Trove sat down on his bed and unscrewed a bottle of Gin. He was tired both physically and mentally. Sitting down on his bed and simply thinking after a long day was what he lived for. For hours on end he would sit and think. He would think about the past, the present and the future. Memories were his only escape from reality. Memories of his wife, his parents and his childhood would haunt him. These vivid images provided some form of mental release. That and his diary, but after work he simply had no energy to write anything. He wrote on Sunday, making several entries, one for each day of the week.
Being a simple dock worker in Manehattan isn’t easy and preserving your sanity one way or another is simply a given. Trove rolled over onto his side, revealing a cutie mark in the form of a simple crate and two crossed crowbars. His special talent was opening boxes. Somewhere he even had a list of “The most useless special talents in Equestria” that he purchased from a travelling merchant some time ago. In his own craggy handwriting, he added himself to the list at number 11, preceded by the talent for slicing lemons in half and succeeded by the talent for proper newspaper stacking.
He opened a drawer on the old side table beside his bed. From it he took a framed photograph. A single tear fell from his eye, quickly extinguished by a few gulps of gin. He gasped, smacked his lips and turned to face the wall. He looked at the photograph, slowly running his hoof along its surface, stopping at a crack in the glass. Save for the crack and a few dents in the wood, it was still as fresh and glossy as he remembered it to be. The photo showed a filly, smiling. Her hair was red and she had brown eyes. Under the photo there was a signature underscored with a single line. It read Chestnut, written in pale red ink, slightly faded from the years. The photo was old and it showed. A number of holes lined the edges, apparently partly obscuring a second pony.
Trove knew who that second pony was. He took another long gulp from the bottle and resigned himself to his memories. It was his wedding photo, now ten years old. He used to look at it every day, and remember his wife. If it wasn’t for that damn train, she would be here and maybe, just maybe they would be happy. Trove wiped another lonely tear from his face, erasing it with Gin once more. What does a colt do when he has no more tears to cry, no more photographs to look at and no future to look forward to.
The answer was simple, it was almost too simple. His whole room was the answer. The leaky ceiling, the rusted pipes, the broken floorboards. It was all so clear. Trove had resigned his life to alcohol long ago, completely neglecting reality. Every evening he would escape, running away from the pain. They say that nopony can find happiness on the bottom of a shot glass. Trove found solace and some form of eerie comfort instead, resigning himself from the painful reality that took his love away.
With a gasp, memories came flooding back. He stood in a field, just outside Seaddle, his home town. In front of him two young ponies, jumping around and rolling around. A colt and filly, bouncing around in a bubble of sheer happiness. The little filly was Chestnut and the colt was Trove. It was almost thirty years since this scene happened, but none the less it was vivid in his mind. For a brief moment, his eyes made contact with those of the filly. Almost instantly, a hellish roar appeared out of nowhere. The clangs of metal on metal filled the air, vanquishing the sun and the field. The only thing that remained was the face of the filly, now frozen in an expression of sheer terror. She stood in the middle of a train crossing, frozen in the headlights of the incoming train. Before it hit her she shot one last glance at Trove, whose face was now moist from the tears.
There was no sound, simply a void. Emptiness, resignation, helplessness. Even if he saw it on time, the only thing he could have tone was jump in front of the train and have it take them both. He wished that he did. There would be no pain, no sorrow, and no memories. It would all be over quickly, like the sting of a needle in the hospital. They would be together in the place without pain, eternally bound together, their souls intertwined.
Every night he wished that it could have been him instead of her, that he could have dropped his saddlebag. It was a fantasy, impossible. He would never see her again, never touch her again. She would never kiss him again, hug him and whisper softly in his ear. For a moment he almost held her in his hooves again. It was an illusion tough, a ruse created by his mind. She was elusive, like sand in his hooves, escaping anew every time. How he wished that you could bottle memories, like a fine perfume.
Trove turned onto his stomach and buried his head in the pillows, knocking the bottle onto the ground. Moans of desperation echoed through the room, followed by a small barrage of sobs. It was practically inaudible, but still extremely loud. He wanted to go and see her, he wanted to die. Trove contemplated suicide many times now, but never had the guts to do it.
A thought drifted into his mind. He lost everything he loved, everything he ever wanted and there was no way to get it back. What else was there? Without her he was incomplete, a shell. Without her he couldn’t be free, he couldn’t love, he couldn’t see anymore. It was like someone amputated a part of his brain. For 10 years he lived like this. Enough was enough.
Trove got off his bed decisively, and limped to a small broken sink in the corner of the room. Over it hung a single broken mirror, suspended by an ordinary rope. He looked into it. He saw himself, young again, full of hope and happiness. That image disappeared, faded into the face of a middle-aged, grey-haired colt, complete with circles around his eyes and an unshaven beard. With a single swing of his hoof, Trove broke the mirror.
