Lucky And The Search For Friends.

May 29 2015

I'm only writing at this point, because I think I might be in too much shock to do much else. Finally made it to my parents house today. The neighbourhood was a bit of a mess, Which was surprising, and a bit of a warning bell right off the bat, considering that my parents lived in one of those older neighbourhoods were everyone is rather old, and has grand kids, or young adult children. Yes lived, past tense. They’re gone. Gone gone gone gone gone. I can only assume they went with everyone else, in whatever sudden mass exodus happened, and didn't bother to let me know. I know I can be a bit of a brat sometimes, but come on, I'm just your average son, I'm not that bad.

Unless they didn't leave. . . Maybe they're simply out? Maybe me and my parents are the only survivors of the ponypocalypse, maybe they're out getting supplies, and setting up base, and doing all those sensible things that parents do in a crisis. . . But dad’s phone is still there, mom's day planner (she never goes anywhere without it), dad’s utility knife, mom's favourite sun hat, dad didn't even take his wallet, and he never leaves the house without his wallet. Everything's still here, intact, in place, it looks like the house always looked during the day, and when everybody was around, but there's no people. No mom. No dad. Nobody. Not even a note on the kitchen table.

They couldn't possibly. . . But then that means. . . Oh god. . . Oh god. . . they couldn't possibly be. . .

Dead?

--*--

The sun shone brightly on the yard, proudly bouncing off and around the various bright lovely colours, such as green, yellow, brick red, wood brown, cherry red, sky blue, and plain white, which the sun jumped off of with particular enthusiasm. every colour was a trampoline, a destination, a place to be. All except one particular colour, black. If white was the bounciest trampoline in the world, black was a tar pit, catching colours, and dragging them down, the more they struggled, the more they stuck. The light bounced off of several other colours, a simple light orange, and dark red, along with a bit of a dusty plain grey (the loose trampoline of colours), and 4 identical dark blues.

Lucas sat on the porch of her parents house and stared. She stared nowhere in particular, she just stared. She stared at the flowers, standing beautifully in full bloom. She stared at the long grass, in desperate need of a trimming. She stared at her father's beautifully maintained garden, and her mother's expertly constructed shed. Or was it the other way around? Lucas didn't know. Lucas barely remembered it was so long ago. He and his parents had lived in this house for 16 years, and now with a single night they were. . . they weren't here. She stared at a bumble bee weaving it’s intricate pattern of loops and turns, It’s beautiful natural dance. She got up and slowly trotted back into the house.

It was a nice house, a modest one. Simple knick-knacks lined the shelves, various benign photographs hung on the walls, simple posh furniture dotted the rooms. It was everything one expects to see in a ‘parent generation’ house. Homey, personal, comfy. Lucas sat in the living room and analysed the pictures lining the walls. There was one of his family's trip to Hawaii when he was 13, his most recent extended family reunion (even then there weren't many people) photo when he was 15, a picture from a school play he took part in when he was 6. all of these memories of his life that seemed so clear to her through these timeless pieces of history. There were still plenty of other photos. A picture of his father on a 1960’s motorcycle of some brand (he never bothered to learn the name), a photo of his mother baking cookies with his great grandmother (what was she like?), a photo of his father shaking hands with his brother (his, her, uncle), a photo of his mother and fathers wedding day (how did they meet?), and other snippets into life long passed. Forever immortalized. Lucas had never bothered to really get to know her parents, and now. . . now they. . . they. . .

they were gone.

She couldn't help it. Her face scrunched up in a miserable frown, her new ears drooped, and tears formed in her eyes. Lucas began to cry. She cried very hard, over opportunities passed, over people never known, over parents gone (parents dead), over the way the sky didn't cry, over the small ache on the bottom of her hooves, over the strain of her wings begging to be set free. She cried long and hard. The light kept bouncing.

Then she laughed. Over no particular thing. She simply laughed a dark morbid chuckle. clouds formed. The light had difficulty bouncing.

Then she started to scream. She screamed in anger. In betrayal. In pain. In despair. In (righteous) fury of the world. Her head pressed painfully against the floor, in an angry prayer. She ran to the wall, positioned her back hooves to face the general direction of the wall, and kicked out with as much power as her fury and anger could muster. Every picture on that wall, the motorcycle, the beach, the cooking, all fell to the ground with a loud clatter, and a loud shatter, along with various knick-knacks and ornaments. She stepped back and examined her work. It wasn't enough.

For the rest of the evening, and well into the night, a pony worked at breaking the past into as many pieces as possible.

Her screams of anger matching the chilling howls of the night with equal ferocity and power.

Lucas Tracy was dead. And in his place stood a pony with no name.

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