One Does Not Deny A Lady

by Soufriere

Rating: teen
Tags: Violence, Alternate Universe, Rarity (EqG), Dark, Equestria Girls, Tragedy, Sunset Shimmer, Horror
Length: 3076

Rarity has been turned down by the love of her life. She does not take it well.

Rarity is a girl who feels things very deeply – life, love, loss. Despite this, her high school experience made her hesitant to put herself out there. When she did, and the object of her affection ignored her, she snapped. Now she is determined to restore her honour, in her own not-sane way.

While this story shares continuity with Sunset's Recovery Arc, it is absolutely not canon to it. Happy Halloween!

Published 2017-10-31 22:40:12 UTC
Last updated 2017-10-31 22:40:12 UTC

Regret?

Finally they’re all asleep. I thought Sweetie would never stop toodling on that silly phone – well, she is at that age where her body suddenly wants to stay up later. She thinks she’s being discreet, but I can see that bluish glow under the door no matter how much she tries to hide it. Anyway, eventually that accursed light finally dims. About time.

First, I must give myself one final look-over in the mirror. My alabaster skin makes me stand out in the darkness, so I have done everything in my power to counteract that. Black sweatshirt with hoodie? Check. Black gloves? Check. Black sweatpants? Check. Black socks and shoes? Check. Black charcoal gunk to hide more of my face? Ugly, but check. Hair tied up for ease? Check. Good. Now I can leave.

One nice thing about carpeted floors, probably the only nice thing about them actually, is that they are much easier to sneak across. No one can hear me making my way down the hall. I feel like some sort of feral cat. Fitting, really.

In the foyer, or what counts for it in this simple house, I already oiled the door hinges to minimize creaking. The security system – Why do my parents even bother? This is a safe neighbourhood; far safer than where I’m headed – does not trigger if the door is opened from the inside. I do not know how it can tell, but it does. I step outside. No porch, just a couple of stairs. A few steps down the sidewalk and I’m out in the desolate street.

The night appears starless thanks to the lights from downtown, a few miles away. A warm south wind whispers through the trees, adding an otherworldly rustle to otherwise dead quiet surroundings. One would expect to hear insects and their incessant chatter, but perhaps the sterility of suburbia or the fact that it’s not quite that far into Summer keeps such noise to a minimum.

I begin to make my way toward the lights. I know where I am going. I know what I must do. I wish I had a scooter or something. Alas. I am forced to utilize the sidewalks for the start of my journey. Being dressed specifically not to be seen, stepping into the road would be utter stupidity even if there were any cars. Luckily for me, mine is not an area with night-workers. The streets are utterly barren, even of police – again, safe place. Lucky for me. I can hide myself behind bushes or trees if I ever happen to encounter headlights.

Canterville has a nice trail system – the Greenway – running through its nicer areas toward downtown to facilitate cycling. Eventually, I reach an entrance. This is a mixed blessing – on the one hand, it keeps me away from the main roads; on the other, it is well-lit, which the roads are not thanks to aged streetlights we are not willing to pay to replace. After weighing pros and cons, I enter the trail, walking at a brisk pace as it winds its way through subdivisions, along the edges of property lines and creeks.

Even around midnight, the warm wind feels refreshing on my face. I quicken my pace as much as I can. After all, I am in a hurry. I would be crazy not to be concerned about a random mugger stalking this territory. However, I know things he would not – fingernails hurt, I brought no valuables of any kind, and I have nothing to lose.

The air has a strange smell of sweetness. The honeysuckles are in bloom and growing along the trail like the weeds they are. Still, their white and yellow flowers punctuate the monotony of the backs of innumerable privacy fences. Soon, the mimosa trees will bloom their lovely red and pink buds. I try not to think about the future.

Are the trees trying to speak to me? Telling me to turn back? I’m sure Fluttershy, poor dear, would be able to translate for me. But I neither want nor need any sort of translation. I must keep going. My pace quickens to a near-jog before slowing again. I was never the fastest in P.E., in part because I hated the idea of getting dirt and grass stains on my gym clothes. Go ahead; laugh at me. The other children did. Fortunately, I still had friends despite my physical failures.

Somewhere very near to me, a dog barks. Some tiny terrier mix, I think. One may assume it would be my type of dog, but one would be wrong; I prefer cats. What inconsiderate person leaves a yappy thing like that outside all night where it can startle the pants out of stalkers?

Is that what I am now? Is that what I have been reduced to? Yes. And I don’t care. I know my mission. I must carry it out. I proceed down the trail, away from the canine’s din.

Eventually, the single family homes stop abruptly at a major thoroughfare: Thiessen Avenue, one of the city’s official boundaries between downtown and the various periphery neighbourhoods – score one for strict zoning. The trail itself continues for another block or so before petering out, losing itself amongst the myriad sidewalks – many poorly maintained – stretching in each direction.

