Numb Lava
I love you, I need you.
Oh, show me, how to shine.
I love you, little flower.
Now give me what is mine.
————
You push as much power into your horn as you possibly can, and a feeble light appears on the tip to illuminate your nightstand.
The only things on the nightstand are an alarm clock, a glass of water, and a copy of the entrance exam practice workbook for Princess Celestia's School For Gifted Unicorns. It reads Twilight Andromeda Sparkle in neat, even little ink letters on the bottom right corner of the front page.
For a moment, you think about opening up the workbook and re-checking your answers, because your real exam is in two days and you really really want to get into Princess Celestia's School For Gifted Unicorns—but your horn is already sore from using the light spell again and again to check the time. You've been practicing magic all day and you don't want to overtax yourself.
And, anyway...
You've tried studying on nights like these before. It's not possible to concentrate like this. Not with the sound of the ticking clock drilling into your head like a jackhammer and the tension crawling up your hackles. You carefully move the practice workbook and the glass of water to opposite sides of the nightstand, then look at the clock.
It's 1:21 AM.
Exhausted after maintaining the light for so long, you flop back onto your soft pegasus-down mattress, pull your midnight blue blanket, with twinkling stars embroidered in silver, up to your chin, and listen. Everything is so quiet at night, so all you can hear is that steady, piercing tick-tick-tick.
You wish you had a quieter clock.
Something in the house creaks. A hot pulse of adrenaline shoots through you and your breath catches in your throat. You freeze completely, body wound up like a tension spring, as you listen desperately for more noise. But all you can hear in the seemingly endless moment that follows is the ticking clock and your own rapid heartbeat.
You don't quite know why, but it deeply annoys you that your heart doesn't flutter in time with the clock. The omnipresent ticking seems like the rhythm of the universe sometimes.
Eventually, you let out a long, shaky breath, allowing some of the tension to escape with it—though not all. You can't truly relax at night. Not ever.
Maybe you should turn on the light, you think. Maybe if you leave the light on, it won't happen. Then again, it might not happen anyway. You don't know. There's no pattern to it. Would turning the light on be worth the risk?
No.
Mom and Dad would get mad if they found out you had the light on at night. They already suspect you're reading books under the covers because of how tired you are every morning. If they catch you with your light on, you'll get in trouble and Mom and Dad will punish you.
What if they decide not to let you have books in your room anymore because it's bad for your sleep?
What if they ground you and you can't take the exams for Princess Celestia's School For Gifted Unicorns?
What if they take away your library card?
You tried to explain why you need the light on. You tried to explain why you need to stay up in the kitchen and read books all night. But you can't actually tell them why, because they wouldn't understand! So you told them you just wanted to study more. They wouldn't understand the truth.
You don't even understand it, really.
It's strange: you know what's going on, because you read about it in a book once or thrice—but somehow you can't apply the knowledge to real life. For the first time, your ability to research things has failed you. You know what you're supposed to do, but this is different, because it's you and not a hypothetical filly in a textbook, and that's confusing—
There's a distant thump from some faraway corner of the house. It's not very loud, but your ears are perfectly attuned to pick up all the little sounds that come between the cacophonous ticking. The thump is followed by some creaking and a dry scraping, like a door quietly opening.
You pull the blanket tightly over your head, squeezing your eyes shut and winding up your tail around your forehoof so hard that you'll probably be brushing split hairs out of it tomorrow. A small part of you feels a strange sort of relief—at least you know if he's coming tonight or not—but it's brief and quickly melts away, leaving only a cold pit behind.
The sound of the clock bores into your brain. His tip-hooving steps across the hallway are out of time with the ticking, and that just makes everything that much worse and you don't know why.
A long time ago, when it all started, your body used to tell you to run from this. The adrenaline still shoots through you even tonight, as he quietly cracks the door open—but it's numb lava now. All you can do is flinch at the sound and hold tighter to your tail, which is now drawn up between your legs in a futile, primitive attempt to protect yourself.
