“Well, is it worth it?”
Naturally, you don't deign to answer me, though I can see your eyes flutter for just a moment under the closed blue lids. I tell myself the same comforting lie until it becomes a twisted mantra: that you can hear me, that you're processing my words, and that this sort of unpleasantness will never have to happen again. It's only, what, the ten-thousandth time?
Ten thousand times that I've stood in this exact same corridor; watching, waiting, wondering, fearing … the next groan, the next breath, the next sound, might be your final one. The tiles might've had a colour, a pattern, once, but they're so worn out from my pacing that they're practically bleached white now. Ten-thousand times that I've inhaled this same stale air until I can barely remember what fresh air even tastes like.
My head jerks in your direction once more as there's a catch in your breath and something acidic gnaws its way through my stomach until I'm convinced that I'm going to vomit up whatever it was Twilight Sparkle gave me to eat sixteen hours ago. Fortunately, it's just one of the machines making a slight adjustment in the amount of oxygen that you're receiving as your ruptured lung rebuilds itself.
Soon, I lose myself in the rhythm of its hypnotic wheezing and beeping, and I remember what it was that Twilight was trying to tell me earlier: “Pegasi are incredibly resilient. Outside of alicorns, they are the quickest healers amongst the pony races. They have to be, given that they'd probably have been wiped out fairly quickly from all the accidents they suffer whilst learning to fly.”
She was trying to comfort me, trying to be a good friend, but somehow her words just made me feel worse; you're already fearless, but you're also convinced that you're invincible thanks to your recuperative powers. Within weeks, injuries that would've crippled anypony else have all but disappeared, and you're back out in the air as if nothing had even happened.
I stop pacing for a moment to look at your battered body. If you can hear anything at all, it's probably the steady cadence of the machines doing their job: keeping you alive while your healing factor sorts out the crushed organs, broken limbs and torn wings. You've even lost a couple of teeth.
I'd say, “You've really done it this time, Rainbow Dash,” but I'd just be repeating myself, having told you ten-thousand-minus-one times already.
Maybe you're fine with this being the direction our lives will take until the bitter end: not pulling out of a dive in time, a turn too steep, a mid-air collision that sees you reduced to a wreck of mangled flesh and bone; swathed in so many bandages, held together by so much gauze and hope, that only the merest hints of your cyan coat and polychromatic mane are visible to me. Me, reduced to a quivering bystander, unable to sleep or eat or tend to my charges properly until I know that you're going to pull-through … only to do it all again a few weeks down the road. Will you burn out my compassion one day? Will there come a time when I hear the news, “Wonderbolt star-flier Rainbow Dash seriously injured in accident,” only to shrug and go on with my life?
“Is that what you want?”
No answer.
How would you feel moving on to the next plane of existence knowing that my final memories of you were of this crushed, near-mummified façade?
Knowing that one of these days – maybe it will even be this day, there's still time – you aren't going to wake-up, you aren't going to walk away with that arrogant smirk that simultaneously charms and irritates all those who know you, is bad enough, but that knowledge is only compounded by the fact that there's nothing I can do to stop you. And even if there was, I wouldn't. Everypony was put on Equestria to do something great, and just as you couldn't stop Pinkie Pie baking, Rarity designing, or Twilight Sparkle magic-ing, nopony can stop you flying.
In a couple of weeks, you'll be out of here like a rocket; ready to master some dangerous new trick, while I cheer you on silently from the sidelines, all the time covering my eyes and cringing internally until it's all over and I know that my friend is safe for at least another day.
Maybe if I understood this obsession of yours when it came to speed, when it came to becoming faster, but I simply don't; I, too, am a pegasus – by birth, if not by nature – yet I barely comprehend more than the basic rudiments of flight. Okay, going fast means you get to your destination a little bit quicker, but … so what? Slow and steady does not win you many races, nor does it win you much of an ardent fan-following either, but it comes with the rather hefty bonus of not endangering you and those in your immediate vicinity when things go wrong. And neither do your loved ones have to go through weeks of heart-tearing misery as you piece yourself back together again.
I've tried on many a occasion to imagine what it must be like inside that head of yours. How do we look to you sat atop that lofty cloud-perch of yours? Are we as snails to you? Everything too slow, as if the entire world is rendered in treacly molasses?
Sleep is meant to be relaxing, peaceful, a time for recovery, but your laboured breaths – still only one side of your chest is working properly – tells me that it is anything but for you at the moment; still, the machines are doing their work. Something clear and pure is injected into you via tubules attached to your foreleg, whilst something yellow and rotten is removed from … elsewhere. The bit of your face that I can see clearly is twisted in a paroxysm of agony. You're on so many painkillers right now that I suspect you are not experiencing any real discomfort, but possibly you are reliving the accident in your dreams. You may have the most highly-developed instincts of any pegasus who ever lived, but you are not a goddess and you cannot possibly see everything.
