If These Are My Best Years Then I'm So Scared
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Touch Me, Please, Don't Touch Me
If These Are My Best Years Then I'm So Scared
“I want to kill myself.”
Sometimes, when Twilight feels worthless, or alone, or nothing at all, she plays a game. She opens up MyStable, types the words out, and drags her mouse over the Update Status button. She dares herself to click it. She dares herself to let everyone know.
She came up with it a few months after enrolling at Crystal Prep, but by now it’s become a weekly event. After all, she’s always wanted to be noticed. She’s always wanted people to pay attention to her, to treat her with respect. And what would earn her more attention than a status like that?
And it’s not like she means it. At least, not really. Occasionally, when she gets made fun of at school, or argues with her parents, or reads for too long about all the endless war and poverty and death in the world, she comes home and locks her door and thinks about dying. How she’d do it. Maybe hanging. Or jumping off a building, so Dad won’t have to bust down the door and find her.
She wonders how painful it would be. In the three seconds it takes to hit the ground, what would she think about? Would she think anything? Would she scream?
Yeah, she’d love to post something like that. She wants to tell someone. She wants someone to know.
But the thought of pressing Send makes her want to throw up.
So comes the next part of the game. She edits it down.
“I don’t see the point in living anymore.”
She edits it down.
“I don’t feel excited about anything anymore.”
Edits it down.
“Nobody cares about me.”
Edits it.
“Everything is hopeless.”
Edits.
“I’m depressed.”
She stares at the screen.
“Feeling sad :(“
She presses send.
Twenty minutes of laying down with her eyes closed later, Twilight’s phone dings. Fluttershy left a comment on her status.
Oh, goddess. Was it too revealing? Was everyone panicking?
Fluttershy ❤
One minute ago • Like
And at the bottom of the screen, it says another person is typing. A few seconds later, another message pops up.
Pinkie Pie Love you Twily!! Feel better!!!
Just now • Like
Twilight reads the two messages again, and again, and again, scavenging for some scrap of happiness in that they cared enough to comment.
She doesn’t find anything. She Likes both their comments anyway.
No one else comments.
Every morning before school, Twilight and her friends meetup on the soccer field to hang out before classes start. The morning after posting her status, Twilight enters the field with her head down and sits down next to Rarity on the bleachers without saying anything.
Rarity hums to herself, touching up her nail polish with a smile. On the field, Rainbow, Pinkie, Applejack, and Sunset kick a ball around, screaming and jeering at one another.
A minute passes, and finally Twilight offers, “Good morning.”
“Good morning!” Rarity says, her voice light and musical. She doesn’t look up from painting her nails. “How are you today?”
“Good,” Twilight says, looking down. She gulps, then adds, “Better.”
“That’s lovely, darling,” Rarity says.
The conversation dies down, and Twilight waits for Rarity to ask her about last night, ask her what was making her so sad, but she doesn’t. And Twilight doesn’t want to seem desperate or pushy or weird, so she just stays quiet and hopes Rarity will ask her eventually.
Heck, maybe Rarity didn’t even see the status. She didn’t comment, or even Like it, and she does that with everything.
Or maybe she blocked Twilight, and just didn’t tell her. Maybe she thinks Twilight’s statuses about science and television and linguistics are boring and nerdy. Most people would.
“Hiya, Twily!” Pinkie says, approaching the two and grabbing her bag. She pulls out her daily thermos of hot chocolate and chugs it down.
Twilight smiles and waves back. Pinkie saw the status, she’ll definitely ask about it.
Pinkie returns the thermos and runs back to her soccer game.
Whatever loneliness Twilight felt last night is coming back, wrapping around her like cold from a snowstorm. She grits her teeth and pulls out a book. Maybe that’ll distract her, placate whatever stupid, needy compulsions she has.
But she can’t focus on the words, because she keeps listening to Rarity’s annoying humming, and her eyes are crossing. She can’t get past the first paragraph and why didn’t Pinkie say anything? Because who cares if Twilight is sad. Lots of people are sad. She doesn’t deserve to be worried over like some princess.
Eventually, the girls finish their soccer game and head on over to where Twilight and Rarity are sitting. Twilight sits by as the five of them launch into a conversation, too quick for her to even follow. Still, no one asks her about last night. Did no one see her status?
Off to the side, Twilight purses her lips, crosses her arms. Maybe if she stays quiet and looks moody, someone will notice and talk to her about it.
The conversation keeps going without her. She keeps looking her friends in the eye, hoping someone will meet her gaze and understand how she’s feeling, but whenever anyone looks at her she turns away.
“Where is Fluttershy?” Twilight finally asks at a break in the conversation. Fluttershy may be quiet, but she knows when someone needs something. She’ll talk to Twilight.
“Good question,” Applejack says, looking around. “I was missing the smell of wet rabbit.”
“She’s just sick,” Rainbow says. “Flu or something.”
Rarity gasps. “Oh, that poor girl.”
“Eh.” Rainbow shrugs. “It’s not like she’s got the plague. She’ll get through it.”
“But it must be pretty bad,” Sunset says. “Fluttershy never misses school.”
“We should all stop by her house this afternoon,” says Pinkie, bouncing in her seat. “We can bring her lots of candy and sweets! I’ve got Art class today—I’ll make her a Get Well card and we can all sign it!”
Everyone murmurs their approval—all but Twilight, although no one notices as they resume their conversation. She never thought she’d feel jealous of someone puking their guts out. And what reason does she have to be jealous? Just because they like Fluttershy enough to take care of her and make her feel better? That’s just what friends do.
