I'll See You

by GingerNutGin

Rating: everyone
Tags: Twist, Sad, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 2001

Twist draws some pictures

Every Hearth's Warming Eve, Twist gets a brand new pack of crayons. There's only one that she uses though, and that's the blue crayon. It was the color of her Mommy, after all. Why shouldn't she use it? It may not be her special talent, but coloring always makes everything better, doesn't it?

((Creative feedback is welcomed and encouraged
Special thanks to Bronymaster for editing))

Published 2012-06-21 20:14:02 UTC
Last updated 2012-06-21 20:14:02 UTC

Hues

The night before was always the hardest to bear for all the littlest of foals every year. Indeed, one could consider it a test of endurance as promises of sweets and riches were bestowed upon them as their parents lovingly tucked them into bed with a kiss and a hug for the coming morning.

Twist was one of these little foals, and like many it would take the strength of her Daddy to grab her by the tail and drag her up into her lone bedroom, with her wailing and demanding that she be put down this very instant!

And her Daddy would just chuckle and roll back his shoulders in a gentle arch as he switched off the light and left the filly in total darkness, illuminated only by the glow of her night-light in the corner.

She would lay there in her bed alone, warmed by the thick satin of her comforter and blessed with a windowed view of Ponyville's central square, all perpetually lit up by the lanterns that cut into the cold wintery darkness.

With any luck, there would be a fresh coat of frost laid upon the sides of that window, obscuring her view if only by a tiny bit. That was a good thing though, as such a shield of unforgiving ice was the most proper of protections against any monsters or demons that might be lurking about in the streets, ready to gobble up any colt or filly that might be watching from afar.

If she was really lucky, then there would be snow as well. Wonderful, rich snow! It would fall ever so slowly, dancing about in the chilled air as she'd watch from the safety of her tiny bed. She would cry out in delight, and wiggle about under her covers to reach for her thickly rimmed glasses to get a better look.

No matter the weather though, sleep always came with difficulty. She'd toss and turn, performing the most complicated of acrobatics before her eyelids finally became too heavy for her to lift, fluttering slightly before dropping completely.

She'd wake up late, and only by the gentle pressure of her Daddy's hoof against her side, nudging her to face the morning that she had been waiting for. She'd get up as if in a trance at first, all bleary-eyed and begging to be let alone for just five more minutes. Then her Daddy would promptly walk to her window and undo the curtains, allowing for sunlight to bleed into the room, stinging her eyes.

Persuaded, the little filly would promptly get up and march down the carpeted steps. She'd stumble a bit, but her Daddy would be right behind her, easing his snout against her side.

And there the tree would be, all decorated with the most lavish of proper pine accessories. A string of puffy popcorn balls would be wound around its pointy exterior, and a countless number of little ornaments would be shimming away against the warm sun.

Under that tree would be a single little box, all wrapped up in cheap newspaper. She wouldn't mind though, she'd just pick up that little box and read the cuttings in child-like curiosity. If she was lucky, then the box would be wrapped in comics, but most of the time it was simply some random article of minimal interest.

Her Daddy would watch fondly as she would go through the ritualistic unwrapping. First one corner would be lifted, then another. It'd take a while, but the paper had to stay totally perfect.

So for several minutes she would sit, her chubby back nearly pressed against the sharp bristles of the pine tree as her tiny hooves worked away at the paper's edges, peeling away to slowly reveal a modest box of crayons.

She would always know what it was, every year it was the same, and her Daddy would smile away and bend down to press his muzzle against her forehead.

With a bright, delighted grin, she would hug the container to her furry chest and hold it out to examine. The label would always be the same, 'Hoofington's Collectible Crayons' scrawled on the front in a dark, ebony tinted hue. The box itself would be a bright yellow, clashing with the label, though giving the brand a sort of individuality all on its own.

"Are you happy, Twisty?" her Daddy would ask.

A bright, toothy grin would envelop her face, and she'd say, "Yup!"

He'd smile back, his yellowed, crooked teeth self-consciously hidden from view as he pursed his lips. "You better get started, then."

She would nod in reply, her curly mane bouncing up and down as she smoothed out the newspaper. Her tongue would unconsciously loll from her mouth in concentration, curling at the end as she would work away. Every solitary wrinkle would have to be undone and smoothed, otherwise her little project wouldn't work out.

As soon as the paper was ready, she would pick up her box of crayons and tilt them upside down. Nine little wax tubes would tumble to the rustic, unshapely flooring. Red, orange, yellow and black would fall in such a way that their sharpened tips would break and crumble, and the ever-useless white would nearly shatter into pieces. Those colors didn't matter though.

The blue crayon would always, always fall last, as if it was saving itself for the proper reveal. The smoothed paper would properly cushion its fall, leaving it unharmed and as perfect as it could be.

