He swirled a hoof through the roiling water of the filling bathtub and nodded, satisfied with the temperature. He shut off the taps and climbed in, gingerly, one leg at a time, wincing and hissing at the stinging heat of the water. He had drawn it hotter than he usually liked, but it had been cold outside of late, and he was tired of never being warm.
He lowered his body into the water, relaxing into its enveloping heat, feeling the warmth seep into his flesh. He dipped a hoof below the water and swirled it around, staring at it as it moved through the hot water. The heat pinged off his skin like needles, slowly easing down into a pleasant tingle. He leaned back against the edge of the tub, resting his head on the folded towel he’d placed there as a pillow. He sighed, the air gusting out of him like a deflating balloon. The hot water helped, as always, but he was still cold. As always.
It had been over a decade since he’d last felt the warmth he truly missed. Her name was Ruby. They had talked endlessly, their conversations wheeling and turning from subject to subject in chaotic harmony, like a murmuration of starlings. They often disagreed, but that was half the fun—if they agreed on everything, what would be the point of talking? He missed talking with her.
In recent years, it was more her touch that he missed, rather than her conversation. He had friends who eased his intellectual loneliness, but after Ruby, there had been no one to touch and be touched by. He had held on to a single sense impression, a chilly fall evening in the park, walking with Ruby, talking as always. She had pulled him to a stop and leaned into him, and wrapped her arms around him, and he hugged her back and lay his cheek against her neck, and they stood like that for a hundred heartbeats, and the warmth rose up inside him and filled him to fullness. During that hug, he couldn’t imagine ever being cold again.
He had rationed out that warmth for a decade to banish the glacial chill of loneliness, because there was no new supply. No one wanted him, no one cared about him. His friends had moved away or drifted away until he had no connections to anyone. His family was distant and uneasy, and they rarely talked. And finally, and finally, the day had come when the loneliness could no longer be dispelled by that fall evening in the park. He had been cold inside ever since.
He rolled his head to the right and looked at the knife laying close at hoof. Yesterday, he had taken it to the blacksmith to have it sharpened, and he had honed it minutes ago while the tub was filling. His eyes shifted to the sheet of fine linen paper next to the knife on the side table. The sheaf of paper had cost him two days’ wages. He had been giddy as he paid the ridiculous sum for a frivolous purchase. But really, why not get the best? It’s not as though he had anyone to leave his tiny savings to.
He wondered again if he should add to the note, try to explain himself better to his parents, perhaps apologize for the pain he would be causing them. He considered a moment, then shrugged, stirring the water around his shoulders. They would understand, or they wouldn’t, and there were no words which would make it easier on them. Let the note stay as it was.
He reached for the knife, brought it to the inside of his left arm. He closed his eyes and felt the heat of the water surrounding him, beating on his tissues, warming him through and through. And still, and always, the cold, prickling at his heart. If only things had been different. If only he were not who he was. If only . . . if only . . .
In one sure motion, he sliced. The blacksmith had done his job well; the cut hardly hurt at all. He brought his face close to his arm to watch the gleaming blood pour out of the wound, and he swished the knife clean in the water before putting it back on the side table.
He let his left arm relax into the water and watched, mesmerized, as the red cloud billowed from the cut, as though his veins were filled with smoke and air. The blood spread through the water, dying it a delicate pink at first, then darkening, ever darkening. He knew that when he ceased to be alive, his sphincters would relax and void his bladder and bowels into the water. He found it a comforting thought—in the end, this bathtub would contain all that there was of him.
He closed his eyes and lay his head back against the folded towel on the edge of the tub, as though he were relaxing at the end of a hard day. A lassitude spread through his limbs and slowed his thoughts. He began to feel light-headed, and enjoyed the sense of disembodiment for a while. It was pleasant to float apart from his body, apart from the meat that had been the vehicle of so many problems and discomforts.
He became aware that the still-steaming water had grown icy against his skin, and muzzily realized that he would never feel warm ever again. The thought was terrifying and also amusingly, painfully ironic. He did not have the energy to laugh, so he ordered his lips to quirk in a smile. He couldn’t be sure whether they responded or not. It was his last conscious thought.
On the side table, one corner of the paper wet with a drop of water from the knife blade, the note lay. The words were written in a steady, elegant copperplate.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I’m tired to death of being lonely. If the hierophants are right, Princess Celestia’s love will warm me in the next life. If they are wrong and nothing awaits, then I will no longer be able to be lonely. Either alternative is better than this life.
I love you. Goodbye.
