Deafly Hollow

Clip-clop the hooves on the pavement sounded as the mare whose sluggish gait staggered and her ears twitched in desperation. She was not like this before: her cream coat and lush red mane were a thing of beauty; her trot was full of life, a skip in her step could be noticed from miles away; and her once happy demeanor now ceases to exist, replaced by a wrinkled shell of time and stress.

This is Roseluck: one whose hearing loss affects her everyday life. She can’t hear proper sounds, only those who defy the volumes of the normal tones that everypony but her can fully appreciate.

This is not fair to her: a fine, individualistic mare who loves tending to her flowers and selling them at a quality price that simply nopony can deny. Of course, most males cannot order flowers at her shop due to the inaudible low tones of their masculine voices. However, other mares can communicate with her, but only if they speak extremely close to her ear.

Roseluck sighs as she begins to clean her work station, dragging the red towel in her possession across the smooth, cobblestone counter to bring out the true beauty of the majestic block of rock. She could not help but be in tune with nature. Even though her cutie mark tells her that flowers are her speciality does not mean she can’t spruce up her flower shop in a more sensible taste of nature. Of course, she couldn’t do it alone.

Roseluck shivers as a cold, nippy pulse zips down her spine. She remembers the time when Big Macintosh had to rush to her aid after she tried to lug a large stone slab into the shop. That almost killed her when the slab slid off her backside and onto her left hind leg, shattering the bone for the remainder of her life. Not only does being partially deaf haunt her being, but the horrific flashbacks of her painful misadventure plague her once innocent mind.

Not one being could corrupt her now, life has already tainted her only few venues of choice: the venue of the good life, which she still tries to strive for yet fails due to these horrific memories, and the venue of reason, which has been stalling after being unable to find a true purpose in her life. Flowers didn’t bring about purpose. It was more than a simple tattoo on one’s buttocks. She had to find it.

Roseluck lunges her foreleg forward, flinging the dirty rag into the bin labeled ‘Dirty Towels’. The near silent clinking noise enters her vicinity—her eyes glazing over that horrid smelling bin. She saunters over, peering at the metal bin with intrigue. The dirty red rag lies in a ball, curled around the clean, snow white insides of the bin. She gasps.

Roses are red.

She takes a step back before slinking into the confines of the counter, sliding down to the hard, cold floor.

Violets are blue.

She whimpers as the bin begins to shake.

Luck made me rue.

Tears cover her face; the universe entrapping her inside her safe house.

The days of my youth.

The frequencies of the sounds halt while the mare huddled underneath her counter whimpers still, not knowing if she is alive or in another nightmare.

“D-don’t kill me,” she cries, her eyes closed shut, blocking the moisture from ever leaving her being.

She stays still, the silence reigning.

The time never known.

“Rose!”

She hears a low tone.

“Rose!”

It’s calling her name.

“Rose!”

But it does not sound the same.

“Rose!”

Maybe its her mind making things up.

“Rose!”

Her mind is good at making up things.

“Rose!” A light pressure develops on her shoulder.

Maybe it’s another being…

“Rose!” The pressure begins to sting.

She opens her eyes.

“Roseluck!” the red stallion shouts, grabbing her forehoof with his much larger one.

“Big Mac?” Roseluck questions in disbelief. “W-what are you doing here?”

Big Macintosh ignores her question, walking over to the clean rag bin to obtain a red handkerchief. “That’s not important,” Big Macintosh states as he approaches her once again, the higher quality rag languidly rests on the back of his neck. He grabs it with his teeth and gently rubs her cheek.

Roseluck blushes, her body frozen as the large stallion wipes her tears away, one red swipe at a time. Her ears splay back, twitching all the while. She shivers again, the red filling her vision. “B-big Mac?”

“Eyup?” he says with a slur as he discards the rag without much care in the world.

“I…” Her voice trails off, her gaze coasts to the cold, tile floor.

Big Macintosh sees this, bringing her close. “Eyup…” he mutters, nuzzling her neck.

She gasps, feeling the red give her comfort. This feeling, this oh-so-comforting feeling was unheard of by her: comfort was the blue’s job. Blue gives her life, not the red. Why must this day confuse her?

