Chapter I: Tell you I’m Sorry
A cold wind blew past his mane as the door swung open for the umpteenth time that night, carrying the strong stench of alcohol with it. What was once a cacophony of drunken banter had fallen to a diminuendo of hushed whispers and tired groans as the hours were swept along with the nights cold embrace.
A stern hoof made it’s way onto the stallions back, stirring him from his unconsciousness, and pulling him away from his delusional safe haven. Where he had once felt the comforting warmth of the alcohol was now chilled to the bone as midnight air nipped at his coat.
Shivering, he pulled his head from the bar and with groggy eyes, looked upon his tormentor.
“Sorry bud. Closin’ for the night.” Rang the gruff voice of the barkeep. “You gon’ git home alright?”
Home.
Fuck.
Swift Breeze dragged himself from the stool; nodding to the barkeep and throwing down a few bits.
Swallowing what emotion he had left, he traipsed toward the door with a heavy heart and sighed as he stepped outside, wishing that he could merely melt away into the blackness that surrounded him. Feeling the stones beneath him, he tried his best to navigate along the darkened path, both under his hooves and in his mind.
Toward his destination.
Toward his home.
If he dared call it that anymore.
Alone with my thoughts, luna guide me. Swift thought to himself, his short, ragged breaths puncturing the silence, creating abstract wisps in the freezing winter sky. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, hoping to manage at least a few hours of sleep tonight.
As he made his way, he felt himself become lost in the sounds of the night, listening intently as crickets played a sorrowful symphony of chirps, the rustling leaves creating a soothing white noise, and the clack of his hooves upon the stones forming a steady beat.
Swift didn't know why he was doing this, and imagined he looked rather strange to any passerby.
Perhaps it was the booze. Or perhaps it was merely a result of his current situation.
He’d always felt a particular connection with music, often spending the night nursing a wound to the calming strings of ‘Octavia’ or on the other end of the spectrum; venting his anger to the tearing riffs of ‘Rage Against the Deities’.
Tonight he decided he was sulking to Luna’s Nocturne No.1 in D minor. D for depression.
Swift mentally kicked himself for the godawful pun.
Soon he was snapped out of his reverie as the looming sight of his abode, both in its shape and the weight it carried on his mind, came into his peripherals.
Stopping at the front porch to collect his thoughts, Swift brought his hoof up to the door and froze as he felt the large crack that ran from the hinge, the result of the timber finally giving up as it was thrown open in a fit of rage one last time.
Creaking as it strained along the frame, the door swung open, carrying with it a shaft of lunar light, which shimmered along shards of broken glass and wove its way around the obstacles along the floor. Revealing what many would suspect as a robbery. Items lay upturned, and mess was strewn about; draws and cupboards lay gutted along the floor.
Stepping through the entrance, and proceeding towards the staircase, Swift squeezed past an upturned loveseat and wandered through what had used to be the living room, now covered with opened photo albums and bottles of hard cider.
Swift grimaced as he trampled over scraps of torn up photographs and broken picture frames that littered the floor like rose petals, looking over to the breakfast bar.
He had hoped for a glass of water to dissipate his inevitable hangover come sunrise, but quickly changed his mind as he was greeted by a lonesome pair of champagne flutes. Underneath lay a scrap of parchment, and on the floor a shattered bottle of champagne topped with a lopsided silver bow, it’s contents spilled all over the floor into a miserable, albeit expensive puddle. He didn’t need to pull anymore skeletons from the closet tonight.
What had once been a home full of love, determination and encouragement, had slowly become a ghost of its former self. Who’d have thought something that had helped close a wound could tear a new one ten times bigger?
First Mom, then Pops left and never came back, and now this.
Cursing to himself, Swift headed up the stairs, noting to himself how a simple task looked more like a game of Pinball thanks to his intoxication, his hooves narrowly managing to make contact with each consecutive step.
Maybe loosing this game might not be so bad after all. He thought.
Finally reaching the top, his nostrils burned as the scent of sweat and booze hit him square in the face.
He considered taking a shower, before snorting and turning the other way.
He had no plans to leave the house tomorrow, in fact, he had no plans to lift his head from the pillows come tomorrow morning. An ideal that his unavoidable hangover was sure to wholeheartedly agree with.
The source of his pain was also his safe haven. The fuck is wrong with me? Swift thought.
“The fuck is right with me anymore.” He retorted to himself.
Moving along the plain corridor, he noted the potted plant that had fallen over as a pony had rushed down the stairs, it’s leaves had since withered. He walked on by, telling himself he’d pick it up tomorrow. If he even got out of bed tomorrow.
Throwing open his bedroom door, a quick burst from his wings threw his lithe frame into the air, and seconds later sent him plummeting headfirst down onto the old mattress.
Burying his head into the pillows, Swift let out an anguished yell and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, with matted fur and the feeling of hot tears running down his face.
Author's Note
First time I've ever published my writing. Tell me if I should continue this, or if I should head back to High School English classes X)
