Stool. Sit.
Wave for two, serving for one.
Hoof on table, shoving some bits.
Bounce. Settle.
Burning sizzling substance, save the cups.
Money ripples liquid, swimming like always.
Counting. Hours.
Stare into whiskey, hoping be tipsy.
Tripping on lips, sipping down drips.
Set. Round.
Poison presented perfectly, primitive penalty picking.
Grasp gritting gloom, ghastly gauge grown.
Zone. Defiled.
Gaze at the patron. Look at how she is. View her as art. Beauty in color, beauty in experience. See how her lips curl. Do you see her fate? See how she clutches her glass! See how she takes her hoof and waves for another? See her fate?
Her fate be sealed lest her enraptured servant covers her sin.
Cycle. Repetitive.
Thoughts really basic, mind extremely jumbled.
Tense moments gone, blended behind mumbles.
Pleasure. Naught.
"Oh my Celestia, she isn't sane!"
"Look at her, Berry is drained!"
Drip. Drip.
"Was that twelve? Was that twenty?"
"Either one works, normal for her."
Help. Me.
"Did she ask? Did she not?"
"I don't know, ask the mare!"
Slurp. Slurp.
"Oh my gosh, somepony get—"
Blomp. Crack.
The pain returns, the whiskey tarnished.
Old reminders placed, brittle bones perish.
Golly, she is down! Her body lie still in a vacancy for merriment and dread! Oh how splendid it is to feel the slowest of forms of death to originate from the establishment of deathly hollows! Oh my days, if beauty hadn't trifled with controlled chaos, she would not be in this predicament! Glorious is she, her form resembles a sure knock-out, sprawled with whiskey coating her fur! Hope she does not stay like this for long!
For fate hath tarnished her forevermore.
It's not like me to say sorry, but I am. I'm sorry for what I've done to myself. I've been here for a while, hoping to keep myself in line as the world slowly tumbles around me. I thought drinking would help me keep my mind unchanged, since I've done this several times before. Now I'm here, in a hospital bed, silently staring at white walls that look back at me in vain. They give me time to think about me, since the audience is just waiting for me to say something. Not to mention that the bright lights above me add to the pressure. Who makes lights like that? Regardless, this place makes me want to think, mostly about what I've done, what I've accomplished, and what I dreamed of when I was a little filly.
Turns out I've done none of those dreams. I've only accomplished being a drunkard in a run-down hovel of Ponyville. I work seven to twelve shifts at the bar on weekdays, while my friend behind the counter serves me liquid pride with no end in sight. All those restless nights during the week, and all those apologies on the weekend…
"I'm sorry for staying there so late!"
"There was a lot of dishes to clean.
"The bar was really, really dirty.
"Someponies got in a fight near closing.
"Had to make sure to do inventory twice over.
"Needed to ensure we had enough money in the register."
"I really, really, really need some time to myself.
"I wanted to swim in my thoughts."
I didn't even hear the glass break. According to my friend behind the counter, I had collapsed onto the floor while sporting some whiskey. The doctor told me that I suffered a minor concussion due to the fall. Apparently wood floors don't do well for the good ol' noggin. Better tell my friend to order some plush mats!
"You're dying, Berry."
We were down on inventory on Friday. Guess my friend ordered ahead. Usually, he's so good at getting inventory bought, while I'm just there selling it to those stallions up front. The one that goes the most is the Manehatten Whiskey. It's a crowd pleaser, apparently. Lots of ponies come in to order it. Heck, I'd order a couple if I wasn't so hung on avoiding it. A bit too heavy for my tastes.
"Your liver is failing."
I wonder how long I'm going to be here. Doctors said that it'll be a week or two, just to do some check-ups to make sure my alcohol level is a low. Either that or they really want me to stay here to make sure I don't go drinking again. Figures. Probably some rehabilitation program they're talking about.
"You only have three years left to live."
I sometimes question whether or not I should keep on drinking so much. Many ponies keep telling me that I should just stop drinking all together. Somepony said the old Berry was always happy, always carefree. I think the pony was from my old high school back in Canterlot. The girls there were hussies.
"You need to stop drinking to save time."