She sighs, succumbing to the comfort of the stallion’s care. “Thank… you,” she weakly offers.

He smiles and squeezes her, holding her tight in his forelegs. “Eyup,” he says proudly.

The two stand still, reveling in the comfortable embrace.

All the while, the faint sounds of the red tapers off…

Thanking Big Mac one last time, she lets him leave her shop. The warmth her friend provided is stilled in her being, spreading throughout. She must hold onto this, for the cold will return; she must prepare.

Keeping herself active is a way to do this: cleaning, counting bits, reorganizing inventory; all in all a way to continue the fire that steadily burns within her, keeping her alive.

The sounds of construction fill the room. Much to Roseluck’s chagrin, the sounds were too low for her to hear. She wants to hear them; they are part of her nature, her rock. This hearing problem has been the end of her. Not one thing will ever sound the same, the tones switching rather uncontrollably. She may hear the mare’s calling, but it will sound like a scream of death.

She may hear a stallion’s call, but it will sound like an explosion of fire.

She cannot stop this hindrance, for even doctors tried. Magic is ineffective and surgery only makes things worse.

She regrets being herself.

Roseluck: a mare of individual attitudes cannot like even her self.

What must she do?

Roseluck sets the pot on the table, the flowers inside glow brightly in the sunlight, red and all. A rush of air from a nearby window flows underneath her three legs, reminding her of that fourth, amputated leg. The lack of a hind leg has not hindered her ability to continue her job. Since the incident occurred, she’s noticed Big Macintosh keeping his eyes plastered on her, helping whenever he can; sometimes unexpectedly.

Roseluck blushes, the thought of Big Macintosh keeping her company emblazoning her mind. She cannot help but feel warm inside as the big, burly red stallion breaks the mental codes of the red that she knew. The magic that she felt when he wrapped his strong, buff forelegs around her thin, cream-coated form; it was extraordinary. She was left breathless in his grasp.

She stops, frozen at the sight of the red. Does this mean she’s being infatuated with the red? Does she want the red to plague her or make her?

The red has harmed her directly so many times. The beast of the red howls in the night, the darkness invades her being: shiver after shiver of cold would establish itself deep within the confines of her breast; never will she feel warm around the red. However, this view was shattered today, Big Macintosh gave red a whole new meaning.

But is it her red?

No, it mustn’t. It shan’t not be.

The red howls, it does not bring comfort.

The blue does; she should know. Blue stops the red from invading her being as if it was blocking the virus from spreading. Blue holds her tightly at night to protect her, not hinder her.

Roseluck looks out, the sun shines brightly in the light blue sky, no cloud could be seen. The blue is in the sky, happy as can be. Maybe, blue is watching her, keeping her safe.

No...

The red attacked her just an hour ago, the blue didn’t keep her safe.

She pulls away from the sun and the blues, her attention shifting towards the register. She sighs and shuffles behind the counter, waiting for a customer to come and pick up their red and white wreath. According to her sign-in sheet, the customer, Vinyl Scratch, was to be arriving soon.

Vinyl Scratch.

Roseluck gasps. They were friends at one point, but the rocky road they both slowly trudge on breaks beneath each step they take. All that Roseluck knew was that they split years ago after a fight, ending with the two covered in scars. For Rose, she knew her scars would heal, but the more psychological wounds…

She cringes.

A light blue tear slips down her cheek...

“Hey!” a cheery voice emits.

...another follows soon after.

“Rose?” the voice asks, changing to more higher tones.

She picks it up easily, as Rose peers up at the pony, the unwelcomed shade of purple staring at her.

“A-are you Vinyl Scratch?” Roseluck asks, the wavering strength of her being effecting her greatly.

Even though she knew the answer, Roseluck had to know who she was: this mare has never entered her shop before.

“No,” the mare replies. “I’m Octavia Phillamaronica, a good friend of hers.” The mare flips her charcoal mane, allowing her to see Rose more properly. “Sorry about this, Vinyl couldn’t make it.”

Roseluck internally groans. Could Vinyl not even bear to see her after all these years?

On the outside, Roseluck nods and pulls out the item. “Are you going to pay on her behalf?”

