The Walls are Wolves

~~~~One Last Dance with the Devil~~~~

6:30am, April 17.

    "Fleck, get up. Time for school. Hurry up, I have a male talent coming over at seven. You'll have to walk today, miss."

    That simple statement stirred myself from the outré dream which inflected itself on me, prying my eyes open from the sleep I needed. When the blurred colors faded to images quickly, I caught a glimpse of the green and red tail of my mom exiting the room. The moment the bushy thing was unseen, I stretched the tiny excuse of a body which was my own. My hooves shook with flexion for a few seconds before they reunited with that bed's padding.

    It would be the last time they ever touched those sheets again.

    My ears perked up at the realization. All of this was going to end, today. My regrets, my issues, my insecurities-- all gone, on this very day. It was what I was dreaming of every night I spent wetting the pillow with tears. I know I was too stupid to ever think of this inadvertently simple timeline of events before, but now I was ready.

    I was going to slump my way through school until lunch (that's when the wank stains head out to do weed), find my way to the top of Baltimare High (I'll fucking levitate myself if I have to), and make sure those assholes can see me clearly. I'll try to splatter myself on them if I can. I wasn't going to wait. I wasn't going to hesitate; that happened way too many times before, and most ponies who hesitated pussed out all too early. I was only going to be doing myself more damage if I didn't just take a breath, run, and jump. I don't have a shoulder to cry on after I'm convinced. I don't have a loving family to come home to when it's all over. I don't have any excuses to wait. I only had months of therapy, a furious mother, and a school full of fuckwads calling me an attention whore to look forward to if I didn't get it over with.

    So, that was it. I was done thinking for the day-- for my life. I was going to run forward and jump. Or, should I just walk? I'm already hopelessly out of shape, why push myself any more? One more show of who I was, to disgust the world one more time, before I became the hero.

    Society is so fucking gullible. A filly dies. We cry. A filly commits suicide. We find somepony to blame. I fucking hate this society. Everything about it-- I fucking HATE IT. I'm on the roof in my head, I get called an attention whore; I'm on the roof literally, and I get cajoled down; I'm splattered on the pavement, and I get praised like a fucking God. I'm another face in the crowd of "We miss you!" victims. We don't care about the story of how it came to suicide, and if we do, we only mention groups of ponies who should get a slap on their hooves, not the individuals who deserve to be arrested. I'm small and insignificant, and will barely make a difference if any.

    But... I can leave a note that will opens eyes. I can tell them just why I've done this. I'll be putting myself out of misery, while also shedding light on the fuck-ups of this world.

    I let out a yawn, before slowly rolling myself to my flank, then two hooves on the ground, to be joined with its two others. The four groggy hooves carried me to my backpack, which was in the corner of my plain blue room. With a glow of my horn, the small black pack was unzipped, and after some more searching, a pen and pencil came floating out in that repulsing violet haze.

    My eyes were wide awake now. Perhaps it was the sight of that paper and pen, the tools of my happy departure, that snapped the tiredness right out of me. With the writing utinsils in my grip, I slowly walked to my door, and pushed out of the room. I didn't glance at my mother's door, which was new, and instead headed straight for the restroom. When I was in the small, orangely-lit room, I locked the door from behind.

    I sat on the closed toilet seat, before levitating the two objects in front of my face. Without so much of a twitch of the eye, I began to write.

By the request of a dead filly, please put this in the news.

By the time anypony is reading this, I will be dead. But, I think it's better this way to tell you the following: this Society has blinded us from our virtue, if we've ever had one. I don't know if the magic of friendship stopped at Ponyville, or if pride has gotten in the way, or if we've simply been hiding the monster, deep inside. But the way we have been behaving based on common biases and traits is inexcusable. My name is Fleck, and you don't know me (and frankly I'd like it better that way), but I can testify that Equestria has gone mad.

We don't care about depression, we care about suicide. We don't care about peace, we care about war. And we certainly don't give a fuck about ourselves. A pony could beg for help. He could tell us why he's hurting, how he's hurting, and show the proof. Yet, we shut him out, calling him names, accusing him of pretentiousness. It's not until he's hurt so much, cried so hard, and begged so deliberately, he's willing to take his own life that we care. That's happened to so many ponies, including myself. The ones who hit the floor know what I'm saying more than anything, and the ones who get hit afterwards keep their knowledge to the grave.

