood floor. Watching it was like watching one’s self kill themselves. It shouldn’t have been possible, but she was left with the aftermath of Ms. Sunblossom twisted and moaning on the floor, her own hooves to thank or blame for the pain.

Pinkamena watched herself calmly set the nightstand down—the leg she had used as a handle splintered and bent where it met the table—and trot gleefully to Ms. Sunblossom, wrapping a hoof around the mare’s leg and dragging the half conscious pony to the corner of the room.

“This circle will be the last,” She said, looking at her own faded horrified, spectating face. “And what a special circle it will be.”

“Stop!” Pinkamena called to herself. It was useless. Ms. Sunblossom was completely dazed and she pulled the mare to the hidden wooden panel without a struggle, the first aid kit scratching across the ground along with them. Pinkamena followed as if she had a choice as her double flipped up the floorboard and plunged into the darkness with her caretaker flopping limply along into the abyss. The panel thumped shut above them and with their first few steps down the stairs Pinkamena could hear the frantic hooves of several ponies all patter to a halt above them, arriving to nothing but an empty room. They were too late.