There's a Crayon in my Soup
The steel blue stallion sulked as he sullenly sauntered down the streets of the godforsaken hellhole that was the grand city of Manehattan. The moon’s grim light bounced off his back, and put his dim shadow before him: it stretched to an unbelievable length down the dark street. Just what he needed, another attempt to remind him how far he’d fallen.
It’d been a while since he had any hope for his- or any -equinity, since to his eyes: there’s just no love left in the world. He sat on the hard pavement of Bogart Street, looking at the way the rain pooled into the gutter: just… draining out pathetically, similar to all the color in his rundown life.
His brooding had dragged on for ages, even since he moved into the city. After all, from the moment he first set hoof in this damned city, nothing good has ever happened to him: his wife left him for a cook, he hadn’t heard from his daughter in three years, and he’d been kicked out of seven apartments in the last three weeks. Mostly for “Uncouth” actions, mind, but to him: they’ve just never actually seen a drunken stallion before.
Given the size of this city, it only figured to him that he’d pick the one neighborhood that gave no tolerance to ponies who acknowledged pain, and tried their best to cure it as a place to try and take up residence.
He now, when looking into the puddle, saw only the reflection of a dead artist looking back at him: all life had been siphoned out of him as if it were his very soul, drained by some vampony, whose belly was no doubt full from sucking all light and kindness from the world. He remembered when he used to see color all around him: when the park danced in the afternoon, when ponies helped each other, and foals would live through the night. Now, however, he only seemed to see grey in the most beautiful city in Equestria: the streetlights cast his ghostly shadow before him like unwanted dice, and the shape of his head contained a sewer lid.
To him, that displayed exactly what he had become, everypony’s sewer: somepony to throw all their crap on, and ditch their water at. The kicks he had received from his former landlords as they “escorted” him out were as hard as bricks, and broke what was once his glass soul. To him, that was just the life out here, in hell: nopony cared for each other in this city, they only worked to help themselves, and that only gave them food to chew.
Very few ever got somepony to love, not that love was something worth working towards anyways. But, at least it made a decent distraction on cold nights. Not a lot of mares go wild for a two-bit bum with a scrappy beard, however, so he stopped trying to get company over a long time ago.
There is one perk of being out on the street, though: no rent to pay, and no busybody young landladies that would only let him have a good night’s sleep if they joined in. Not a single bit of his money had to go into their useless pockets anymore, so he had time to sit there, and stare into the pool as the rain pelted his bare back.
Fortunately, he had managed to get a small box permanently reserved for himself on Bum Row, without too much interaction with the former owner, by some stretch of luck. The unattached mares seemed to flock to him when heard he was an artist, and they practically begged him to stay there: each probably hoping to be the one that would tag along if he ever got a buyer for his art.
That’s what any mare wanted from him, as if his personality and dignity count for nothing: just somepony to keep them warm at night, and fill their pockets with enough to buy fur coats, black dresses, and gold watches. He had come across a few nice mares, who would’ve been satisfied with a warm meal, and it was them who any of his money went to.
Bum Row? Oh, that’s just the name of that sad sack-of-crap “town” just inside Centrail Park, where all the drunks and no-goods go to get a decent, three-hour sleep in their boxes and bags. He passed by a sign he had made for the community, which was only put up because many thought it amusing:
“Shitty Limits.
Population: far more than too many.”
The ink had started to drip off in the rain, and he watched as it fell to the damp ground: just another one of his weeks of work, slowly becoming lost into the black, forgotten eternity of oblivion. Steam rose from the inner camp as the heavy rain hit whatever fires were brave enough to remain blazing strong, and covered the town in a thick fog. The shadows of the ponies around the fire dances like demons as the flames greedily licked the rain from the sky, and drank in the cold like wine.
The stallion found himself slowly returning to his “Home” in one of the abandoned wooden crates that made a decent living space. Still cold, though: with only a sheet for a doorway, and puny holes for windows.
He made his way to the small, cardboard box that served as his storage. It still lingered with the scent of the frozen foal he found in it, and a bit of the blood he had coughed up was still stained on the side. Most would think it grim, that he would use that as a storage place. But out here: you’d be lucky if you died by freezing to death. That child was buried with honors in the town cemetery, which frankly, had a larger population than the section for the living.