He comes inside, shutting the door softly behind him. You can hear him breathing by now. It's never his normal breathing, either: it's ragged and nervous and excited. A couple of thumps later, you can feel his gaze burning down through the blanket.
Endless aeons pass by, filled only with the piercing sound of the ticking alarm clock.
Then he speaks.
"Hey, Twily," he says in a low, husky voice.
He flips aside the blanket, exposing your tiny curled body. You don't move. Playing dead never makes him go away, but you still do it every time because you don't really know what else to do.
"Hey, you're shaking. Are you having a bad dream?"
You don't say anything.
"Don't worry. Your BBBFF will sit with you until it's all better, okay?"
As always, he sits down on the side of the bed. You feel it depress, hear the creaking of the box-frame, and then you feel his hoof on your back through the blanket.
"I love you so much, little sis."
He's rubbing your back. Petting your mane. The clock is ticking.
"You're the best sister I could ever ask for."
Now he's whispering into your ear, kissing it. You turn your head away, and he persists, kissing your neck instead. He's rubbing your bare flanks with his hooves, and you start to get that familiar sense of experiencing everything from very far away.
"I want you to have good dreams. Let's make this a good dream and chase away the bad dreams."
He's on top of you, pinning you to the bed with his much bigger body. You feel trapped. The clock is ticking so loudly. It reminds you of clapping thunder. But thunder doesn't have such a perfect, awful rhythm to it—
"You love me too, don't you, Twily? You want this just as much as I do."
Maybe it's more like a very slow drum march. But who would make a drum that beats so loudly? It's so impossibly loud you're sure it'll harm your hearing soon, and what would be the point of playing a drum if no one could hear it—
"Twily."
You make a small noise, hardly paying attention to what he's saying. He seems to take this as an affirmative, though. You feel his hooves on your chest, on your belly, your flanks, going lower. He kisses you on the mouth. You hate kissing him more than almost anything—it feels so awful and wrong and not good—but you kiss him back because if you don't he'll be disappointed and worried and this will go on for even longer.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
There are psychological and sociological explanations in the books you read about this at the library, but you still wonder why he does this. You know he loves you, and it kind of feels good when he touches you. But it also makes you feel so bad and confused and dirty and it often hurts and you don't understand why he would want you to feel that way because he's your BBBFF and you know he loves you.
"I need you to move your hooves, Twily," he says in a soothing voice when he finally pulls back. "We can't do this if your hooves are in the way, remember? We've talked about this."
You realize he's been trying to pry your hooves away from your private place, where they've been locked for some time now. You hadn't noticed. With a resigned sigh, you pull your hooves up to your chest. He likes it when you do that. He flips your tail away—your last line of defense—and you reach out and pull it around your side, hugging it tightly against yourself.
You feel so naked like this, with his eyes roving over you and hungrily taking everything in.
A warm, wet feeling between your legs alerts you that he's kissing your privates—he likes to do that, too. It kind of feels good, but it's just so weird and uncomfortable and all you want is for it to be over. You strain your ears for the ticking of the clock, hoping its rhythmic thunder might drown out some of the wet slurping noises he's making down there.
Tick. Tick. Slurp. Tick. Tick. Tick. Slurp. Tick. Tick.
He stops.
"Hey, open your eyes. Look at me."
This request lodges in your brain but doesn't quite get processed. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, as you have since he came into your room.
"Twily."
You feel him nudge you.
"I want to see your eyes, little sis. I want to see how much you love me."
Slowly, you crack open your eyelids and peek at him. He has a very dim light glowing atop his horn, illuminating his face with pale blue light and deep shadows. He gazes into your eyes, and you focus on the base of his horn so he doesn't get upset that you can't look him in the eyes.
You know this isn't right and he's doing something bad. You researched it at the library, and books are never wrong. You read that it's not your fault you feel confused, even. But he looks at you with so much love, so much affection, that you can't help but feel guilty for being unable to accept it. It's the kind of look Mom and Dad give each other sometimes.
