It's a cold call to enemy soil.
"You have... four-hundred... six new messages."
"Hi, this is Fluttershy. I can't answer the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."
Beep.
Click.
"Press 7 to era-"
"Message four-hundred... five."
"Hi, this is Fluttershy. I can't answer the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."
Beep.
Click.
"Press 7 to era-"
"Message three-hundred... twenty... five."
"Hi, this is Fluttershy. I can't answer the phone right now. Leave a message after the tone."
Beep.
Click.
"Do you have any idea who's doing this?" the royal guard asked.
"I'm not sure, but I... I suspect it might be my ex-boyfriend, Andy," whispered Fluttershy. "Look, I really need my answering machine clear. Can you guys just give me... a restraining order?"
"Sorry, it doesn't work that way. We'll help you file one, though. Try to block the number in the meantime."
Fluttershy leaves her cottage. She goes over to Sugarcube Corner to see Pinkie Pie. She goes to Sweet Apple Acres to see Applejack. She goes over to the Carousel Boutique to see Rarity. Like clockwork, the phone rings with her absent, hundreds of times. It rings until the recording machine is full.
She already blocked their number.
Misadventure. Adventure. Work. Play. She comes home to a blinking answering machine.
She blocked their number again.
The cottage is silent. Absolutely empty. No needy animals occupy the house.
She blocked their number again.
Every night becomes the same routine. She waits by the answering machine, hours spent erasing the new messages. The sick and destitute might have called. The helpless and hurt. It's time wasted. She needs to waste it.
She calls the phone company. They block their number.
She comes home to the flashing light.
This is next week.
Night time. She sits by the machine. The click becomes Pavlovian. She hits seven. It's message 243. There's a click. She hits seven. It's message 242. There's a click. She hits seven. It's message 241. There's a click. She hits seven. It's message 240. She's about to hit seven.
"Aye, it's Zecora on the phone.
This bird I have has broke it's bone.
I'll send it off in your care,
so it may once again feel fair."
It's message 239. There's a click. She hits seven.
The bird is here. A beautiful albatross with a broken wing. Fluttershy carries it, putting it lightly on one of the beds.
"You look tired," says Twilight Sparkle, "Maybe you should get more sleep."
"I... I can't. The calls keep happening. I need to answer them."
Twilight begins to panic.
"They're still happening?! I'm really worried."
"W- Why?"
"It's... It's so creepy. I would hate for anybody to harm you. Just stay safe."
Fluttershy comes home to a blinking light.
Fluttershy comes home to an empty house.
She looks around in horror. She was only out for five minutes. She looks under the bed. She looks in the drawer. She looks in the cupboard.
The albatross is missing.
"What?! Where is it," she gasps. Using all her might, she shouts, "Hello?!"
I pick up the payphone. I dial her number.
The phone rings behind her. She gallops up to it quickly.
"Hello?! Hello?!"
The bird's in the back.
I hang up. Click.
She hits seven.
She shakes her mane, refocusing. She exits through the back door.
The albatross is there, spread out in full view.
"Oh my god..." Fluttershy neighs.
It's a sign. It guides you. It'll show you what's coming next, I say. With my cross-bow, I shot the albatross, I say.
"What?!" escapes Fluttershy's horrified lips.
Life-in-Death.
It was the car on the road that everypony swerved to avoid. They thought I was driving drunk.
I stop by a Sinbale in Manehatten. I go up to the attendant. Give me 10 bits on 2. And one of those pony pot pies.
"That'll be 11 bits."
I've already defiled it.
There wasn't anything anypony could do. There isn't anything anypony knows.
I stop by the Whorlmart and grab a shovel. I should have grabbed a hacksaw. Hindsight is 20/20.
Is it normal to tip the sad-eyed pony in the tollbooth? Brighten up her starless night?
She hooves the change back to me and says, "No thank you, darling. I'm all right."
I'm miles away. She's miles away. I'm tired, so let's stop for a second. Alright, babe?
It's a shady motel, but that's okay. I don't have many bits left. I pay the clerk for a room for the night. My hand is on the doorknob.
"Yo, sapien bitch. Why don't you 'sap' en these nuts, homo?"
The two ponies laugh hysterically. Come with me, I have something to show you.
The sun is up. Rise and shine. I turn in the key to the clerk. The trunk is a bit stained, but I can probably buff that out. I know it'll buff right out.
We're going far, far away. I hope you're having a fun time. I hope you all are having a fun time. I know I am. The countryside is so beautiful and pure. If you look back, you can see smog rising over the city. Disgusting.
The wind laps my face kindly. It blows my hair back, like her hoof used to do. I remember the times when I touched her fur the few times it didn't crawl. I think I'm starting to tear up, I laugh.
How is it? How's the drive? Isn't it lovely?
We're closing in on the destination. It's miles and miles away. The destination extends further than the countryside. It almost looks infinite.
There wasn't anything anypony could do. There isn't anything anypony who knows. There isn't anything anypony can do. Japanese ponies drive with their families in tow. Right into a wave of mutilation. We're speeding down this lifeless beach. We're about to hit a jump. Isn't this exciting? We're about to land.
The impact whips my head back and forth and I pass out.
1
They say people with different immune systems fall in love.
2
"Did you hear what I said?"
I looked up. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
One month. Like an expiration date.
3
7 o'clock. Dark out.
I came home to silence. She was reading under a dim light.
"How'd it go?"
"Great."
She looked up, excited.
"Remission?"
I smirked.