The only reason why you know this now is because I've taken the liberty of telling you. Unless if you've stepped on that ledge, loaded that gun, or tightened that noose, you have no idea how ponies everywhere are feeling. It's like a net is around our hearts all the time, catching all those little, happy moments and squandering them. That's the only way I can explain it with words.

...We're everywhere, you know. You might be thinking we only exist in the newspapers, on the internet, or even in the ghettos of Equestria, like Dodge Junction or Horseshoe Bay. But, depression is found even in yourselves.

Normally, this is where I'd finish this note. I've stated the obvious lack of friendship in this society, and am putting my hope in you ponies to prove me wrong. But, there are also ponies out there who deserve to feel like us. Most ponies who commit suicide don't leave notes. The ones who do say their farewell's or even list their reasons (even less so) rarely mention the ponies who did this, leaving society to do the guessing of who deserves a slap on the wrist. But society does not deserve the right to manipulate a dead pony's wish.

Cactus Blossom was a filly in Manehatten Elementary, and by now she's just being released into the adult world. Most ponies knew her as kind and shy, even. I'm not a smart filly, but in my personal opinion, cornering a smaller filly at recess, calling her horrible names like (in her exact words) "prissy little bitch," "Fleck the Stain," and "fatherless cunt;" and threatening her life when she calls for help do not fall within the words "shy and kind." She gave me clinical depression, which my mother did absolutely nothing to help with. Her partners, Baryn Haze and Sugar Rush, only aided in the physical abuse. They tied me to a pole one day, and I was left over night, left to cry and scream for help. The next day, when they found me and took me home, my mother greeted me drunk and with a stern, "Not today, Fleck. Go outside for a while, I can't deal with you today."

There are two ponies I encountered in Fillydelphia Middle School: Yellow Storm and Sunset Remedy. Sisters. They weren't popular either among the multitudes of fillies and colts, but then again, who really is in middle school? The only problem they had was that they hated everypony, and they weren't afraid to show it. On me, especially. It's likely they're in jail, or sucking dicks to earn a living, but either way they're too simple to not commit crimes in middle school. They smoked in the little filly's room, and threatened anypony who tried to tattle. I was one such pony, but had especially bad luck; they were always there when I had to go, and they always had a knife. They also had need of an ash tray, which I made a great substitute for.

Lastly, there is one pony so cruel, so insane, and so universally fucked up, he threatened to cut my ear off just yesterday. The entire school of Baltimare High, save for a certain few, are shit-headed assholes who can't choose sides for themselves, so they let others choose for them. His name, as ugly as it is, is Pugnit. And he is the one who killed me.

And there you go. Not so fucking shrouded in darkness, now? You can only imagine the pain so many of us are going through. We spend days crying and nights cutting, and you spend days calling us attention whores and nights wondering how we could take our own lives. If this doesn't shed light on what you've been causing your entire life, then you should try stapling your crotch tits to a fucking ceiling fan.

And, as for the ponies I've mentioned? I hope you know that you caused a sixteen year old filly to kill herself. Perhaps along with others who were too polite, sympathetic, or smart to mention you before they killed themselves. I hope you fucking

    ...

    It was getting too blurry to see. My lap was damp with tears, causing a light stain on the fur. When I realized this, I stubbornly wiped the bastard streaks from my cheeks and eyes. But, my mouth refused to stop producing sobs. I tried to close it, but I couldn't, so I morphed it into pathetic moaning.

    "Fleck, sweetie," came from the other side of the bathroom door. I glanced up. "My partner is here. Can you hurry up?"

    Heavier hoofsteps joined in from behind my mother. "Hey, can we start soon?" a deep voice resignated.

    My mother responded, but I wasn't listening. I was shaking and slamming my teeth against each other, moaning and rocking back and forth a little. My magic shook the pencil as I pressed the sharp lead to my forehead, twisting it with contemptious schadenfreude. It drew no blood, but it felt good to feel bad.

    I had to focus harder to keep writing, but I couldn't finish it. I was running out of paper anyway, so I erased the unfinished sentence, replacing it with a meager:

-Fleck