He was dismayed to find that the fog had soaked the wick of his lamp: already costing him more oil than it should. He coughed in the cold, lit the lamp, and opened a little sack: where he’d kept his saved money, all five bits of it.
He lifted the musty pouch from within, and decided to head back into the city for the night. The cold grass licked his hooves, and left frozen dew on their fur as he made his way through the camp. There were only three days until the next monthly police raid, to see if they can find any criminals hiding out in the park, and he didn’t want to have his stuff destroyed by some jerk copper.
He noted the sleeping forms of all those of the ponies he recognized, praying to whatever celestial being that was out there to let them live through the night. The only ponies he made the effort of remembering names for were the few decent people left in the world.
There was one pony missing from their box, however. But he knew exactly where to find them: in the same refuge he was heading to.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The cold bar stank of countless things he didn’t want to think of. He was stumbling by the time he walked in, and ambled over to a barstool. His face made a beeline for the counter top, and hit it with a dulled thud, as he crossed his hooves before it in an attempt to hide his pain. Surely enough, just as he expected, Love Tap was there at the bar: tending to her customers with a bright smile, as always. She didn’t pay mind to him for a moment, until he had obviously caught her eye:
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the drunk artist, back here for another bottle.”
He recognized that sweet tone: the nectar that supplied his ears with sugary nutrition. Her voice flowed like a mountain spring, and crashed into his ears with the force of a thunderous tide smacking into a cliff's side.
Her melodious voice was like honey to his tired ears, as was the sound of what approached him. He looked up in time to see a full bottle of bourbon slide to a halt in front of his nose. The light shone through it, making the substance resemble gold as it morphed the room around him: making him drunk already.
“That’s the usual charge, Lonefree.” The barkeep sang once more.
He looked up into her bright eyes, and flinched. Such lovely orbs didn’t belong in a city filled with hatred, indifference, and depression. He always felt little rays of hope when she was around, but he had given that up a long time ago: he had no chance with a mare like her, and he knew it. Her bright smile and bubbly personality are what landed her a job here: she’s a good listener, and everypony loved her for it. Some of the other regulars had even had the gall to say she was particular to him, but he knew it was impossible for such a kind, generous, gentle mare like her to go for a reckless, hopeless, sorry wreck like him.
“I thought I’d find you here, after your ‘room’ was empty.” He chuckled, handing her the five bit pouch. “But, as always, the walk was well worth it to be able to talk to you again.”
She gave him a smile that shone like a summer afternoon, and the kindness in her eyes shone like a candle at night. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought he saw a bit of red come into her cheek. But alas, he knew better. And the fact that he did wiped the smile from his face, like alcohol to an oil painting. Such a flawless portrait of color would never socialize with a moldy grey crayon.
He looked back up to her as she thanked him, and went back to work: and once more noticed how everything about her was sweet. Her hair was like caramel, as it gave her appearance a sugary, sappy look. Her coat was like the inside of a malt ball, showing how she was even more saccharine once you got to know her, instead of just seeing the outside. Her cutie mark displayed how she loved and cared for all who needed it, in spite of her own needs. And her eyes… oh, those gorgeous, satisfying sapphires shone in the neon: brighter than the stars on a clear, country night.
He groaned in depression as he looked back to the bottle, popping the cork with his magic: and took a long, hard drink.
The harsh liquid burned his throat and tongue like a cold fire conquering a dry savannah, but it was no less than what he deserved. His crimes of even having feelings had to be cured somehow, and this bottle should leave him memoryless for at least the next twelve hours.
“Don’t get drunk tonight, alright, Lonefree? You never know when a buyer will show up for you.” Tap said cautiously, resting a hoof on his shoulder.
He shrank from her touch: it was far too soft for his comfort, with all circumstances considered. She tried reaching out to him, but her hoof was blocked by his, and his cold eyes connected with her hurt ones.
“Let’s face facts, Love: besides you, this bottle is the only comfort I’ve got in this cold world.” He coughed out with a grimace, about to take another swig of the bitter liquid.
No taste touched his tongue, besides that of the bar’s bitter air. He opened his eyes to see that his bottle had been stopped by a hoof from the mare: and only inches away from draining into his mouth. He tilted his head to face her, as the room seemed to grow both cold and warm simultaneously.
