The phone rings and an total silence settles in our entire house. You could have heard a needle drop, maybe even a straw of hay, as mother answers. It's my younger sister.
It's early spring in our little village in the northernmost part of Equestria and we are supposed to celebrate the return of the warmer seasons. What used to be a very solemn religious holiday for most has now been elevated to an excuse for everyone to stuff their muzzle, a very light-hearted celebration.
This year is different though. A few days ago my sister's fiancée went missing. Search parties have been combing the surrounding areas and the Missing Ponies organisation have been working day and night to find any clues to his whereabouts.
Judging from the way mother's voice cracks they've just solved the mystery.
Suicide. It is a word that's been ringing in our heads for days, but no one has said out loud. When it is spoken by my sister it feels like it echoes through the house with a roar despite being barely audible.
I was standing in the corridor when the call came in and froze with my hoof on the handle. She hangs up. There is a silence for the longest of seconds before my mother implodes, the gut wrenching sound is somewhere between a wail and a death rattle followed by an unending barrage of sobs.
Like a coward I peek out and see her on the floor. My father, Grandmother and mother's husband are all sitting still and my younger brother, who is among the toughest stallions I know, stand pale and wobbling a few yards away from her. He's frightened, just like I. Just minutes before I stated to the family that my sister's fiancée probably ran away since no one has been able to find him, a bravado that is common among people in my situation I will later learn, and I feel like the biggest fool in the world now.
The world is unravelling before me. I just want to go and hide, hoping that this is all a bad dream. But I can't do it. I can't leave her on the floor like that. It is not resolve that gives me courage to finally take action, for I have none.
It is apathy; I refuse to feel fear and sadness and like a machine I focus on a single task.
I walk into the room and scoop up the remains of my mother of the floor.
"SHE'S GOING TO KILL HERSELF! AND THEN I'M GOING TO DIE! OH, HELP NO..!"
It is to date the single worst memory of my entire life. I will never forget her words or how she felt more like a puppet with its strings cut than a living being. Never will I forgive myself for feeling nothing.
A taxi is called and most of the family goes to join my sister as I remain with Grandma who is to weak to follow and to be left alone. I am famished yet have no appetite, despite the bountiful spread before us. I make a joke about how effective a suicide diet could be and chuckle.
But I feel neither mirth nor shame. Nothing, there is nothing in my heart.
There is a funeral for him six days later in his home town far away from us. I'm not attending. No one blames me.
We all worry for my sister the following months. Mother more so than anyone else. I on the other hoof receive praise from the others for being a shoulder to lean on for everyone else during this time.
I don't deserve any of it.
They all suffer and they all carry on supporting each other. I'm there with them in the flesh only. With every passing day I retreat deeper into myself. Here a psychic membrane has grown around me and within it nothing grows except my self-loathing.
Every day is spent in a numb, apathetic state that boarders on sleepwalking.
I have no contact with my friends, there are piles of unopened letters in my apartment and the colleagues at work might as well be automatons for all I care. Even my severe arachnophobia is gone. I picked up and discarded a huge spider that would have reduced me to a quivering heap a few months earlier like it was nothing. My lithe, muscular physique that I used to be so proud of has started to wither away and I barely notice.
The worst thing though is that I haven't spoken with my sister since the incident, not even written to her.
No. The worst thing is that I don't care about any of these things anymore.
Five weeks after the incident disaster strikes as my Grandmother has two accidents throughout the course of a week. I offer to move in with her to make sure that she is fine. It would be gut-wrenching to see my Grandmother like this every day but the membrane is stronger now, tighter. I don't even have to try to set my feelings aside. Time has lost it's meaning by now so I hardly notice when summer comes rolling in.
One blazingly hot summer night I am unable to sleep. After an hour I give up, turn on the light and reach for a magazine.
Reading romance stories have been amongst my favourite hobbies for years and this publication consists of the work of passionate amateurs who want to share their work with the world. I get little satisfaction from the dozen or so short stories I work through. Still not tired enough to sleep I pick a romance story at random among the many choices available in the heap of issues I've not read through yet. This one features two real life ponies, the timid pegasus Fluttershy and the classy unicorn Rarity in a fictional scenario which is a very popular practice.
It's called Language.
I start reading, soon realising that it is a sequel to another story. I don't care.
At first...
For as I read the bittersweet tragic tale about the two ponies, I feel something resonating deep within me. I stop reading and go back to the first part in the series; I must know how it begins!
It's very light-hearted and pleasant, so much so that I'm thrown off balance a bit. As soon as it is finished I dive back into the sequel. After a while I realise that I'm not lying down; I'm sitting up in bed. As the story ends I dive into the final entry in the series. It's one hell of a ride, sexual frustration, boxed up feelings, dread and dangerous projections are all themes that dances around in the saga. It should be cluttered and heavy handed yet the narrative flow is as graceful as any ballet.
It was then I noticed that my eyes were running freely, as if someone had opened the flood gates and then disabled the control panel. I'm actually struggling to read the rest of the story through the tears.
Rarity, the protagonist, is summarising the story in the end of the final chapter. As she accounts the for all the heart wrenching events that leads up the the breathtaking, beautiful finale it is in a voice that commands all of my sympathy
That voice.
It woke me up.
The psychic membrane I've woven around myself, trapped myself in for the last months is dealt a lethal blow. The strike comes in the form of a lancet, it strikes not from outside but from within.
The lancet's handle is anguish, fear and disgust.
The blade is Fluttershy's lust and Rarity's compassion that tapers to a point that is absolute love.
The wielder is a hero with no face and he strikes from within my heart through a pony-shaped hole I never knew was empty.
As the nightmare ends I curl up into a foetal position and weep soundly. All the feelings I've kept at bay for so long wash over me. Guilt, glee, pride, resentment, sorrow, love all rush in at once.
It is overwhelming but when it is over I feel lucky, happy to be alive. Happy to be me.
I have a family to return to.
Friends to see.
Ambitions to fulfil.
But more than anything I have a chance to start living again. I have a lot to answer to and yet life is giving me a shot at redemption.
It takes me two hours to collect myself enough to get out of bed. The first thing I do is to call my sister. It is by far the best decision I've made all year.
On my way to her house I pass by the mailbox. The letter I post is something I scrambled together as a haphazard thank you to the author in a hopeless attempt to convey my gratitude.
It is the second best decision that year.
Author's Note
If you are a writer you and ever think that your stories will amount to nothing, that you are wasting your time on fiction that will be forgotten as soon as it is read; remember this story.
Sometimes something all-consuming and soul-crushing can be undone by something small and beautiful.
Even if it is a fictional tale of two ponies getting kissy-kissy with each other.
This story is dedicated my friend who in the darkest of hours came into my life and gave me the strength to save myself.
Thank you, Taialin.