If you could, maybe you'd stop …
As ridiculous a feeling as it is, there are times when I can't help but feel that, somehow, everything is my fault; not because I don't have the guts to stop you from endangering yourself, but because we even met in the first place. If not for the blasted sonic rainboom, if not for your obsession with becoming the best flier in Equestria, maybe you would have embraced a somewhat more sedate pace of life? Maybe not, but I can't help wondering how things could've turned out if something or somepony had interrupted you at the fateful moment.
Maybe I'm dodging the fact that what I really want to say is: there are days when I regret meeting you.
As much as I love you, my heart can only stand so much pain.
The afternoon sun is shining brightly and a stray beam glinting off the window in your room catches my attention, and all I can think about is how wrong it is for you to be in here right now; it's plain for all to see how antsy and uncomfortable you are with the indoors, especially on a glorious day such as this one, and doubly especially with the coiled serpents twisting and turning around your body – though they are removing toxins instead of injecting them, so the metaphor doesn't quite hold up to scrutiny – when what you really want around your body is fresh air and sunlight.
I'd never admit it to you, but I do envy your sense of freedom; I'm jealous of how beautiful you look mid-flight, prismatic trail blazing in your wake. I don't know why Equestria's best flier chose to be best friends with the worst, but even on days like this … I'm grateful.
Grateful for more than the friendship, for the trust and loyalty, for the protection you gave me growing-up. I'm grateful because I get to be there for you, in your best and worst moments.
I don't want to cry any more, but I don't have a choice in the matter; you know how mercilessly I was teased for my sensitivity back in school, for how appalling a flier I was, and maybe my buttons are too easily pushed, but I refuse to change just because others think I should. I won't act tough when I'm not. If I don't cry, then I really will be allowing my compassionate core to atrophy and I can't allow that. For better or worse, it's part of who I am. What makes me me, if I can be so grandiose for a moment.
You'd probably describe me as looking super uncool right now; snot and tears aren't your thing, even if I know, deep down, that you're more sensitive than you let on. I see how you are with Tank and Scootaloo, and occasionally – just occasionally – with me. When you've had one drop of cider too many. So focused am I on being a shaking, sobbing mess, I barely notice a doctor enter your room.
On the one hoof, I wish I could be her; calm and professional, trained and knowledgeable, able to do something more practical than sit and watch; on the other, though, it's probably better than I'm on the other side of the glass. With detached professionalism, she adjusts this and that, changes your dressings, and makes some notes on a clipboard after checking the various monitors. She shoots me a fleeting smile as she departs, and I can only take that to mean that you're on the road to recovery.
The road that ends with you right back here.
Some might think that I'd be better at this thanks to my background in dealing with ill critters, but – as much as I hate to admit it – there is a difference; ponies, especially you, come with a lot of complexity and baggage, and seeing your blood being spilled is a much, much more gut-wrenching experience than, say, Angel Bunny's.
Our friends are elsewhere; I was the last to leave, of course. I can picture them now: Applejack bucking her frustration away in the orchard, whilst Twilight Sparkle tries to lose herself in the solace of a book, and Rarity frantically designing something for you to wear at the party Pinkie Pie will no doubt insist on throwing for you the second you're well enough.
Pinkie Pie takes it the hardest. The good and the bad, she feels them both strongly; she is perhaps even more sensitive than I am, though she externalises her feelings rather than internalising them as I do. She uses her feelings to effect change, while I use them to browbeat myself. One new neurosis a day should be the Fluttershy family motto.
Am I here because I'm the most expendable of our group? Probably, yes. I'll lie to myself again and say that it's because I'm the one who cares about you most of all, but even in your state you can see right through that. Only the animals rely on me to a degree, and they're quite capable of fending for themselves for a time. Ah, to be useless. Still, it means I can watch you slowly patch yourself back together.
A small, dark voice in the back of my head utters a thought. I'm here because, if you die, it's my solemn duty to be by your side as you take your final breath. Not because I'm your best friend – maybe you don't even think of us that way at all and I just got my wires crossed, not for the first time – but because, well, somepony needs to bear witness when something great meets its end. Equestria will mourn its finest flier. Five ponies will commiserate the loss of a friend. Two parents will grieve for a much-loved daughter.
And cruelly, life will go on for them. You'll be at peace, they'll be in turmoil. We'll be in turmoil.
Yes, you bring us a great deal of frustration and consternation at times, but also a lot of love and happiness, laughs and delights. The paradox that is Rainbow Dash: capable of enormous selfishness when her heart wants what it wants while at the same time brimming with generosity for her friends, her surrogate sister and her overbearing parents.
