Without a Butterfly

The bell of Sugarcube corner rings as you enter into the shop. The empty shop does nothing for the emptiness you feel. The walk home had drained you of tears and replaced it with depression so strong, you doubted even Apple Jack's 'special cider' could even help. You hoped that neither Mr. or Mrs. Cake was in, as your depression would only deepen talking to either at the moment.

Mr. Cake was kindhearted and always treated you like a daughter, however he had a very awkward way of talking to you. It, at times, bordered on sexual harassment, as he felt the need to comment your flank size.

“Wider hips are very healthy to have.” He would say kindly, as if you were a filly crying about having a big flank. “And often, Stallions prefer the larger flanks than skinny ones.”

It was comments like that, that would fuel Mrs. Cake's rising hatred of you. Ever since you stepped hoof into their shop four years ago, news paper in mouth, inquiring about their add about a free room and apprenticeship, Mrs. Cake had been eying you like some eggs that were found at the back of the fridge after several months that you were positive were rotten, but couldn't prove it until you broke the shell.

Sure, she was friendly, from her smile and how she talked to you, but you could tell. You could tell how much she despised you. The first time she made a comment was after you'd been working for them for a few months.

“Oh deary.” She said in her gay voice that seemed to lighten up the room. “Mr. Cake sure does appreciate the extra help around here.” She smiled, a glint in her eye, betraying anger. “It seems he sure does like baking cookies when you're around. Lots and lots of cookies.”

At the time, the statement was just a fact. You were a bakery. Bakeries sold many goodies, and cookies were among the more popular tasty treats. It wasn't until you overheard their first argument, a few weeks later, that you understood what she really meant.

“Dear, Sugar plum, calm down.” Mr. Cake's voice drifted up to the bedroom where you laid in bed.

“No, don't you Sugar plum me! I bet you've been sharpening your carrot to pop a balloon or two!”

You're ears perked up. What were they talking about? As you rolled off your back, as too sit up and swivel your ears around to the cracked door, you listened more intently. You were never exactly clueless, but at the time, you still had your innocence.

“Sugar Cake. That's not true. I only slipped her a few bits so she could get that paint kit she wanted so badly. Pinkie is such a hard worker around here, we really don't pay her enough.”

“She's an apprentice.” Mrs. Cake snapped. “And we don't pay apprentices period. She gets a free room and food.” There was a pause. “And what do you mean working hard. I hardly see that filly of a mare working at all.”

Your ears droop. That was uncalled for. You worked as hard as you could, especially when she asked you to run errands around the town. For some reason, Mrs. Cake had a lot of errands whenever you worked with her, and she barely raised a hoof to teach you any of the recipes. Not that you needed much help, but still, she was suppose to teach you something.

“I mean, when I work with her, she's always baking cookies, cakes, fritters, brownies, name it, she can bake it.” He chuckled at his little jingle.

“I see.” There was a drawn out pause. “And, what were these extra orders of flour? It says here you ordered eight bags? Why did I only count five?”

You shook your head, trying to clear your mind of the conversation from so long ago. This only made things worse. First, she left. Another stab shocked your none existing heart, as your ears folded. Now, you were remembering some of your worst days. You couldn't handle this. Not now.

As you made your way up the stairs to your room, you could hear Mrs. Cake in the back, humming merrily to herself. At least she was happy. She might even let you stay in your room till supper.

“Oh, Pinkie dear.” She called up, dashing any and all of your hopes to go unnoticed and be left alone for the day. “Can you run a few errands for me?”

“Sorry Mrs. Cake.” You call down, just raising your voice enough so it could carry downstairs. “I'm not really feeling well today. I'm just going to lie down for a bit.”

There was no reply, so you kept walking your way up the stairs, until you heard a voice from behind. “I'm sorry, dear, but I wasn't asking.”

You signed, looking over your shoulder at the slightly pudgy blue mare with a pink mane that looked like it was colored whipped cream. “Please,” You asked, your voice flat and emotionless. “Can I just have the day off? My...friends left today. They...” You willed yourself to be strong and not break down again. “...Left for good today. I need some time to myself.”

“Pardon me,” Mrs. Cake smiled warmly. “I'm terribly sorry to hear that, but this is still a business, and if we closed down for every little thing, we'd go bankrupt and be thrown out like garbage, so lets get our rear in gear and run some errands dear.”

You wondered how this pony could despise you so much and yet speak to you like you were her best friend. Knowing that there was no arguing, you sigh in defeat.

“The list is on the counter. I should take an hour, or so.” She smiled.

You don't pay much attention to her as you trot your way down stairs and grab the list of needed  ingredients. Flour, corn starch, chocolate chips, coconut flakes, strawberries, blue berries, raspberries, bananas, walnuts. The same things kept running out almost every other day. It wasn't until you started trotting away from the bakery, that you realized you had no bits to pay with. Your money was still in your room.

“Could this day get any worse?” You ask yourself, turning around and making your way back to the shop. If you were quite, you could slip in and out without being noticed.

Upon entering the shop, again, you noticed that it's again empty. The shop bell rings it's silver tickle as you make your way to the stair, when something stops you. At first, confused, you stand stalk still, swiveling your ears around, trying to locate what it was you heard. Muffled cries seemed to be coming from...the storage room.

For a moment, you hesitate, not wanting to know. Not knowing is better than knowing sometimes, but curiosity got the better of you. Truth was, anything that caught your attention at this point was welcome, as it drew you away from the pain of...her.

On silent hooves, you make your way to the storage room, each step causing your heart to pound with what you might find. As you near the door, and peer through the key hole you see a stallion you don't recognize, mounting Mrs. Cake and riding her for all he's worth, while she bit down on a bridle, a look of bliss spread across her face.

Time was lost to you. It almost seemed like what you saw wasn't real. There she was, the mare who accused her husband of cheating on her, being rutted by a stallion with a foot in a half pole. You didn't even notice that you had moved away from the door, until you felt yourself biting down on the handle of the large carving knife kept in the kitchen.

For a moment, you paused.

“This so screwed up.” You mumble to yourself, tasting the wood of the knife handle. “Nothing is worth all this.”

You put a foreleg on the cutting board, laying the knife across the main artery. How this brought back memories, but for now, your mind was in the present. All your thoughts screamed that this was the only way out, but...but..

The knife clatters to the floor, as you slump, crying. You couldn't do it. No.  You couldn't take your own life. As harsh as this life was, you were scared of what you'd find after, or if there was anything at all.

Mrs. Cake's moans of pleasure drifted into the kitchen. The sound rippled through your mind, sending anger coursing through your body. Wrapping a fore hoof around the handle of the knife, you march to the storage door.

“I can't kill myself.” You start muttering to yourself. “No, I can't. Then they win. They win. All my life, they won at everything.” A chill runs down your spin as you feel a smile, a cruel smile, spread across your face as you stand at the door. “I can't kill myself.” You say again. It was a funny line to say. “I can't kill myself.” A giggle. A giggle bubbles it way up your throat as you turn and buck open the door, reavealing two very stunned ponies, in an intimate embrace.

“I can't kill myself!” You laugh. “Buuut, haaaahhahahhaha, I can kill YOU!”