~~~~One Pound of Flesh~~~~

6:30am, April 17.

    "School, Pugnit. Get your ass up."

    I felt something hard hit my head, and it stung as I yelled out, sitting up to hold the offending spot. It wasn't sharp, but it felt like a sharp rock's smooth end. My eyes narrowed at the location where my dad calmly walked out of the pitch black room, entering the lit, orange interior of the basement. Soon, my anger subsided, replaced by my tiredness when I looked down and saw one of his medicine bottles. It was a beer bottle, emptied and filled with white pills. He liked to take them that way, and he didn't throw any punches when I made him, so it was fine by me.

    I slowly rotated my lower hooves over my bedside, letting my cheeks rest on my upturned upper hooves for a while. I envied the darkness in the room, which stayed simply, and brusquly, uninvolved. Outside, the sky followed suit with a dark shade of cyan filling up the space between the clouds, and once again, I fantasized about growing wings. Yet, reality got in the way yet again, and my head once again joined my hooves.

    I spent some more time like that, until my father's familiar yelling perked my ears. Just like every tardy morning for me, he resegnated from upstairs, shouting for me to hurry the fuck up. I pushed off my hooves to land them on the plain carpet, and a cool breeze passed through and around my entire body. I didn't shiver, and my head stayed limp. My hooves found their way to the bathroom just outside my room, and I felt myself close and lock the door.

    Next, my hooves guided me to the shower before turning the lever. A few seconds of bumping and hissing passed before I heard chunks of gunk and dirt spurt out into the tub. I growled, turned the lever back, and almost barged out the door.

"The fucking shower's broken again!" I yelled out. There was a flurry of noise from upstairs, most likely my dad jumping from his chair.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" he cried out almost to himself. "That shit-head Pipe Syringe! What the fuck do I pay that bastard for?!"

    I shook my head lividly, the sleep now escaping from my eyes. I skipped the shower, trotting heavily forward to the door to the creeking stairs. I opened it, and made my way up the elevation before opening the door to our actual house. I was given the familiar sight of the kitchen, the window revealing the sky outside, still a hard shade of livid. The meager ceiling lights were turned on, though, lighting the house just fine.

    My heart skipped a beat when I saw my father, leaning on the side of the wall on all fours. Although his purtruing gut implied his drinking problem, his bulging shoulders, chest, and arms implied he was Pugnit's father. An arch of a scar ran up his left bicep, across his chest, and ran half way down his right forearm. He wore his usual dark green, sleeveless jacket, with brown and white stains covering his right shoulder and left pocket. His dark eyes, red-gold in color, seemed to be stabbing me-- not because he was angry, but because he was happy. A smug curve of his mouth was evident, but the sting of his amity was even more so.

    I held my ground, keeping my face stoic, but my eyes narrowed. My hackles slowly rose, and I prayed to Celestia the dumbass got the message. "What do you want?"

    He chuckled a little, before pushing off the wall. It was as if he suspected I already knew. "I think we have the same taste in mares," he said simply.

    And, that was all he said.

    My father, his fucking creepy grin staying on his face, turned away and walked out of the room. A few seconds passed before I heard the door opening. "I borrowed some money from you, by the way," he sang out, before closing the door.

    I waited for his hoofsteps to fade. They continued for a while, before they stopped, and I heard a faint, "What're you looking at, colt?" Then, they continued out of hearing, and I exploded.

"FUCKING OLD PRICK!" My rage flared out of control, and I bucked the wall behind out of anger, the powerful hooves cutting through the wall like a cracker. I stubbornly pulled the hooves out, before stomping over to the table, and flipping it. The crash echoed throughout the house, accompanied with my voice, "I was going to buy a fucking...-- YOU FUCKING CUNT!" I stomped on the table, cracking it, before stomping again and breaking it. My eyes were blurred with tears, but I stubbornly wiped them away before slamming my forehead on the wall. It stung again, and I think I cut skin, but I didn't care. I leaned on the wall and sunk to the floor, breathing hard not from exhaustion.