With a grin, she would take up that little crayon in her hoof, clumsily curling it about for a proper grip before putting the pointed tip to the paper.

She'd color then, haphazardly racing the crayon to and fro the newspaper wrapping in nonsensical directions, or at least that's how it would look to any outsider.

Her Daddy would watch from afar, a small frown on his face as she would scribble away with that single, blue crayon.

Time would pass, and the other foals would long since be out and about boasting over their new riches, praising one another for a job well done. But not her. She would still be coloring, giving each color its own small spark of attention, attention that would simply pale in comparison to the love lavished on the poor, overused blue crayon.

Finally, after what seemed hours the little filly would smile and drop her worn crayons to the floor to rub her aching hooves together. “It’s almost done!” she would call out, leaping towards her Daddy.

He would turn to her then, his mouth pasted with a large, faux smile. “Is it now? Let’s see...”

On cue, she would toddle back and grab up the paper in her mouth, wincing as the sharp tang of thick wax melted onto her tongue. Tail wagging, she’d bring it up to her Daddy and hold it up for him, proudly.

It would always be the same exact picture, though improved slightly over the long, lonely years of practicing and the like. Upon the edges would be a bright, nauseating pattern of colors that blended into one another, creating a sort of border. Inside of that would be a colored landscape, simplistic in that it’d feature only a few puffy white clouds and one or two crimson birds.

At the bottom would be the centerpiece of it all, a bright blue blob of a pony. An Earth pony, to be exact, with a curly white mane and a stout little black line that would symbolize its mouth. It was a blank flank, but not really, for in the place of a cutie mark there would be an empty white space, unfinished.

“You draw that,” she’d demand, pointing at the white splotch. “I dunno know how to draw a screw.”

Her father would just sigh and nod with a pained smile. “All right then.”

With a flash of his horn he’d lift the neglected grey crayon and bring it to the paper’s surface, drawing a crude shape as quickly as he was able. He’d chew on his lower lip in thought, dropping the crayon to the floor as he finished. It never looked perfect, but it would be good enough for her, his little Twisty.

She would grin then, a wide, happy grin that nearly made his calm composition break, his own plastic smile nearly twitching as he would help her fold up the crinkled newspaper into a neat bun, tied together by a piece of frayed yarn.

“I’ll take this down to her now, okay?” He’d take up the paper with his magic, enveloping it in soft, cream colored glow.

She would frown then. “Why don’t I ever get to go?” she would ask, pleadingly. “I wanna see her!”

“Not today,” Her Daddy would merely reply. He’d already be on his way to the door, with the folded paper in tow. “She’s probably not feeling too well right now...”

“You always say that.” She’d pout, though she would nod in understanding. She was always smart enough to know that he would say the same thing, every time.

“I won’t be gone long, promise.” And with that he’d press open the door and leave her there, alone. She was a smart filly though, for her Daddy would always go and leave her by herself. It made her feel all grown up.

Whether there would be snow or ice, the weather would never stop her Daddy from his annual delivery. It would always seem deserted, what with the ongoing holiday, though there would always be the occasional pair of foals loitering about with their new treasures, boasting to one another.

He would ignore them though, his horn carefully carrying the little folder paper all the way to the hospital, all perpetually lit up by the harsh fluorescents from inside. He’d approach slowly, often taking the time to observe how empty it all looked, how deserted and abandoned.

He’d carefully push open the door, wincing as the bright lights would pierce his retinas. The waiting room would always be empty, save for a mare at the desk, with her pinkish mane all tied up in a neat looking bun.

She’d be reading the paper, the very same edition that he would be holding with his magic. Looking up, she’d smile knowingly, sympathetically. “You know where to go,” she’d say, lifting a hoof to point down the empty hallway.

Those same words would always make him wince, remembering how many times he had been here. How many times and years he would come by himself. Alone.

Without a word of acknowledgement he would trot down that very hall, his hooves clicking against the shiny linoleum that had been so freshly waxed.

Room 103. That would be the room, looking like any other from the outside door. The brass plate on the doorframe was always slightly tarnished from age.

Without any hesitation he’d open that very door, his eyes greeted by the same old room. The walls would be coated with drawings, all the very same thing colored onto them. Dozens upon dozens of doodles of blue mares with messily done backgrounds. The only difference was the quality. Some would be poor, and some would represents sparks of creativity or skill.

There would be one lone cot sitting off to the right, occupied by the very pony depicted in those drawings. Her mane would be just as curly, with each strand carefully laid out on the pillow that supported her weary head. The sheets that enveloped her would be roughly tucked in, outlining every individual feature of her equine anatomy.

Her eyes would be open, wide open, with the irises jutting out in all different directions. At the sound of the door, her head would turn towards him, and a wild smile would curl up her face.

“Good morning, dear,” he’d murmur, gently levitating the folded paper towards her.

The mare in question would merely stare and bark in reply.