_____Jerry's Story_____
Written By Fuzzygecko
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Jerry, a simple stallion of thirty, stood in the doorway of a deserted dwelling. His hazel eyes were glued to the faded red portal. They took in every small imperfection; the cracks, the places where only bare, rotten wood remained. Then, they slowly drifted upwards, seeming to catch on invisible knives only to be torn away again, like the flesh of a filly so unlucky as to have taken the wrong alley home from school one night.
Their final resting place was upon the minuscule, shattered window of the attic. The roof of this ancient abode had long since caved in, leaving the attic in ruins. But, as sure as Celestia's sun would rise each morning, Jerry knew it would still be up there. A few fallen bricks couldn't phase such a thing.
Memories were untouchable.
Some days, Jerry wished that all those bricks, pieces of splintered wood, and bits of fractured glass could bury all the hellish memories that resided in that damned attic.
Some days, Jerry wondered if he himself could erase those memories if he erased himself.
Then there would be nothing left, would there?
But Jerry knew he was lying to himself. There would always be something there, no matter if he died, or the house burned, or even if the Thing was brought up from the frozen ground and cut into a million pieces, then thrown into the Horseshoe Bay.
Memories could not be erased.
And so Jerry stood there, in the freezing sleet, and wished to himself he had a better life. In fact, he wished he had any other life at all. Jerry thought, that maybe if he wished hard enough, that his dreams would come true. That he would be whisked away to another world, one where everything was perfect, one where everypony always had a shoulder to lean on.
Jerry wished that the scars on his forelegs would heal, Jerry wished he had parents, Jerry wished his boyfriend hadn't died in that car crash, hell, maybe Jerry even wished he had that new pair of skinny jeans he saw in the supermarket.
And Jerry spent his whole life wishing. And Jerry never got those parents, or those jeans. His boyfriend never showed up at his house and said "Sorry for the awful prank.". And all those scars never would heal, no matter how many doctors he had hired to patch them up for him.
Because nopony cared about Jerry.
Nopony stopped to think, "Oh, I wonder what Jerry's doing after school today?" or "I wonder if Jerry's doing okay?".
Because they were too busy worrying about themselves, or making their own wishes. Or, maybe they were just like Jerry.
Maybe, after Jerry died, they became a Jerry too.
And so Jerry stood outside the door of the crumbling, rural farmhouse, wishing that he could uproot the Thing, tell it to get the hell out of his life. He yelled at the memories to disappear, for the monster under his bed to go find someone else to torment.
Jerry took his anger out on others, he was reckless, he fought with himself over and over and over again.
Or he didn't yell, but let the Thing take him quietly. But, as he does, did Samantha call out his name? Did Samantha step in to save the day?
... Did Samantha even care?
A white hoof found its way into the pocket of Jerry's coat. It is a light gray, with an off-white faux fur trimming around the hood. Around his neck is a cheap, but incredibly plush forest green scarf. As the white hoof returns to the frosty outside world, one can't help but notice it is not white at all, but instead is clothed in a fluffy mitten. Jerry's hoof is actually a rather lovely sky blue. A music box rests atop it.
Jerry wound up the music box, and a bittersweet melody secreted from its inside mechanics. As the melody played, so did the memories inside Jerry's head. They twirled and spun, jumped and danced until they formed the sick and twisted horror story that was his life.
One memory in particular stood out. It was set in his early years- Jerry was maybe four or five at the time. One of the bigger colts had been harassing him, and he had come crying to the teacher.
The teacher's simple response was enough to make anypony's stomach turn.
"M-Mrs. F-Falcon..."
"Yes, Jerry? Why are you crying?"
"Maple was making fun of my haircut!"
"Remember this, Jerry- Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."
"Okay."
What complete baloney. Who cares if you have a sound body if you no longer have a sound mind?
Do I even matter? Jerry thought to himself. What a melancholy thought. But, the truth is, that is up to Jerry. Does Jerry want to matter?
And Jerry thought, Yes, yes, I desire it so.
So there you have it, folks. Jerry matters. He had always mattered, right from the very beginning of the Universe, till the end of Time itself.
Every time his parents beat him, he mattered. When his sister died, he mattered. When he decided to bury the Thing, he mattered. And he always will.
Jerry is still standing in front of the deserted farmhouse. What he does next is up to him. Can Samantha influence him? Sure, of course she can. But this is Jerry's choice.
It always has been, and forever will be.
And, so, the blue hoof clad with the white mitten goes into the pocket again. This time, it comes back out with a kitchen knife, one you might see a cook cut carrots or potatoes with. Jerry trots up to the door, snow and ice crunching beneath his hooves. With some effort, he is able to open it, and steps inside, the knife still in hoof.
He slips off the white mittens, slowly, carefully. The cool blade of the knife finally meets flesh and it cuts, cuts and cuts and cuts until Jerry screams and collapses to the stinking floor in a heap.
This is where Jerry will end.