It was the 15th of March, when Scootaloo slipped away. She had told her family that she was with her friends, and her friends that she was with her family. But, the one she was with was no longer with her. He was gone, locked away, never to dance or play, never to share his first kiss, never to give Scootaloo hers.
Scootaloo was at the cemetery, a most honest place. She passed by grand statues and poetic verses for those who had it worse and for those who had it better. She walked to her kin, her grandmother and grandfather, and sat in front of them. She asked for one favor, one last gift from those she had only ever seen smile. Scootaloo asked that they care for him, the one she had lost but never had. And if they had a second gift to give, maybe to care for her. It was an afterthought.
She was sad, yet happy at the same time. Joyful in this place of death and loss. This place, that had the potential to drive a pony insane, brought peace of mind to Scootaloo. It brought her isolation from the world, something she valued so highly and that was so often taken from her. Scootaloo was happy in that she was finally doing something about her constant pain. For even if it changed, it was better than the same stagnant pain that she felt when she cried and when she pretended to laugh but only wanted to die inside. That pain that was larger than an ocean, taller than a mountain, and more comforting than her best friends.
Oh how Scootaloo could languish in that pain for hours, days, weeks. She had, she knew, and that was why she was here. She wanted to end that pain. She wanted to end her addiction to its comforting embrace, the only feeling she had felt in a long time. She wanted to feel alive for once, absent from the oppression of death.
She could lie: say that she wasn’t the same as before, say it was wrong, say that she wasn’t sad. She had, in fact, said that it was okay that very day, and that others were worrying too much. But the worry was so familiar; like when she knew she would fail a test because her answers were wrong and was surprised to find them correct, proving her wrong in the end. It was a strange and familiar feeling, the same that she had felt off and on since she was a foal but for a new and opposite reason. Of course, she'd spoken to all the ponies that cared about her, all the ones she had ever turned to for guidance, all but the one that mattered. And by the end she’d lied to each and every one without guilt, resolute in the knowledge that the truth would only cause more pain to herself and to others. She always told them that she was getting better, even going so far as to cry with them. But her tears only felt wet when she cried alone with her pillows at night.
She had cried. She’d cried with her family, she cried with her friends, but she was crying for them because someday they would be apart, not because she could cry for him. But when she closed the door, and pulled out her knife, she used it to cry for herself, for his life. She liked it dull. It felt better that way. It felt like it helped her cry more. It was something sharp, something fast, something so close to the danger she had wanted to court; now it was dull, pointless, lifeless, and when she used it, they were both red. It helped her cry for more than just him, it helped her cry for herself, and what they had meant to each other. It was her secret comfort, her secret friend, a shining crimson flash and then she’d feel again.
But today she was clean and healed, she made sure. She didn’t want him to see how she’d suffered. She had brought the knife, for one last night, and sharpened it to ease the pain one last time. She wanted them both to look their best for her first kiss.
She looked up at the tombstones, her grandmother and grandfather, and thanked them for caring for her in their lives. She asked forgiveness for her behavior, and asked one last favor, “Will you watch over him, will you watch over me. I’m ending it today. I need to, I have to. I feel like I can’t go on. So watch over him, wherever he is, and watch over me, your little filly.”
...
“Thank you.”
...
“I love you.”
…
“I’m sorry.”
...
“Good bye.”
Scootaloo took a step to her right, to stand in front of her dad, peed on his tombstone and left.
She walked to nowhere in particular, she would reach her final spot just the same. She looked at the trees; she looked at the grass; she looked at the dead and she laughed. It made her stop, it made her scared. Why only with the dead could she share what she felt and felt what she shared? She hurried, before she got too scared to finish it. To end the pain. She wasn’t as strong as she once was.
In a mad dash she zipped through the maze; jumping stones, dodging trees, and when she saw it, she fell to her knees. She cried for him, for herself, for them having been together and for the lost days where they were now apart. It might have been an hour, or might have been weeks, but it ended when she was done. She didn’t need a knife to cry here, she was cut too deep, she was surprised that she felt the wetness of her tears. And, when it was over, she opened her eyes and smiled. She took out the knife, all sharpened and nice, and she said her last goodbye.
“Hey, they treating you well up there? I hope they do. I’ve, uh, I’ve been praying every night so hopefully whoever is suppose to care up there got the message, heh. Look, I know I haven’t come to seen you. And, I know you know it’s been hard for me. But I’m better now. I’m all better. I-I think, after today, I’ll be better.
“You were the first boy I really cared for. The first boy who made me feel love, the kind that was different from my family and friends. You were the first boy I thought about at night. The first to make me laugh without even being there. It felt like I was flying when I was with you. And it felt like I was flying when I thought of you. But flying while flying, I never knew that feeling existed. I don’t think it has a name. It might not have been true love, but in my life it’s more love than I’ve ever felt before. And here I was, in love with the biggest dork I knew. A whole year together, and it took me six months to visit. Guess I’m not much of a girlfriend.”
She laughed. It was hard so she laughed harder, she laughed long, and when she was done she found she was wet with tears again.
“I never would have thought I’d have fallen for you. You’re like, the opposite of me in so many ways. But, when I actually got to know you I found someone who was similar. I never would have guessed it from looking at you.” Scootaloo paused to wipe her eyes and began to choke back sobs.
“I was going to kiss you, you know. That night, I mean. I meant to before, but I was scared. You know how I was when I got scared. I tried not to show it, or I’d try to ignore it, but you always knew. And you were always so patient. I think, that eventually, I fell in love with you because of that. You could be silly, and you could be dumb, but when the chips were down, you were always there until it was better. And then… that night…
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I was so dumb. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be here. Then again, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be: I’d be in the ground and it’d be your heart bloodied to a pulp. When I saw you—When I saw you—When I saw you die, I flew. Did you know that? I flew, fast and high, above the trees for the first time because of you. When you died, a piece of me died, too. I-I think losing that piece of myself made me lighter, and so I flew. And that’s why I haven’t come to see you.
“I think I was worried that if I came here, if I put my pain to rest and maybe for the first time stopped thinking about you that I’d get that piece back. Then you would be alone because I’d have taken my piece back. Maybe if I put that piece back I’d lose it again forever, but with you it’d be safe. Or maybe it wouldn’t fit and I’d still be broken and sad and angry. Or maybe I couldn’t ever find it again. I think that scared me the most. What if I couldn’t end this. What if I couldn’t share myself with you? What if I couldn’t feel happy again because I couldn’t forget you and that piece of myself that I’d lost?”
She wiped herself again, trying desperately to clear her eyes so she could look at his grave properly when she spoke. “So I’m here to say thank you. And I want to say I love you, and tell you how much I cared because I never had before. After today you, you should know, you will always be with me and I, I hope, a piece of me will always be with you. I’m sorry. Good bye.”
She stood up tall, she stood up proud, and with tears flowing freely and painlessly she kissed the name etched upon the tombstone. And then she brought the knife high, then brought it low. She struck the blow hard and fast and without shame. On that night she left herself; her love, her hate, her pain. Scootaloo left her knife embedded, clean and without blood, in the ground. It was something that most ponies would hate her for, but that she knew he would cherish because it was true and honest.
I love you Snails. I always will. Though we were together for only a year, and we wasted years apart, you showed me love, and you saved my life. Thank you. I will never forget to live a life worth living for two.
-Scootaloo