Lacking a driver’s license myself, I have difficulty finding my bearings here even during the day. In vain, I try to find some familiar landmark in this moonless night, everything – including the sky – stained an orange hue by the dated streetlights. I refuse to stay lost. I refuse to lose sight of my mission. I refuse to obey the street signs – at this point is it past one in the morning; there are no cars, so who cares about jaywalking?

Wandering along the streets, ever closer to the heart of the city, eventually I see the familiar dome of my school. I run to it, paying no heed to the nonexistent traffic. I’m nearly out of breath as I reach the life-sized marble horse statue on the magic pedestal. Out of curiosity, I place my palm against the pedestal’s south face. I feel a warm ethereal sensation. The portal is still open. Well, not like that’s going to matter within an hour.

I know where I am now. I know where I need to go. I head west, back into the jumble of taller buildings. It is amazing how little time it takes to travel these few city blocks when one ignores the traffic signals. Eventually, I reach my destination: the squat, century-old five-storey brick building. All its ground floor businesses are closed for the night and any delivery trucks are hours away from arrival.

Question One: Do I simply enter the building through the front door, or do I sneak in through a side fire-escape door? I try the side door. Locked from the outside. Fair enough. Around to the front, then.

The main entrance to the four storeys worth of apartments above the ground floor is never locked. This building is not exactly in the most glamorous area, regardless of its proximity to my own workplace where I and my benefactor have tried to bring beauty back to this tired area. But, as with everything else, I must put it out of my mind as but a reminder of a time that will soon be but a memory.

The lobby is barren, as always. Grey walls, made ever more boring yet unsettling by the flickering compact fluorescent bulbs in the antique brass light fixture in the ceiling, their incessant hum reminiscent of some sort of locust miles away that never appears. Along the left wall are rows of tiny mailboxes, one for each apartment. Some have names; others might have at some point but have fallen off or faded. Along the right wall is a community bulletin board advertising events, medical trials over at Crystal Prep (the posh private academy on my side of town, far from my criminally underfunded government-run school), missing animals, solicitations for babysitters… things one expects to find on a bulletin board. I don’t know why I bothered to look. Maybe nostalgia? I don’t know.

At the far end of the squarish lobby sits the elevator. Will it actually be operational tonight? Does it matter? The one time I tried it, it was so loud I legitimately questioned its safety. As usual, I take the stairs. I know where I’m headed.

Do I take the steps one at a time? Or two? Or a combination? I’ve made this climb enough times that I cannot remember. Nor do I care. Within a couple minutes I reach the top floor, my destination. More orange lights, this time stuck into wall fixtures, ever-flickering.

What’s to the left of the stairwell? I never go left. Never needed to. Never will. I head right, slowly tiptoeing down the dim hallway, knowing the worn red carpet overlays hardwood floor that creaks at the slightest bit of weight, even from a slim girl like myself – yes I am; don’t look at me like that!

Always my destination: last door on the left. No accoutrements or decorations on the aged darkened wood – merely the apartment number and a peephole that, as I learned the hard way, does not work backwards. Question Two: Is the door actually locked this time? I try the knob out of curiosity, hoping I will not need to attempt to pick the lock again.

As luck would have it, it opens. My dear, you simply must remember to secure your door at night. Otherwise, crazed intruders dressed all in black might enter and do horrible things to you.

I remove my shoes. Tracking in any dirt would be quite the faux-pas. I do still have manners, after all.

While everything is utterly dark, I know the living area of the single-bedroom apartment is as it always is: a slight mess – a blanket strewn over the navy blue couch, some half-eaten bowl of food sitting on that tacky cable spool you call a table. The only light comes from the LED nightlight plugged into an outlet in that tiny kitchen. That is at least enough for me to find my way around.

As I make my way toward the cheap linoleum, I pass the closed door to your bedroom. I hear slow breathing – perhaps snoring? Oh, my fading light, even the sounds you don’t mean to make are adorable. I could have become used to it… or invested in earplugs. Either one would have sufficed.

For someone as untidy as you, you have a knack for keeping your kitchen impeccably organized. A place for everything and everything in its place, yes? That also includes utensils, in the drawer next to the sink. To its left is my destination: the knives.

Which one? Steak knife? No. A small serrated blade will not do – that may be your preferred method of hating yourself, but it is rather inelegant, I think. Carving knife? No. Still serrated, and I do not consider myself a sadist. While you must face what I have planned for you, you should not suffer any more than necessary. Paring knife? Useful, but… perhaps too small; not enough impact. Eight-inch standard kitchen knife? Yes, you will do nicely.

Someone once said that the line between the deepest love and the deepest hate is thinner than the width of a hair. I absolutely believe that with every fibre of my being now.

Tool selected, I head to the bedroom. If the front door was unlocked, chances are high the bedroom door will be too. Will it creak when I open it? I bite my lower lip in terrified anticipation. Barely a noise. Lucky.

