Author's Note
First off, I wanted to say, thank you! I have not revived a SINGLE negative comment on "Of Feathers and Tiara's", one user was so kind as to personally message me to help me out with my grammar! Now this story... let's just say I had to go to the darker corners of my mind. It's not supposed to really have a plot, it's more like an emotion driven story. Thanks again for taking the time to read my writing!
Cheers,
Babs_Seed5
You Want To Know Why?
My name is Pinkie Pie, and I am an actor. One could say it could have been my special talent, instead of throwing parties. Everyday I slide on the same mask, step into my skin. Draw a smile on my face with blood. Except, no pony see's the blood. Or the tears. They most certainly do not hear the screams. All they see is Pinkie Pie, the pony who never stops smiling.
It's all a lie.
But, why? Some may ask. Why do you do this to yourself every single day?
Why?
You want to know why?
Pop open your eyes in the morning and sew them open. Wouldn't want them to droop. Roll out of your bed of hot coals onto the cracked glass floor, as long as your not wearing anything on your hooves. Crunch across the floor, making sure to get as many shards stuck in you as possible. Arrive at your closet. Fling it open and listen to the whispers that crawl inside of your head, rest in the fluffiness of your tail, and puke blood into your ears. Make sure they're comfortable, because they're going to follow you for the whole day. Close your closet door gently but firmly, wouldn't want to let the other whispers that are clawing at the cracks to get out.
Worthless.
Bitch.
Trash.
As you walk towards the bathroom, make sure to stomp your hooves extra hard to let the shards embed themselves firmly in you. Finally, you make it to the bathroom. Lock the door tight. Stare at yourself in the mirror, admire the scars and the burns and the bruises that nopony else seems to see. When your satisfied, look around for your razor blades. Don't worry, you bought plenty for the week.
Useless.
Loser.
Rummage around until you see that promising flash of silver, a glint, a star in the night sky. Pull it out slowly, admiring the sharpness of a freshly bought razor. Inhale the scent that's all so familiar to you. Bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, but not hard enough to swallow yourself whole. Time slows down as you bring the razor closer and closer to your outstretched leg. Stop shaking. You've done it many times before, no problem. The blade sweetly sinks into you, fresh boiling worthless blood slinking down your leg, dripping onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. You wish you could close your eyes to relish the sound, but the stitches that you sewed hold your eyes in a tight embrace.
Ouch. You went a little too deep this time. That's okay, its happened before. Useless piece of trash. Can't even punish yourself correctly.
Ugly.
Alone.
Rinse off the blood, pitch the razor back into its hiding place. Turn on the shower to scald. Crawl in, let the water burn you. Are those tears welling at the corners of your eyes? Good. Cry bitch. Cry because your not good enough, you'll never be good enough. Cry because no matter how deep you cut, no matter how much you put yourself down, the pain. Never. Stops.
Outcast.
Once your cooked in the shower, step out. Don't use a towel. Stand there, you pathetic shivering loser. Force your eyes to look at yourself in the mirror. Dead eyes stare back at you. Empty. Rip your eyes away to admire the fresh slashes on your skin, still dripping with blood. Weave your hoof in and out, cover it with blood. Press into them. Stick your hoof into your mouth, swallowing the glass shards that were stuck in them. Choke down the whispers. Don't gag on the screams.
Even though they are overflowing with blood, prick your ears at the sound of movement downstairs. It's almost time to place on the mask. Shred a roll of toilet paper off, press it into your cuts. Hard. Watch as the white paper turns crimson with the stains of a nopony. After what seems like an eternity, crumple it up and slam it into the trash. Look at your leg once more. Your going to need something to cover it up with, which means going back to your closet. Inhale, even though the whole world is resting on your chest. Unlock the bathroom door, and exhale, heart pounding. Tip toe across the floor, shards piercing upwards into your hooves once more. As you near your closet, the whispers turn angry.
Why are you still alive?
Nopony loves you.
You should do them all a favor.
Clench your jaw shut to stop from replying as you grab the worn, sand-paper colored sweater and push the door closed with all your might. Slide into the sweater of shame.
"Pinkie dear, is that you?" I snapped out of my trance like state. All I could do was yell a half-hearted,
"Mhm."
"Are you ready? We have alot of orders to fill today!" The mare known as Ms.Cake shouted back up at me. I flinched. I knew she wasn't yelling at me, but it felt like she did. I trotted down the stairs, and into the place called Sugarcube Corner. Ms.Cake looked up at me as I came, a frown on her lips.
I had forgotten to put on my mask.
"Pinkie, is everything okay? You've been wearing that sweater alot lately." She commented. I had stage fright for a second, but then remembered my lines.
"I just love it so much!" I smiled so big that my face almost ripped in two.
"If you say so." She turned away from me. Even though I had put on my mask today, it wasn't enough. The whispers turned into screams, the screams into chants so loud I thought my head would burst.
"I.... have to go to the bathroom, i'll be right back!" I choked out as I darted to the bathroom. I closed the door, and locked it. Once I was secure, I looked for the familiar glimmer of silver.
Die.