Octavia’s eyes shift towards the headpiece, staring at it with intent. “Yes?” she says with a raised pitch while she gently glides her hooves over the petals.

Roseluck giggles, the sight of the mare’s absolute shock at the work of her two very capable hooves couldn’t stop the inevitable light laughter. “Yes?” she repeats, startling the customer’s entranced gaze.

Octavia yelps as she falters, a bright red blush favoring her cheeks. “I-Yes,” she struggles to say as she scrambles to find her footing. “I will.”

Roseluck gives her a smile. “Fifteen bits, please.”

Octavia pulls out her coin purse and opens it up with a quick slap from her right fore hoof. In a few seconds, she grabs a small sum of bits and hoofs them over to Roseluck, a bright smile adorning her face. “That should be fifteen!” Octavia proclaims.

Roseluck counts out the bits; fifteen and all. Roseluck looks at her customer. “Thank you for shopping at Roseluck’s Flower Emporium!”

Octavia giggles. “I’m glad I did,” she begins, her eyes glazing over the counter. “By the way, would you like to come?”

Roseluck tilts her head to the side. “Where?”

“To Vinyl’s wedding!” Octavia states, as if Roseluck was supposed to know. She tilts her head. “Unless she didn’t tell you what the wreath was for?”

Roseluck sighs. “No, she doesn’t speak to me much, Octavia,” Roseluck says, her eyes shifting to the wreath. “After that fight…”

“Fight?” Octavia says as her brow rose to new heights.

“It’s a long story,” Roseluck states, depositing the golden coins into the register. “But one for the books.”

“Care to share the tale?” Octavia asks as she leans on the counter. “I don’t have much else to do today.”

Roseluck sighs, shutting the bit register with ease, the register locking itself in place. “It’s… personal.”

“Too personal to share,” Octavia begins, bringing Roseluck’s gaze to hers. “But not enough to state?”

She sighs. Octavia is right. Why does she run herself into the ground all the time? She mustn’t do this anymore, the red will take her easily if she doesn’t fix this.

“Yes,” Roseluck replies downtrodden. “It is too much for me to handle in detail.” She looks up at the charcoal maned mare. “Not to mention that I don’t know you too well.”

“Oh?” Octavia says with a smirk. “Then, how about I propose a meeting,” she begins, her eyes set upon Rose. “If you come with me to dine, then we shall ‘get to know each other’ just fine.”

The offer was tempting to Roseluck. Getting to know how Vinyl was doing would be nice, not to mention she’d be getting a meal out of this whole thing; made her feel happy and overjoyed. Roseluck nods. “Okay, what time?”

“How about nine?” Octavia asks, her gaze gliding over the sign-in sheet. “Judging by this,” she begins, her hoof pointing to the handbook. “You’re free at that time.”

Nine o’clock: a time that was always open for Roseluck. Never should she forget, lest she beset. This time was when she would be leaving the shop, of course, if business is not booming. Only once has this happened to her when Twilight Sparkle and her friends wanted flowers for the Summer Sun Celebration. The now crowned Princess comes in only on rare occasions, asking for one unit of purple petunias every time. Roseluck admires her: the regality, the attention, the studious demeanor; all of this did Roseluck desire. If only she knew of the inner qualities of the Princess’s life; it was something only those who dream of the profession would ask.

Roseluck couldn’t say this time was not a desirable time. After all, a free dinner from a mare who cares?

Sign her up.

Roseluck nods. “Sure,” she says. “I’m open to this time.”

Octavia gives her a warm, gentle smile. “Good,” Octavia announces. “Meet me here at nine, I will be here to pick you up!”

Octavia steps back, the wreath resting upon her contrasted mane.

The warmth begins to fade,

Roseluck nods. “Will do!”

To those who dare trade,

Octavia turns to leave, a short wave of her hoof was all to be seen.

The things that bring us comfort,

Roseluck waves back, smiling just as much as before.

And the things that bring us pain.

She sighs as she trots to the door, switching the open sign to a close, the red ink shown to all. Rose returns to her post, she has to prepare.

While she passes the counter, only one thing can be seen.

A little red rose lays comfortably, no one to bother its sheen.