Even in near-pitch-black, I know it’s a mess. I suppose you’ll never pick up your clothes or junk mail, will you? It’s why you need me. Why I need you. We need each other. You just couldn’t realize it in time, my dearest.

On the other side of the dark room I see you. That gorgeous, perfect form, facing away from the door, curled up in the fetal position, gold and crimson streaked hair in braids to keep from becoming too unwieldy come the morning (heh, I taught you that), torso slowly rising and falling, a faint sound escaping from your mouth – clearly your nose is clogged. Silly girl, that’s what you get for being so cheap that you refuse to buy any sort of decongestant to counteract those constitutionals you take every evening without fail.

You’re probably the only person besides me who even uses that outdated word without irony. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.

I love you. I loved you. How do I feel now? Both. Neither. I opened my heart to you and you stomped all over it, then threw it into your garbage can to be sent down to an incinerator and burned into ash. You didn’t even care. You had no idea. I want to believe you; I want to blame you, but I shouldn’t. Yet it really is all your fault. Maybe it’s mine for naïveté? No. Teenage hormones, you mentioned once referring to something else. Perhaps it applies here too.

Everything about you is scum. And beautiful. It wasn’t that long ago that we were mortal enemies in my own mind. Now I cannot bear the thought of being without you. At least, not on anyone else’s terms. Every waking moment, every sleeping moment, my mind is filled with visions of you. Your strong yet sad aquamarine eyes, your sweet vulnerable smile liable to crack at the slightest touch, your arms which saw so much abuse at your own hands.

We cried together. We became closer than sisters. We came to know each other better than anyone else. You should have learned in all those months we spent together, had you not been so preoccupied with yourself – one does not deny a Lady.

Am I a Lady anymore? Was I ever? Does it even matter? I think not.

Once I have passed the point on no return, thrown myself into the moral abyss, one question crosses my mind: Who will take care of your pet cactus Albert? Or your guitar Mayfair? Or that ancient laptop Cream-Puff which is likely to explode if anyone other than you touches it? If I decide to abscond, I shall take care of your scooter, though I shall rename it “Violet”. Far better name, really. Yes. But no; one of our mutual friends will need to deal with all this. I most likely will not leave this apartment any more alive than you.

Your habit of naming personal possessions was always one of the cutest things about you. Tell me, my love, did you name this knife I hold?

You told me once that you were afraid at the sight of your own blood. Probably for the best you’re asleep then. Best for me that you’re such a hard sleeper. Otherwise you would have heard me come in here, watching over you for the last… how long has it been now? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Honestly, I would kill to spend an eternity basking in your radiance. Indeed, that is sort of why I came here tonight. Even asleep, you are my light.

I want to believe you would do the same thing, were you in my position. But you probably would not, for you are somewhat more mature than I. At least on paper.

Oh yes, I saw your true ID as well. I know exactly how old you really are. But I don’t care if having a relationship with me would be illegal. Forget the law! I wanted you. I still do. Come to think of it, when you bluffed your way into that piece of plastic, you stated your birthday was today, did you not? My memory may not exactly be photographic, but I have certainly tried to burn every single facet of you into my short- and long-term memory, increasingly to the exclusion of everything else.

I thought I would need two hands for this knife. No. My right hand will do just fine. I tighten my grip. Silently I tiptoe around the clutter until I’m standing right over you. So serene you are. My one, my only, my everything. You cared but you never saw. A thick genius. Knowing you was both the greatest pleasure and toughest part of my life, simultaneously.

I don’t see even the outlines of the room. I see only my memories of you. Is my brain, my superego, trying to stop me? Forget that. I am running on pure id now. If I told you that, dear, you would no doubt explain how those theories have been debunked or something – in fact you did say that when you were helping me study for finals, I think.

My right hand grips the knife ever harder as I lift it up in preparation to make my move.

Is this love? Is this lust? Is this real life? Is this fantasy? Am I insane? Or am I the only sane one left? I can’t tell. I love you. I hate you. I love you. Why did you never see it?! I love you. I love you. I love you. I hate you. I love you. You are my everything. Am I your nothing?? Unacceptable. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Suddenly you shift in your bed, turning to face me. Your eyes are still closed in blissful ignorance. Your mouth is curled into a slight smile. Well, at least you’re having a happy dream for once in your life. Best you go with a smile, right? I think so. I think so. I repeat this phrase, perhaps mouthing it as my arm moves to strike. Even now, I tell myself I love you – forever – while knowing this is ultimately our farewell. Oh! One final thing…

Joyeux anniversaire, ma bien-aimée…

Author's Note

Happy Halloween, everyone!

As I said in the description, this is a non-canon bit of fun I decided to run with. I had fun writing it. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Don't worry; the real Recovery Arc ending will come soon enough. Also, Read Me.