"One month."
The tears swelled. I sobbed. She put her hoof on my shoulder.
"You'll get through this... We'll get through this."
4
6 a.m. Wake up. Get ready.
Eat your breakfast. A boiled egg. Coffee.
Take 500 milligrams of Aralen, 250 milligrams of Plaquenil, 100 milligrams of Trizivir. Don't forget the prior. Paxil. Prozac. Xanax.
It's time to leave. You've forgotten something.
"Hey, haven't you forgotten something?"
I turn around.
"Oh."
She gallops up and glomps me. Sometimes it's hard.
"You seem so dejected lately."
"I know... I'm sorry."
She gives me a warm smile and another hug.
"I understand."
I'm at work. Maybe I should have taken a day off. Maybe I should have gone home already. But we need the bits. And I can't get disability. She doesn't make enough. She doesn't make anything.
"You alright?"
I look him straight in the eyes.
"Just fine."
"Alright, get back to fucking work."
He leaves. I sob.
6
It's been a couple weeks. Maybe the feeling's coming back. I can't tell for sure. Last night we watched a movie with Mel Hoofs. Some comedy. We laughed.
This wasn't like last week. This wasn't like the first week. Maybe the feeling's numbing. Maybe that's good.
I can't help but sob sometimes. But it doesn't feel as bad. It feels automatic. The natural response.
They say laughter is the best medicine. The unnatural response.
7
"I can't do this."
"What?"
"I can't fucking do this."
"What?" I don't know what she's talking about. She's trotting around the room, pacing back and forth. She walks up to the fireplace and back to the television. She turns back and looks me in the eye.
"This! I can't do this! I can't fucking do THIS."
She spreads her forearms. Her hooves present me. She can't do me. I know this isn't the funny-haha do.
Maybe I'm a bit paler. A little skinnier. I don't know. I'm feeling fine.
"Fluttershy, what do you mean? You can't do me? Haha," I ask nervously. I can't tell what she's getting at. I can't look her in the eye. My gaze darts towards everything and nothing. Just not her. I end up looking down.
"I don't know. I don't fucking know." She lowers her head to the floor.
I reach out and touch her mane. I run my fingers through it.
She backs off. "Don't you dare fucking touch me."
"What, babe?"
"I don't fucking know, but don't fucking touch me."
It comes up again. I thought I was numb. I sob again.
"I'm leaving."
She walks out and slams the door behind her.
They say misery loves company. I crave it.
8
6 a.m. Wake up. Get ready.
Eat your breakfast. Cereal. Coffee isn't good for you.
Take 500 milligrams of Aralen. Plaquenil. Trizivir. Don't forget the prior. Paxil. Prozac. Xanax.
The light is flashing green.
I walk up to the answering machine.
"You have one new message."
"Hi, this is Andy," "- And this is Fluttershy -" "Sorry we can't come to the phone right now. We're probably fucking" " - haha, shut the fuck up." "Leave a message after the tone. Beeeeeeeeeeeep."
The actual answering machine beeps. Funny.
"I'm sorry about last night. It's just... It's just that I've realized... It's just that it's been two months now, Andy. I realized there's more to this than what I was prepared for. I know that this is selfish, but I can't take it. I can't take seeing you like this, losing what I love - losing what I loved so slowly. This just isn't the way I can live my life, it will kill me. I don't think anypony could live like this. I'm sorry."
Click.
9
It's like a fucking jungle sometimes, isn't it?
It's nature, isn't it?
Pony-fucking-nature at its finest. I don't understand it.
Do I look different? Do I act different? I don't fucking know. Do I fucking care?
WhorlMart. Gold & Silver Pony Shop. Guns & Hay-mmo.
Background check. No.
Democracy. Bureaucracy. Law.
Break it.
Same guy who used to sell us weed. I don't know him well. I won't ever know him well. I hold up my hand to block out the sun.
"This here is the 1911."
He holds it in his hoof. It reflects the sun.
Daytime. No pony's watching. No pony important. The unimportant don't care.
"You need it for something heavy? Or protection?"
"Protection."
He hooves me a magazine.
"Doesn't matter anyway. Serial is filed off. Clip holds 7."
"Thanks."
"2000 bits."
It's all fucking bits, isn't it? Even at the end, you can't have enough. It's all fucking living, isn't it? Well, you can't live. It's all fucking status, isn't it? Well, you lost it. Don't get mad in front of him.
It's just fucked up immune systems. It's just fucked up diseases. It's fucked up needles. To escape this fucked up world.
I don't have enough. I don't think the ATM withdraws that much at one time.
10
One chambered. Cock it and it'll fall out. Check the safety. It's not very safe right now. Haha.
Remember the time when I was young? Remember my brother? Repression. I can't.
It feels heavy. This isn't a prop. The guy wasn't scamming me. Unless the bullets are blanks.
I can.
"He's dead and you're fucking walking out right now?"
"Look, I don't know what it is, but this isn't it. I'm leaving."
He walked out into the snow. My mother cried. I haven't seen him since.
It was nearing Christmas. He died in September. It was cancer, nothing that anypony could do. But after he passed away, the love died. There wasn't anything left between them.
Look down the barrel. Do you see the bullet? It's dark. I can't.
My mother never remarried.
Don't point at anything you don't intend to shoot.
I don't think she ever recovered.
Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready.
I'm ready.
They say the number one cause of death from guns is suicide.
11
They say people with different immune systems fall in love. I don't think that's true. But maybe that's just confirmation bias.