    I knew how he "borrowed" money: he raids my wallet with a vengeance, no plans of returning anything ever showing themselves. I've been saving up particularly long this time-- seven months of working and stealing to buy the one physical thing I wanted since I was twelve. You don't need to fucking know what that is.

    My hooves glided down my face, landing on my lap. When my eyes threatened to leak yet again, I banged the back of my head against the wall until the tears cowered back into their cells.

    "You fucking prick," I mumbled, pushing myself back up. There was a dog barking in the distance, and I briefly recognized how lucky the owner was.

    I glared at the fridge, and decided to skip breakfast. If that fucker really thought he was going to get away with this, he was dead wrong. I stomped through the opening to my left, twisting the same direction to enter a narrow coridor leading to two rooms on each side of the walls: the left being the upstairs restroom (reaking of beer, cigarettes, and shit) and the right being my father's room (reaking of beer and cigarettes). I made my way to his room, pushing open the door.

    I had to hold my breath momentarily to get used to the stench. The invisible green mist infected my senses and made my eyes water, but I pressed on. It was dark, as usual, but there was enough light outside to illoominate the plain, cum-stained bed; dresser containing cigarettes, his wallet, and a phone book; and his closet. I never went in there, and for good reason.

    "You fucking bitch," I heard myself mumble yet again as I paraded through the dark room, simmering with rage. I neared the dresser and threw open the top shelf, and the smell of fresh faggots engulfed my nose. I still pushed back, though, and moved the nicotine-filled sticks to the side and grabbed his wallet. "I'll just borrow some of your fucking money, too, old man."

    I expected a few hundred bits, or maybe a "Go fuck yourself, Pugnit" note, but when I emptied the small, magically enhanced flap of leather, my jaw almost dropped.

    Bits. Thousands of bits. There were only 100's falling out of the wallet, one by one, cluttering on the bed like I was emptying a fucking treasure chest. When the first few came out I was surprised, thinking my dad had been saving up for something like I was, but when dozens upon dozens upon dozens piled onto the bed, forming a little mountain, my eyes were as wide as saucers. One of those saucers twitched as the waterfall of money finally met its end, but when I shook it a little more, nine more came out, and another led to three more.

    I couldn't believe my eyes. I've never seen this much money before. I inspected it, touched it, and even picked one of the many pieces of currency up. The gold coin glimmered back, its number 100 in brusque visibility. Before I knew it, it was flying across the room before breaking the window behind me.

    I started panting heavily, before the breaths transformed into grunting, then moaning. I was too full of livid rage to do anything, and I heard myself muttering.

"I'll fucking kill you, dad," I was grunting. "You've had this stash of thousands of bits... and you've never even thought of helping us. You selfish prick... we could buy our way to a fucking normal life..."

    I stood there, vibrating with rage, and if anypony was to walk in on me then, I would have murdered them. The mound of gold shined true, adding fuel to the pit of contained chaos. It built and built, filling my insides with smoke, blurring my vision with heat, and flexing the powerful muscles stacked all over my broad body. It built and built and built, my face vibrating, my eyes closed, my ears attached to my skull, and kept building and building and building until...

    ...nothing.

    I simply wasn't angry anymore. I wasn't even aggravated, or annoyed. The world went silent around me, the only sound being the thumping of my calming heart. I staggered a little, before falling on my flank. I sat, still staring at the mountain of cash my father never spent, and blinked. It was almost peaceful.

    He stole my money. And he had this.

    I wasn't angry, sad, or annoyed; I was certain. My hooves slowly made their way back up, before I calmly trotted out of the room. I got my wallet in a haze, and when I was shoveling the cash into my own account, I let out a small chuckle.

