Every Night

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"...Not a mother-truckin' wiiiink..." Sunset whined, expelling a loopy side of her she only lets out rarely through a day. She tapped the screen of the blaring phone, blasting out an annoying alarm before silencing. She hadn't slept for three days straight now, and her phone just oh so proudly announced that it was six again, and time for her to start up her weekday.

Sunset held a clockwork morning, despite her erratic nights. By six, her phone sounds off and she rolls out of bed, still mostly dressed from the day before, onto the floor of a dusty bedroom. The sun would be either barely up or barely down, casting yellow and blue shadows accordingly. By six-o'-five, after shortly rummaging for her boots (despite the fact that she rarely put them anywhere besides next to her bed), she's in her dingy bathroom, inspecting the dark patches under her eyes.

Today, she looked like she had been socked with a crowbar in each.

She'd cover her sullen face in cheap, but effective, makeup, smearing a bargain brand that hit it's one-in-a-hundred chance of working under her eyes, across her nose, and around her cheeks. She does well, falling into a rhythm formed through months and finishing at six-ten.

Then, she's out the door, passing by and through alleys of slummy buildings with her bag over her back. Sometimes a knife in her jacket; Canterlot had a dark side that Sunset had no interest in falling more victim to than she already has.

Sunset sighed. It was darker today and the air was cold. That meant that the school itself was going to be blazing with the heaters on full-throttle. It wasn't going to be easy to focus today. Yesterday, she told herself to take a break from tormenting the school for just then, but it looked like she'll have to muddle through another day looking like she's losing her touch.

Which she wasn't.