So. Have I to ask you again, “Is it worth it?” This is what we go through, all of us, every single time we have to drag your battered, broken body to the hospital because of an errant tree, because you misjudged wind vectors, or – though you'd never admit it – just because you got sloppy on a manoeuvre. Sonic rainbooms? A brief surge of adrenaline? Faceless, nameless crowds chanting your name for a few moments before dispersing? Academy records? Are these the things that matter more to you than your friends and family?
Because your body may heal, but our souls never do. You kill a tiny part of us every single time you crash. You walk out of here with another great story, but we linger in this cold, antiseptic place.
Don't misunderstand these next words because they come from a place of love; a slightly-dark sort of love, but the Flutterbat taught me something important: that I, too, have a dark side and it's wrong of me to deny it expression. There are times when I hope that your wings are so badly damaged that no amount of surgery, no amount of magic, will repair them. Life is a fleeting commodity, the most precious gift we are ever given, and should not be thrown away for the sake of crazy stunts to impress random strangers.
They do not love you; some of them may like you, and doubtless many of them lust after you as a prize, but you are worth so much more to us, to me.
I couldn't bear to lose you.
I'm brought crashing back to reality by the sight of one of your eyes opening; the cerise is dulled, glazed, somewhat, but there's no mistaking the fire once more beginning to shine within. It's only a second before you're gone again, but the look tells me all that I needed to know: nothing I've said has made any difference to you. In two or three weeks, you'll leap out of here – probably out that very window if I know you – and despite the doctor's firm instructions to take it easy, you'll try to set a new airspeed record as you make your way home to Cloudsdale. Until you've matched or beaten your best time, you won't think of yourself as having recovered from your injuries.
And on the sidelines will sit a nervous pegasus, silently cheering you on.
Cheering you on not because they want to, but because they know, deep down, it would be wrong for them to change you. Because you are making the best use of the talents that you've been blessed with.
Because, in equal measure, I both love and hate what you put me through.
Because, when you fall and hurt yourself I see the real you, and I cherish you for sharing yourself with me.
You big, dumb, beautiful, perfect blockhead.
(Bonus: original, experimental version of the story.)
Is it worth it, you big, dumb blockhead? (I'm so sorry.)
How many times have you done this to me? How many times have you made me stand in this exact same corridor, wearing those bleached white tiles out with my pacing, while my head jerks in your direction at every groaning exhalation, fearing that it might be your last breath? (Every time there's a pause between breaths, something gnaws at my insides until I think I'm going to start climbing the walls.)
Those machines that they have you connected to – forcing the life you seem so desperate to throw away back into your broken body – wheeze and beep rhythmically, hypnotically, and I can distract myself for seconds at a time by becoming lost in their pulse. (One day, this'll be the last song that you hear … if you can hear anything in there.)
Will this be the course of our lives from now until the end? You, swathed in so many bandages that only the vaguest hints of your cyan coat and prismatic mane are visible; me, fretting and worrying, wondering if this'll be the last time that I see you alive. (I don't think I could cope, knowing that my last memories of you would be as this crushed, mummified figure.)
One of these days, maybe this day, I know that you aren't going to wake up; everypony tells me to stay positive, to hope for the best, but you know better than most that I'm conditioned to expect disaster. The worst part is knowing that there's nothing I can do to help you. (No. The worst part is knowing that, when you fly out of the ward in a couple of weeks like nothing's happened, I won't stop you from putting yourself back in here as soon as possible. I'll be there cheering you on from the sidelines, all the while cringing internally.)
You big, dumb idiot. (Sorry, again.)
What's the appeal in going fast? You get to your destination a little bit quicker? Big whoop(!) Slow and steady may not win any races, but it does at least have the benefit of not endangering the precious life you've been gifted and putting your loved ones through weeks of heart-rending misery as they watch you slowly recover. The only thing, it seems, that you're capable of doing slowly. (I often find myself wondering what it must be like living inside that head of yours. Do we all look like snails to you?)
Sleep is supposed to be peaceful, but between your laboured breaths (only one side of your chest seems to be working properly) and the constant trickle of fluids – some being intravenously inserted into you, others being removed – it looks more like a chore. The bits of your face that are visible contort and twist in agony; you're on so many drugs that you can't feel any pain, so I assume that you're reliving the accident. (You probably have the most highly-developed instincts of any pegasus ever, but even you can't see everything.)
On days like this, I can't help feeling that it's my fault; not because I won't stop you, but because you met me in the first place. If you hadn't pulled of that blasted Sonic Rainboom and dedicated your life to being the best flier in Equestria, would you have embraced a marginally more sedate life? Maybe not, but there are days – for both our sakes – that I wish I'd never met you. (I love you, but darn it, you can't keep hurting me, us, like this.)