She was giving him a look he had never seen her give him in the past: compassion, pity, and something else shone in her eyes that he couldn’t place. Something sincere, and mysterious. Something more valuable than gold, for he’d give gold to know what that look was.
“Then let me replace the bottle, Lone.” She said in a calm, calculating, relaxing tone.
He raised a brow at her, and turned his head to face her. “What?”
She bit her lip, and this time he knew he saw some pink on her cheek as she slowly drew back: “You said your only sources of comfort were me, and the bottle. I’d feel better knowing I was a larger source than a bottomless vat of alcohol. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”
Now, he knew what she was doing, what that shimmer behind her eyes was: she was confessing to him. At least, as much of a confession he’d get from her. This was something he never could’ve seen: Love Tap, the mare of his dreams, was confessing her love to him. Yet… somehow, it still felt wrong.
That shouldn’t be. In a world of black shadow, a beacon of hope would be something to head towards, right? But for some reason, he felt he needed to push her away…
… Oh. Now he knew why.
He gently took her hoof, and patted it kindly. He slowly lifted it off his shoulder, delicately as a flower, and set it on the bar. She looked at him: eyes full of concern, and care. He looked back: eyes empty of hope, and joy.
“You could do so much better…”
With that, he tucked the bottle into his pocket, and stepped out of the bar without another word.
As soon as he felt the rain hitting his back once more, and the rugged steam violating his nostrils, he knew he had made the right decision. He stood there for a long while, and started to walk off. When he had gone around a block: he heard the gentle clipping of delicate, caring hooves on cement behind him. The lovely mare’s voice called out to him, in the softest tone possible:
“You’re right, you know.”
He stopped, and waited for her to approach. He saw her head slowly draw around from beside him, until she had lifted his head gently by the chin: forcing him to look her in the eye.
“You’re right: in the eyes of many ponies, I could do much better than a humble pony, who once wanted nothing more than to bring light to a dark city. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be stuck with a stallion who only wants me for my looks, or my body. I want a companion I can be proud of, somepony to love me for who I am: somepony to hold me when the nights get cold, somepony to share my thoughts with, who would understand my heart’s desire. Somepony to bring home to my child: and tell him that he has a daddy now, after all these years.”
He looked up into her pleading eyes, and smiled as she brushed his cheek lovingly. “When I said you could do better, I didn’t mean my personality was lacking. A flower needs to be watered, and taken care of with the utmost respect: I’m no botanist, Love, I’m the weed killer. You need a Stallion who can support you: give you all the things you need, and would ever want. I’d offer no more support than a rotten beam, Love.”
“I don’t want financial support: I want a pony who loves me for who I am.”
“As I do, but I have no doubt there are others you’ll fall in love with, who could offer you more than I ever could. It isn’t right for a mare to have to work to support her drunk husband.”
“But… I’m in love with you…” She sobbed, wrapping her hoof around his neck as his eyes hit the ground.
“Look,” he said gruffly, looking directly into her eyes as he gently- yet roughly –batted her hoof away: “if there’s one thing this damned city taught me, it’s that a broken heart is a valuable tool for survival out here. I love you too, but there’s no way I’m going to let you get attached to a worthless bum like me, when you have a chance at happiness.
“I know all that ‘I’ll be happy, as long as I’m with you’ shit: I’ve heard it a million times in the movies. But you know what happens to ponies that think like that in real life? They get broken, tossed, kicked, beaten, battered, bruised, divorced, and every other inch of shit life has to throw at them! When it comes down to it: the love between to brainless foals like us doesn’t amount to a hill of beans in this cruel world.
“It’s better for you seek happiness elsewhere, Love: all I can give a nice mare like you is more heartache.”
The silence between them was only interrupted by the rain that pummeled onto their forms, and the pavement below. Not a solitary soul besides them even dared to walk the streets this late.
Through the rain, he could see tears pouring out of Love Tap’s puffy eyes as he lowered his head. He heard her start to sob uncontrollably, as she ran back to the bar.
He stood there, letting the icy rain pelt his back, and run down his neck. He felt horrible for doing what he did, but he knew that it needed to be done: she needed to find somepony good for her, not a bum who couldn’t afford anything more than a bottle of scotch on the weekends.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The next day, for the first time in months, he had a buyer for one of his works. Fortunately, he also had one hell of a hangover, so he wasn’t that negotiable about the price. Three thousand, eight hundred bits was what the painting went for: enough for him to buy an apartment for the next few weeks.