Besides, he's different from the ponies in those books. He's not a bad pony. He's your BBBFF!
Maybe your situation is unique. Undocumented. An anomaly.
Maybe it's you that's being bad.
As soon as Shiny leans back down to start licking you again, you squeeze your eyes shut tight. You're glad you don't have to face him anymore. It hurts to look into his eyes. Not physically, but in your heart, in your soul; a deep, grinding pain that you don't fully understand, yet sears you to the core. You used to feel it all the time when he did this, but now you've learned to shut it off for the most part except when he makes you do things that are out of the ordinary, things you're not prepared for. Looking is one of those things that isn't in your routine.
"I love you, little sis," he whispers, breathily. "I just—Oh, Twily, I love you so much."
You don't say anything.
You never say anything.
The licking stops, and his breath moves away from your privates for a second. You wait, your own breath hitched, forelegs still locked against your chest, body trembling. Each second of waiting seems to last an eternity. It's not that you want more—Or, maybe you do; your body seems to enjoy it, despite the way it makes you feel inside; you don't even know anymore—but the anticipation practically hurts.
What is he going to do next? Is he going to do the normal things he does, or is it going to be something new? New things tend to be unpleasant. Sometimes they even hurt. You always end up feeling dirty and used afterward, no matter what he does. But would he try something different at night? He usually saves that for when you're alone together during the day. 'Special occasions', in his words.
He kisses you again. You taste something on his lips and tongue that wasn't there before; a vaguely sweet, fruity scent that you've come to understand over time (mostly from his excited exclamations) is your own body's arousal. Though you've done this with him a thousand times, you still feel a dull throb of shame deep inside you at the reminder that you're somehow enjoying this even though all your feelings keep screaming that you don't want him to do it.
Yet more evidence, you think, wearily, that your situation is different; that this is not... abuse... and that you're probably at least partly responsible for your present situation. You wish it were less confusing. You wish your BBBFF would stop doing this, but you know that's not going to happen. You've wished he'd go somewhere else and stop making you feel like this. You've wished your parents would find out about it and explain it to you one way or the other.
Secretly, you've even wished that your BBBFF would hurt you instead, make you do something that just feels all bad, something that doesn't feel good at all—just so that you wouldn't be so confused about whether what he's doing to you is wrong or not.
Once, you even wished your BBBFF would just die so you'd stop having to feel this way. And only a horrible filly would wish her BBBFF was dead.
He's licking your horn and cooing praises to you as he eases himself down on top of you now. He calls you pretty, clever, amazing, loyal, beautiful, sexy, perfect—and you, as always, do nothing but silently react to his ministrations like an automaton. You don't say anything even when his weight settles onto your much smaller body, pinning your forelegs against your chest and splaying your hind ones wide apart under his pelvis.
The clock is ticking. Your eyes are still shut tight.
"I love you," he says, over and over, as he grinds his hips against your belly. It's out of sync with the clock. You love him too, but you wish he would stop ignoring that universal ticking.
You can feel his hardness pressing against your privates from very far away. It makes you feel warm and jittery and itchy and you kind of like the feeling almost as much as you hate it with all of your heart. You're not supposed to like how this feels! Bad things are supposed to feel bad! And if you like it, then you're complicit in the bad act, which makes you bad!
When he forces himself into you, you merely grunt softly in response. It hurt so badly, you cried the first few times, or the first dozen, or more—you don't even keep count anymore—but by now, you're so far away from your body that you hardly register the sensation, and the sound is more an automatic exhalation than a conscious exclamation.
Blind and detached, you observe the next minutes from afar and take in the resulting data like a professional researcher. There is something far too large inside you, sliding in and out on a trail of spit and juices, ramming against your inner organs with the clumsy force of a teenage colt in a lust-driven frenzy.