The hall seems empty out my door. No hoofsteps to hear. I don't even hear the doctors muttering anymore. It's, refreshing, really. It's just me here, alone, thinking to myself. Just me, me, me. Yep, nothing has changed.
Nothing has changed indeed.
"Miss Berry Punch?"
I snap out of my trance to see the door swing open. A nurse of about the size of me comes walking in. There's an IV in her company, and another doctor in tow. I thought the hall was empty? Where were the hoofsteps? Where were the voices? Was I not focusing on them and just imagining they weren't there?
"Hi," I say lightly.
The doctor looks at me and smiles. "How are you doing today?"
Today? I don't know. I am really alone to my own thoughts. "I'm doing fine."
Apparently that was not the right answer. The doctor frowns. "Oh? That's good."
Fine is not good in my glass. I want my drinks brewed to perfection, or at least to the point where it slides down my throat without a seconds notice. The burn is nice, but it better not linger. If it does, I'll be slightly mad.
I watch the doctor grip onto my charts. That clipboard is really, really big. Why does that black tube dangle from his neck? I always wondered why that was there. Makes them look more like torture specialists. "Let me hear your heart," he would say unsettlingly. Pure evil in dress, but kind of nice in practice. Hopefully he doesn't wiggle his brow.
"Berry, you're going to be prescribed some medicine to help stop you from having your urge to drink."
I raise a brow at this. "Medication to stop drinking?"
The nurse sighs and elaborates. "Do you remember what the doctor told you yesterday?"
I look back at the memories I have: Lyra nearly spilling some beer on the floor, Bon Bon taking a drunk Lyra out of the bar, beer sliding down my throat, serving ponies drinks…
Oh wait, she said yesterday. I think the doctor said—
"That I needed to save some time?"
I think that's what he said.
The doctor shakes his head. "No, I said you're—"
"I'm not dying, Doc!"I look at the white walls behind him. "I'm not, I swear!"
"Your charts disagree, Miss Punch."
That stung my gut. "But…"
"I hate to tell you this, but Doctor Stable here is right," the nurse adds. "Every single box here is checked off for signs of liver failure. That's why you need to stop now if you have any chance of surviving for longer than the estimate we gave you."
I look at the clipboard again. Should I respond? Should I even say anything? Is this real life?
A couple minutes pass. Or was it twenty? I don't know, the doctor is talking. "Miss Punch, I'll have Miss Redheart here company you for a while, while I get another nurse to draw up your medication. When that's all ready, we'll let you head up front to set up a follow-up appointment in a couple of weeks to see how everything is doing. Does that sound good?"
Suddenly, I wish everything was just fine. I wish I had another drink in my hoof, ready to be shoved down my throat to drown out the thoughts I have. I wish I had another drink to ignore what these doctors said. I wish I had some good news for once.
Maybe I should've asked for help earlier.
"Yes, Doctor Stables," I say bluntly.
He gives me an impressionist's smile, one that lurks eerily as he turns and says a weak goodbye. His white coat travels beyond the threshold, and just like that, the stallion is gone. The torturer has left his servant to keep me company.
I look over at Nurse Redheart. She's got a nice pink mane and white fur. I kind of want that look, actually. I wonder how I would look in a nurse's outfit? I wonder if she would let me cosplay—
"Berry, I'm dropping the pre-tense," she says. Her hooves stay on my cheeks to keep me from looking away. I want to look behind her, but she's got me locked in place. "You're dying, dear. Why are you not hearing this?"
I pull her hooves away with mine. "Red, I know! I know, I know, I know!" I shout, sobs filling the room. "Why would you think I don't hear?"
"You were deadpanning the entire time the doctor was listing off your symptoms."
I facehoof. "Was I looking stupid in front of him?"
"Looking stupid?!"
Stupid. Why do I ask questions like this? Why should I care? The doctor is not here to judge my intelligence, only my decisions. But, as my cheek recoils from the hoof Redheart smacks me with, I wonder: does the world only spin in real time when you're spinning with it, or does that only happen when the world turns dark, and you don't have any way to move beyond it?
I hear Redheart shakily gasp. "I…I'm sorry, Berry. I didn't mean to hit you."
I wave it off. "It's okay, Red."