Right now, he sat at an empty table on a rooftop, at his favorite daytime joint: the Cantering Cook. He had ordered his favorite dish, which he remembered from when he used to have money like this all the time: carrot-green soup with a sprinkle of fish and broccoli.
Here at the Cantering Cook: the atmosphere was always brighter than on the streets below. Very few had given time to examine how beautiful the city looked from this height this time of year, most idiots waited until the middle of winter.
He knew better than to try and convince ponies of the beauties of the city, though: they were only those little tourist marks you’d hit on your way to somewhere else entirely. This city was like a poisoned cake. It was elegant, charming, and breathtaking on the outside. But as soon as you take a bite out: you’re on your own.
The scent of his soup dragged his attention back to the table, however: as the waiter set it before him. He was about to dig in, when he heard the door slam open.
“… And that’s why igneous rocks aren’t as valuable, or interesting as sedimentary.”
“Yes… well, that certainly is… interesting Maud. You’ll have to tell me some more… sometime…”
He turned, and looked over to see a prim Unicorn escorting a dull-colored Earth Pony to a table for three. The pony that followed them, however, caught his interest for far longer than a second: this pony seemed to be made completely of cotton candy, or something. There was absolutely no way she was born like that.
“Come along, Pinkie Pie, we don’t want to take too long here!” The Unicorn cried, ushering the candy-colored mare to their table.
Pinkie? Well, that fits. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen this week, in his mind. He turned back to his glorious dish, and lifted the spoon to his lips.
He sighed in relaxation as for the first time in over a year as the quality broth danced around his tongue. He moaned in appreciation as the warm liquid ran down his throat, and warmed his stomach. He dipped in his spoon a second time, and—
“Pinkie, put down that crayon! The Cantering Cook isn’t that kind of restaurant!”
*SPLUNK*
Oh, great…
He looked down, and sure enough: one of the pastel pony’s pink crayons had found its way into his previously flawless soup. He simply stared at it, feeling the cold of the streets work its way back into his heart. Here he was, in the midst of perfection, and cruel fate had handed him another platter of her shit.
Funny thing about that pink crayon, though, was that it was pink. Now, some might find this an obvious observation, but he was confused by it: in a world where nothing but grey shadows had been seen for years, here was a bright pink crayon, daring to let color back into the world. As he lifted it from his soup, and examined it, he noticed what seemed to be backwards writing on the inside of the wrapper.
Carefully: he peeled the wrapper off, and looked on the inside. What was written, despite its simplicity, rattled him to the core:
“Color is a choice.”
He stared at the simple inscription: dead silent.
No clock ticked, nopony breathed, no time passed.
He was frozen as he looked back to the pink mare, in time to see her give him a bright smile, and an innocent wink.
Despite himself, he couldn’t help but smile back, and he found himself noticing a little more color in the world around him. The sky seemed… blue… despite the grey that had kept it at bay. The streets below looked… bright, instead of the black he had seen so often.
He started to chuckle to himself, for no known reason: he just felt… Joyful!
His mind started to run with clarity, for the first time in years, and his heart raced as he realized a dire mistake he had made last night.
He quickly ran over to the register, payed the bill, left a tip, and raced out of the building as if all hell was on his tail: he had somewhere to go…
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Love Tap cried into her pillow as she looked up into the afternoon sun: she hadn’t slept a wink, not after her heart was broken.
She heard a knock at the door, and stood as the shadow of her ceiling fan slapped around the dull room: as if it was trying to slice her neck from below her head.
She opened the door with a teary “Y-yes?” and froze from what she saw:
Lonefree, kneeling at the door, holding a small, black box in his hooves: he had opened the box to display its contents, and what it was made Love Tap slowly bring a hoof to her mouth as she teared up.
A simple: small, Diamond Ring.
He smiled nervously at her.
“Are... you still looking for a husband... who’ll love you for who you are?”
Author's Note
Alright: I binge-wrote this in a day, and any constrictive criticism is greatly appreciated.
I poured my heart into all this, so I really hope you enjoyed my first try at Noir.
Until Next Time, God Bless You!
~Amethyst Dawn. 