Your body is in pain, but the pain isn't yours; it belongs to another being and you're only taking notes on it. Your heart is breaking, but you feel nothing, because it is not really your heart; you are only observing the heart of another pony who means nothing to you.
Twilight Sparkle cannot feel the pain that comes when Twilight Sparkle's brother hurts her, because Twilight Sparkle is over here, and Twilight Sparkle's feelings are over there, and one is merely meant to observe another. They are never to mix.
You are a scientist. Science is the answer to pain. Cold, rational detachment defeats the terrible burden of unbearable emotion. You are a mere researcher of your own life, observing from the outside. You feel nothing inside. You do not hurt. You merely watch and learn about how to survive better in the world. How to solve problems.
He's thrusting faster and harder now, his breath coming in harsh gasps. You know, from observing his behavior during previous encounters, that he's not going to last much longer, and that it will be over soon. He doesn't usually go twice when he comes in at night. That means you at least have a good idea of how much longer you'll have to endure this.
You smile dreamily to yourself above the onslaught, pleased with your growing vault of secret knowledge. Once again, rational observation and detachment have defeated mindless panic and allowed you to retain some semblance of control over the situation.
Problems are equations to be solved. This one is merely a particularly difficult challenge. You will unlock the secret to being good someday. You will figure out how to gain full control of everything in your life. Then you will stop being bad and Shiny will stop hurting you. There is an answer to everything. All you have to do is find the right answer to the equation.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock is ticking.
The distant world bucks and rolls like a tiny boat weathering a storm of mile-high waves. He's calling your name in a voice you think is probably almost loud enough to wake your parents. You hope he doesn't wake them up. They would be ashamed of you if they found out. Then you'd never be allowed to go to the library again, maybe. The thought makes you want to cry.
He finishes inside you, like he always does. You hate the feeling, like lukewarm slime bubbling through your belly, but you don't complain. You're too tired to complain tonight. You tried to protest after one much lengthier session in the past, when you were much more exhausted—but it's one thing he won't budge on.
One time, he even said that you owe it to him, because he does all those other things to make you feel good. You guess he's right. What right do you have to complain after you've allowed him to do all of those other things to you and enjoyed it? More evidence that you're a selfish filly, because you did kind of enjoy them, so he's right, you think.
Now he's collapsed on top of you. He's breathing heavily against your cheek.
"Did you finish, Twily?" he breathes.
You nod weakly against his chest. It's a lie, but you know from experience that if you say no he might keep doing things to you, and you don't want that. You're already tired and exhausted as it is.
He snorts warm air into your ear, tickling it. "I knew you loved it. I love you so much, Twilight."
Now that everything else is almost silent, the ticking clock is deafening—not that it wasn't deafening when he was grunting your name, of course. You focus on the clock, the very center of the universe, utterly cleaved from the shame and panic and hurt gripping your shaking body.
Is that your body?
That one, there, the tiny mulberry one suffocating beneath the larger white colt.
For a moment you feel like it can't possibly be you. It feels so alien, so equine, so irrational. How could that tortured, bruised, degraded body ever have been yours? You are an impartial observer, watching from afar. It would be inappropriate for you to become involved, wouldn't it?
Best to stay out for now. Only return to collect data.
He's still talking to you. Saying words that mean things. Calling you smart. Calling you pretty. Calling you the best little sister. The best filly. Kissing your face. Touching you all over. You wonder for a moment if he's planning to go again. The thought bothers you deeply because it doesn't fit the routine. You like routine. But when you feel his flaccid penis slip out of your vagina and he turns to hold onto you with his forelegs, you know he's done fucking for the night.
Semen—You know it's semen because you did research, like a good scientist—leaks out between your thighs, slimy and perverse. He doesn't clean you up anymore because he knows you'll do it yourself. You're good about that—you can't stand the grimy feeling that comes with having that stuff dribbling down between your legs, after all. And, most importantly, you don't want to get caught and lose your library card.