The air becomes thick as the two of us sit here. The lights above us are bright as ever, and the white walls twinkle in the limelight. I wonder if they enjoyed the show so far? Did the audience gasp when she gasped? What did they think of me? Do they think I'm stupid?
Or do I think that I'm stupid? Dumb ole Berry drinking herself to death.
"It's not okay, Berry. I just… hate when you don't listen. I really miss the old you, when you were in high school, when you were carefree and happy."
Shoot, she was the one who said that!? I… "What was I like back then?"
Redheart raises a brow at that and pulls up a chair. "Going to need a chair for this one," she says before plopping into the chair. "So, you want to know what you were like?"
I give her a simple nod.
She leans back in her chair. "Welp, for starters, you always were smiling. Every morning you'd come in all bubbly. You say good morning to me, we'd share a hug, then talk about boys for the whole day. We were up with the popular girls, remember?"
I frown and look down at the stainless white tiles. Things were different back then, we were young, wild, and free. "Things were different back then."
She gently cups my cheek this time, right where she hit me. "You used to go dances, hoofball games, and you even went to the carnival and won first place in the pie eating contest."
"I won a pie eating contest?" I ask, baffled. "What did I do with the money?"
"Money?" she answers with a laugh. "Oh, Berry, there wasn't money involved. You got a ribbon and a pat on the back from the guys!"
I roll my eyes. "That must've been so attractive."
She stifles a giggle. "It totally was. Burps and all."
Crossing my forehooves, I give Redheart a stink eye. "And now I'm… a practicing drunk."
"No, no, no, Berry," she says, before pulling me into a hug. "You're just troubled and need to set yourself straight with the facts."
"And what are those?" I ask, probably looking gloomy as can be with these tears going down my face.
"You're dying, you're lost, and you need a pick me up to keep you going." She pulls away from our hug. "I'll be there if you need me, so don't hesitate to come by the hospital again to ask for me. Or, better yet, stop by my house sometime! I wouldn't mind your company!"
I smile. "I'd like that."
She returns the gesture and slides the chair back in place. "Well, I better check with Tender on those meds of—"
Without warning, a cart full of assorted items rolls into the room, with a blue-furred mare in control. "Sorry for the wait, I had to get all the other patients' food and supplies. They got me on tour here, Red."
Nurse Redheart laughs heartily. "You're lucky they don't have you in the ER."
Tender pauses for a moment, her eyes glancing at me briefly. Then, they circle back to Red. "I guess I'm glad that I'm a servant now."
Red pats Tender on the shoulder. "It's okay, Tender, all you need to do is just give Miss Punch her meds and she'll be on her way out!"
"Alright, see you in a while, Red," Tender replies, before turning her attention to her cart. "Now where is that bottle of acamprosate…"
Like a dream, everything flies by so quickly. I am stuck here, waiting to be given the meds I'll need to survive on for the rest of my life. Maybe they'll work and I'll be cured in no time, or maybe I'll be stuck in the same old cycle, a drunk's paradise.
It'll work, Berry, it'll work. I'll just need to re-cooperate, maybe ask for a couple days off before going back into working at a bar. It'll be tempting to drink, sure, but I need to do this. I'm scared shitless, but I don't have any other options.
It's either this or I die on the street drunk.
Look at her, slow talking those stallions into drinking just a couple, before telling them it'd be safe for them to stop. Some tell her off, and buy a few more rounds, while others appreciate her honesty and chat with her about life. It's hard to watch that chaos die off, but new chaos builds in that bar of hers. I watch her dance a dance of rituals: sporting a glass, filling it up, sliding the glass down—STRIKE!—and the patron drinks its down with no chance of regret. I've watched this chaos build for so long, and I haven't even looked to see my own through.
Oh well, technically I've sworn the same sort of promise: to stop my chaos from spreading. But how do I stop the spread of chaos from others? When something is chaotic-like, they think I do it. The truth is, I do not partake in the chaos, only chaos can partake in itself. I just watch the seed being planted. I watch that seed blossom into the wonderful, splendid art it already is.
So hath the seed be a permanent resident of Berry Punch, whose mind will never fully heal from the chaos it endured, and the chaos to come.
I hope she comes to stay at Fluttershy's place soon. Because if I go to Berry Punch, what will my dear Fluttershy think?