His hoof bled, but he didn’t care. There was no pain, only hate. He wanted to destroy the being in the reflection; he hated it with every piece of his eroded soul. The blood fell onto the wooden beams, pooling a little. He picked up the bottle of gin with his good hoof and drank it bottoms up. With a loud crack, Trove smashed it against the wall, taking some of the wallpaper with it. It felt good to destroy the place where the mirrored face lived. He wanted to destroy some more. With the corner of his eye, Trove spotted his table. With a single swift movement he broke it against the chair that it came with. For a few seconds, he stood proudly above its remains,
contemplating his deed. The alcohol started working and his head spun.
He staggered back a bit and his back hit a wall. The blood running from his hoof had intensified, the resulting pain breaking through the adrenaline and the hate. Trove slumped, leaving a single trail of blood on the wall behind him. Slowly, the bubble of anger burst, revealing a lonely colt sitting in the remains of his trashed room, holding onto a memory.
He blacked out
***
A sudden gust of wind woke Trove up and he lifted his head lazily. A sudden throb hit him the moment he attempted to stand on his front left hoof. It was filled with pieces of glass, lined with drops of blood. He remembered faint images from last night, images of him destroying all that he owned. The holes in the walls, the broken furniture, it was all there, crisp and clear in his mind. Desperation took a final hold of him, and he displayed his animalistic nature, his tendency to destroy. Immediately a thought occurred to him, a short flash in his memory. He needed to find it, he needed to know. With a loud grunt he got himself up and stood on his good hooves.
Trove jumped up and limped to the other end of the room. He dug through the remains of his desk frantically but was unable to find it. Panic took over, as he looked across the room. Trough the corner of his eye, he spotted something on the ground, near the remains of his bed. It glistened lightly in the first rays of the morning sun, reflecting onto the surrounding walls like a prism.
Dragging his hoof, Trove limped over and immediately saw what it was. No, it couldn’t be. Impossible. On the ground on front of him, partly concealed in dust, lay a photograph. Beside it the remains of its frame and the glass covering it. It was full torn to pieces, piled into a heap. Trove cried like never before. In his drunken rage he broke the photo of the one thing he loved with all his heart. There, before him, lay what once was the face of his wife Chestnut. She had been shredded to pieces and ripped from existence, now only an echo, a distant cry for help. Nothing remained for him.
He picked a part of it up gently and looked at it for a while. Next to the photograph lay his diary, pages ripped out of it, full of letters to her that he never got to send. An overwhelming sadness grew inside of him. She was dead, and he killed her. Every single atom of his being hurt, completely devoid of any joy or hope. A sudden frost took his being over, terminal frost. He never felt this lonely in his entire life, not even during those long nights of remembering.
It was time. He knew what he had to do. He was ready, and nothing would stop him now. Slowly he walked over to the door of the apartment, and fumbled with the knob for a while.
It opened to reveal a stale and empty hallway. Graffiti lined its walls, together with patches of moisture that broke through the insulation. It reeked of stale urine. Trove didn’t care tough, he knew his destination. The path to his destination was to the right, made of concrete. With terrifying determination, he inched up the staircase, towards the roof of the building. He was going to see Chestnut again no matter the cost.
***
The wind was crisp and fresh, gently blowing across Trove’s fur, as he stood on the edge of the roof. Below him stood the city, illuminated by the sunrise. The tops of the buildings poked up from the grey mass that was called Manehattan. Slowly, he moved his head downwards and briefly looked towards the street. It was empty, only a few ponies walking here and there.
He was staring straight into the sun. The warmth absorbed him, blinded him. It made things so clear. He inhaled the crisp air once again, and it took all the doubt away. Chestnut’s face appeared in his mind, as if she was right beside him. He wanted to feel her again, to hear her again and to love her again. There was only one way. One last time, he looked at the city he called home ever since his wife died. He wouldn’t miss it. No one would miss him either, and he knew that for certain.
It was time. This was it, the moment he waited for nearly 6 years now. Trove stood on his hind legs and spread his hooves like a bird. He took one last breath and whispered a single sentence.
“I’m here again”
With a single movement he let himself go. Wind rushed past his face. He fell; the world became a blur of objects, emotions and faces. He felt her; he was close to her once again. Her fur, her breath, her words, it was all there. She held him and they fell together, whispering to each other. They said all the things they always wanted to say, but never got the chance to.
The ground opened below them, calling with promises of eternal love and warmth. Slowly Trove fell into it, Chestnut at his side. They would never be apart again. The hole approached them; opening up and revealing the field they played in when they were young. They would never leave, permanently young and happy, surrounded by their love. It embraced them...
Then everything faded to black...