"I gotta go, Twily," he whispers, and you suddenly feel a rush of relief so powerful that it borders on painful. "Glad we got to have fun tonight."
Slowly, the pressure lifts off you. You hadn't even realized how hard it was to breathe until he got off you again. Eyes still shut, you listen to the bed, and then the floorboards, creak, as he slides back out. Then you feel his breath in your ear again.
"Still our secret, right?"
You nod.
He ruffles your mane a bit, kisses you one last time, and then you listen to the floor groan beneath his hooves. As soon as he's out the door, you pull your blanket up over your head again. Strangely, though you should be overjoyed that he's gone, anything positive you can find is fiercely overridden by a sudden spike of hot, molten anger.
You hate this.
You hate being pinned down and violated like this. You hate how he makes you like it even though you don't want to like it. You hate how you can never figure out you're doing something bad or not, and how you can never speak up to tell him to stop, and how you always feel so dirty and broken all the time. You hate kissing him, you hate the way he licks you, the way he thrusts himself inside you like you're a toy and he owns you.
You hate keeping this secret. You hate being numb all the time. You hate the confusion, the bruises, the filth... It makes you so angry. It's a rare occasion when you want to hurt another pony—but for just a fraction of a second you almost wish you were never born, and you almost wish that Shining Armor would feel pain and confusion and shame like he makes you feel, and you almost wish that the whole world would just disappear and at the same time burn in hellfire that could torch the Elysian Fields themselves.
And then you gather up all the anger and put it away in a deep, dark corner of your mind, where it can't be found by anypony.
You are going to be a good filly someday, and good fillies don't hate things. Good fillies are nice, and polite, and respectful. Good fillies always do everything right and never hurt anypony else. Good fillies are perfect. Good fillies are clean and wholesome. Good fillies are not you, but you can at least pretend to be one until you really are.
You lean over and light your horn so you can see the clock again. It's 1:47 AM.
Mentally, you begin calculating how you can adequately clean yourself up without waking up your parents. It's not hard. They don't pay much attention, and you can always lie to them if you have to. White lies are okay if they're told to spare a pony from the horrible truth that their filly is abnormal and allows her brother to do those things to her, right?
For the moment, though, you merely curl up in a little ball under the blanket.
You're so tired. If something doesn't change soon, you don't know what you're going to do. You think you might lose your mind. You're already screaming in your head as it is, but you don't think anypony would be very happy with you if you started screaming out loud one day.
Then you'd definitely lose your library card.
Author's Note
Numb Lava is not meant to be erotic in any sense of the word. I'd just like to make that clear to anyone who didn't pick up on it from the way the story was written.
Why the hell would you write something like this?
Supposedly, it's cathartic to put one's personal experiences into story format and share them with others.
As some of you already know, I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. It's warped me into something that at times is hardly recognizable as a human being. Since I am a pathetic loser who writes pony fanfiction, it was inevitable that I would vent some of the resulting frustration and hurt into a story about talking pastel horses.
Beyond that, I don't know why I wrote it. I don't know why people do anything, really. The world is a mystery to me.
Resources:
Cybertip tipline
1-800-843-5678 — National Center For Missing & Exploited Children hotline
1-800-656-HOPE (4673) — RAINN hotline
How to directly report abuse to the authorities
24/7 domestic violence hotline
On Marrying a Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse
Long-Term Effects of Child Sexual Abuse
Help For Adult Survivors of Child Abuse
Healing the Shame of Childhood Abuse Through Self-Compassion
http://isurvive.org/
National Association of Adult Survivors of Child Abuse
Editing team:
GuyWhoWritesThings
The Ascendant
Dawning the Mask
Tikada
DwarvishPony
Majin Syeekoh
Chuckfinley
Trigger Warning
mikesnipe
Kuairu
Applejinx
PresentPerfect
Scootareader
Don't judge yourself by what others did to you.
—Ómorphi C. Kennedy