But by now, any rational thought is being thrown into the void. Before, Twilight was pretending to brood, hoping it would send a signal to the group—now she can’t stop herself from shrinking inward, can’t lift her head, can’t unclench her jaw or something is going to come out that she can’t stop. And if she can’t stop this sadness, everyone will know how messed up she is. Even breathing is dangerous, inhale too hard and everything will shatter, so she stops breathing.
“You watch that show, right, Twi?” Sunset asks.
Twilight snaps up. Everyone looks at her—Applejack is giving her a weird, furrow-browed leer.
“Uhm,” Twilight says, swallowing. She relaxes her jaw, and suddenly just moving her tongue feels unnatural. “What show?”
“Ogres & Oubliettes?” Sunset says, smiling. “The big fantasy epic, with the goblins and all that? You dressed up as a character from it last Nightmare Night. So you watch it, yeah?”
Twilight nods. “Yeah.”
A silent moment slogs by.
“So...” Rainbow Dash says, “what do you think of it?”
O&O is Twilight’s favorite thing in the world. She knows every character, every plotline, has a detailed opinion on every episode. She’s got handpainted figurines up on her shelf. She’s dedicated literal days of her life to watching the show, discussing it online, even roleplaying the characters. She could talk about it for days.
But then she remembers Rarity thinking all of her interests are nerdy and boring. And her friends don’t really want to hear her rant.
“It’s good,” Twilight says, wringing her hands.
The others exchange a glance, then Rainbow smirks. “Thanks for the review, Twi.”
They break out into giggles, and Twilight smiles and laughs along, but feels like she’s being burned alive. Applejack is still staring at her, hard, but Twilight doesn’t have the energy to lift her head. Her chest aches. She doesn’t know what to do.
She keeps quiet until the bell rings. No one needs to hear her anymore. She’s got nothing to say that’s worth listening to.
Later that day, Twilight stands at her locker, stowing away books. She spent the first two periods feeling like she was ready to snap, ready to get on the floor and start crying, but now it’s after lunch and she’s doing better. Nothing to worry about. She’s fine.
Applejack walks up and leans against the locker next to Twilight’s. “You got time to talk?”
Twilight’s stomach rots out from the bottom. “Yeah,” she says, the default response, coming out before she can think up an excuse to leave. “What’s going on?”
“Are you doing alright?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“What do you mean?” Twilight asks.
“I saw that message you posted last night,” Applejack says. She’s wearing no expression, blank, like someone’s cut the power to her face. “What was up?”
“Nothing, really.” Twilight shrugs. She puts on a smile. “Just feeling a bit wistful, you know? But I’m fine now. Honestly.”
“You sure? You’ve been posting a lot of messages like that lately.”
“What?” Twilight asked. “No, I haven’t.”
The blank expression takes on a tinge of anger. “Yeah, you have. There’s the one last night, and then you posted pretty much the same thing two weeks ago. And again last month—‘I’m not very happy.’” She jabs a thumb behind her, in the direction of the soccer field. “And what was going on this morning? You looked like someone had slugged you in the gut.”
This is what Twilight wanted, wasn’t it? Someone to say something?
“It’s nothing, AJ.” Twilight’s head buzzes. She can’t think of anything but getting away. “I’m fine.”
Applejack’s anger fades away, replaced by something that sticks a knife straight into Twilight’s heart: worry. “You can talk to me if you want, sugarcube.” Applejack reaches out, taking Twilight’s hand. “Anything you wanna say, you can say it. No fear.”
Twilight shifts back and forth, eyes darting from Applejack’s eyes to their hands and back again.
She can tell Applejack. Applejack will understand. Applejack can help.
Twilight shouldn’t have to live like this.
The school bell rings.
Twilight takes her hand back. “I have to get to class,” she says, and walks off. She doesn’t stop until she’s in her classroom, sitting in the empty desk in the back, head down in her arms, cold creeping up her back, into her eyes, trying not to cry, don't cry, don't cry.
After school, Twilight doesn’t go to Fluttershy’s house. She texts Sunset instead, tells her she has a Chem Club meeting, even though Twilight stopped showing up for Chem Club weeks ago. So she goes home and locks her bedroom door.
She opens up MyStable again, types it in again—“I want to kill myself.”—but doesn’t even try editing it down this time. She just logs out, closes her computer, and stows it away in her closet.
She can’t post statuses about being sad anymore. It’s too risky. One more post and her friends will be all over her, asking what’s wrong.
Twilight knows Applejack just wants to help, but Twilight doesn’t want to worry her. Twilight is fine, there's no problem, and even if there was, she’s not worth worrying about. So she just lies down in bed, stares at the wall, and thinks.
If she killed herself tomorrow, would anyone see it coming? She could imagine all her friends, her family telling the cops they had no idea what was going on. She could see them all crying, saying how she’d always been so happy, so smart. How she had a bright future ahead of her, how she was so loved. She had no reason to be depressed. Killing herself was just selfish, idiotic. She was in the prime of her life.
But then they’ll see her posts. They’ll see all her posts over the years and wonder why they didn’t realize sooner, why they let it get this bad. They’ll be sorry.
A pinprick of pain, and Twilight realizes she’s gripping herself, fingernails digging into her arms.
She turns off her phone, stows it away too, and collapses onto her side, curled up in one corner of the bed. She closes her eyes and wonders what building she’ll throw herself off of.