A glint catches my eye; the afternoon sun is shining brightly, and it's so wrong for you to be stuck in here right now – with tubes coiling around your prone body like serpents, even if they are removing toxins rather than injecting them into you – instead of enjoying the fresh air and the warmth. Whenever you're indoors, even for a moment, it's plain to see just how antsy you are. How desperate you are to be dashing through the sky with a polychromatic trail in your wake. (I'll never admit it to you, but there are times I envy your sense of freedom. It seems odd that the best flier in Equestria would choose to be friends with the worst.)
I used to cry, but now I don't. (Whatever tears I had have long since dried-up.)
Celestia, how I hate you for this! (I don't really, I'm just angry at you. I'm sorry.)
I cry a lot; I've been teased about it since I was a filly, and maybe I am too sensitive, maybe my buttons are too easily pushed, but I can force myself not to shed any tears for you and that scares me. It feels like there's a part of me inside that's defective, the part of me that deals with compassion has been burnt out from having to stand here under the fluorescent lights for days on end. (I console myself with comforting lies, “If she wakes up and sees me crying, she'll feel bad and I don't want her to be upset on my account. She has enough to worry about just getting better.”)
Some of the doctors and nurses say to me that I look so poised and dignified, keeping a lid on my grief, unaware of the fact that I'm dying on the inside. (Proper snot and tears? That's uncool, isn't it?)
The door to the ward swings open and a nurse comes in; I watch her tentatively, simultaneously wishing that I could be in her position and being glad that I'm not. She clucks her tongue as she checks the various monitors, and I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad sign. Since she isn't calling for assistance, I can only assume that it's a good thing. Next, she unwraps your bandages, and though she's good at hiding it it's pretty obvious that she's left a trifle queasy by what she's seeing. (Who can blame her? Those wounds are nasty.)
Blood. (Ew.)
I shiver. I'm used to the sight of blood; I can't remember how many animals I've treated, how much blood, pus and other fluids I've had to clean up in my life, but when it's you … (I feel like a part of you is being discarded.)
Our friends have all gone home, or elsewhere to take their minds off things; Applejack will no doubt be bucking her frustrations away, while Twilight Sparkle will be trying to find solace in a book, and Rarity will lose herself in her work. Pinkie Pie is the one that I'm most concerned for, though. She feels everything so keenly, both the good and the bad, and one only has to remember her behaviour when she thought we were avoiding her to know just how sensitive a pony she is at times. (Do I stay because I'm the one who cares about you the most? Or because I'm the one who is most expendable? The animals are the only ones that rely on me to some degree, but even they can do without my coddling, so I'm pretty much the most useless pony in Equestria when you think about it. I have plenty of time to just stand here and watch your body slowly patch itself back together.)
No. (I mean, all the above is true, but it's not the reason …)
I'm here because, if you die, I think it's my duty to be by your side when you take your final breath. Not because I'm your best friend (I don't know if you think of us that way; I'm your oldest friend, at least, and that means best to me), but because … I think someone needs to be there when something great comes to its end. (When you die, Equestria will mourn the passing of one of its greatest fliers; when you die, a small group of ponies will mourn the loss of a friend they loved dearly, who brought so much joy and happiness to them, and yes, a lot of frustration, too.)
So. I ask again, Rainbow Dash, is it worth it? Knowing that this is what we go through every single time we have to drag you to the hospital because you've hit the ground too hard, or collided with an errant tree, or misjudged the thermals and have gone spinning off into the nearest mountain range? Sonic Rainbooms, the rush of adrenaline, the adulation of faceless, nameless crowds? The Wonderbolts? Is that what matters most to you? Is that more important to you than the fact that you kill a little bit of your friends' souls with every impact? (Cuts scab over, broken bones knit themselves together, feathers grow back … but the injuries you cause us run so much deeper, and are so much longer-lasting.)
What I'm going to say now may shock you, but I hope you understand where I'm coming from on this: there are times, dark times – I'm not happy about these thoughts, and I bury them as soon as they surface, but they're there all the same – where I hope that your wings will be so badly damaged that no amount of care, no amount of magic, will bring them back to life; life is to be lived, to be cherished and protected, not to be thrown away on crazy stunts. (Please, don't hate me for my occasional bouts of rage. This isn't who I am, but it's who I'm driven to be because of the way I feel about you. I couldn't bear it if I were to lose you.)
Of course, I already know your answer; in two or three weeks, you'll be out of here, and despite the doctor's insistence that you take it easy the first thing you will do is see how long it takes to get from here to your home in Cloudsdale. You won't consider yourself fully-recovered until you beat your best time. (And I'll be there on the sidelines with the stop-watch, silently cheering you on … because I love you for not squandering the talent you've been blessed with, because I hate you for what you put me, us, through when you fall, and because I cherish you for sharing yourself with me.)
You're still an idiot, though. (No, not really. But you are.)