    When I got home, I was going to kill Goddian.

~~~~It's not Unusual~~~~

6:30am, April 17.

    "Hey, Summer... School's in a bit. Up 'n' at'em."

"MMMHPHH..."

    I extended a hoof, waving it in the air a little in a civilized manner. Mom didn't budge, though, and switched on the light. The offending blindness penetrated my eyelids (what are those good for, then?!), and I gave out a squeak of dissaproval. A few seconds of stinging irises passed, and my ears picked up my mother leaving the room with a tinge of satisfaction.

    "Eighteen years old," she scoffed ludicly.

    Even if it stung, I didn't open my eyes until I got a good five minutes of stubborn sleep. Then, the light soon escalated from annoying to unbearable, and I opened my eyes. They soon adjusted, and I led my body with my head, swinging it to the side before sitting up and leaning over the bed. I moaned out my discomfort, before rolling off the bed, landing on the floor.

    It was then I remembered what today would bring. And, the fact it was a Friday.

    A smile implanted on my face just before I pushed myself up, doing my daily routine in a haze.

    The feeling was like coming to school on your birthday, or with a drastically different hairdo. The fact that today was the day I would finally see Étoile Mending smiling back at me affected my attitude like nothing had, ever before. There was spring to my step, a smile on my face, and a perk to my ears. The morning went by like an excited ride, the shower, breakfast, and saying goodbye to my mother barely registering in my brain. It was just as the countless books, movies, and shows explained it: a mixture of freight and excitement, perfectly balanced so it was enjoyably terrifying.

    It wasn't until I pushed my way out of the door my brain finally caught up with my body, although a little too late. I stood outside my house for a while, a breeze gliding through my fur reminding me of where I was. It was dark, and the sky was a shade of livid sleepiness.

    I only lived two or three miles from Baltimare High, and the twenty five minute walk was quite calm, in a quaint sort of way. It reminded me of Horseshoe Bay, via the distant sound of the ocean and running of the river, which eventually led to my birth city. I briefly acknowledged how, after it passed the little city of the island, the river would be bombarded with trash and waste.

    A small smile came to my face as I started the walk. I liked dirty cities. Well, not the fact of how dirty it was, but the qualities some extra trash brought to ponies. They seem more humble, as if the garbage around them kept their pride at bay-- they didn't have much to be proud of, besides the things which were special of them, not the city. They focused more on their talents and passions than the other things. But, it did have its downsides.

    I kept walking. I was on a sidewalk beside a downward, cobblestone road, houses on either side of the long strip of ponymade transportation. Luna's moon was just barely setting ahead, and if I turned I could see the new sun rising above the distant mountains. I took some time to admire the setting above, and I made out some tired pegasi moving the clouds into place.

    I reached back into my backpack, and came out with my music player. After plugging the left earbud in and touching the screen a few times over, I was given the start of one of my favorite dubstep songs.

    It started off with a rhythmic and calm synthesizer, playing an equally so tune. It was almost feminine, the way its high-pitched and calm muse slowly calmed my head, and it definitely made my walk a whole lot more fun.

    I was plugging in my right earbud when I heard a door to my front left open. It was noticeably close, but when I risked a peek, I payed instantly. A big stallion was clopping down the stairs, a look of discontented smugness plastered on his face. He wore a green, sleeveless jacket, which honestly gave away one of the buffest upper bodies I've ever seen. I went to the gym occasionally, to maintain my good shape, but this guy obviously went there as a job, hobby, and pass-time. His shoulders looked like somepony replaced the muscles with bowling balls under his fur, and just underneath those lay his biceps (a bulging half moon from his arm) and triceps (which looked like freaking wishing bones from a turkey on Thanksgiving), and finally forearms (or, logs just above his hooves). He stopped on his porch to take out a cigarette and lighter, and lit the faggot before plopping the end between his lips. He had the eyes of a bull, a chipped left ear, and... a gut?

    I peered down at his stomach. Sure enough, he had a drinker's gut, as it hung low like a hammock from his body. It looked weirdly out of place when compared to his intimidatingly large muscle mass.

    He must have saw me staring, as his sharp attention shifted to me. I realized I was slowing down, and quickly picked up the pace.

    "What're you looking at, colt?" he rumbled like a motor. I bent my head low, speeding up my pace as blood rushed to my face.

    Behind me, I heard hoofsteps trotting the other way. "F***ing pretty boys," he mumbled, before I plugged the right earbud in and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding in. For the second time of my lifetime, I feared for my life.