The World Turned Upside Down

A thin sliver of blurred light illuminates the darkness, and I realise that my eyes are finally opening. I can see smudges of colour in the corners, but no details, and I have no energy to lift my head. But I recognise the position my body is in — the same position I’ve been sleeping in for two, probably three nights now — and I know I’m in a place of… relative safety.

Just like last time, my mouth is dry, my throat is parched, my feet are bare, and the air holds the faint scent of freshly baked bread, but that might just be the lived-in smell.

Everyone has a natural odour. I don’t mean the sweaty kind that showers were invented for; I mean a certain fragrance that can’t be washed out — that is intrinsic to a family and the place they call home. It’s something I’ve always noticed, but never mentioned, because, really, who notices these things? Who thinks about them? Who brings it up in polite conversation? And who in their right mind would want to listen?

Unlike last time, however, the blanket is already bundled up as a pillow, and the flickering light of a lit hearth dances across the ceiling. I feel its heat. Savour the aroma of wood smoke. Almost close my eyes and lose myself to the confines of sleep once more. But a hint of movement and a soft sniffle catches my attention, and I somehow find the strength to angle my head.

The armchair has been moved closer, facing me from an arm’s length away, and occupying it, staring down at the floor, is an orange pegasus. Her hindlegs and tail droop over the edge of the seat, a foreleg wrapping around her stomach, the other rubbing her snout — sitting, I realise, like a human would. Her ears are a little lower than usual, though, and she wear the faint wrinkles of a troubled frown.

I call out to her.

She stops her scratching and props her chin on the same foot, but says nothing. She mustn’t have heard me.

I try again.

Still nothing. Nothing but a heavy sigh.

I don’t understand. My lips are moving — if only slightly — I can feel the air move in and out, and I’m being as articulate as I can, so why isn’t she responding? She isn’t ignoring me on purpose, is she? I try a third and, hopefully, final time.

“H’lon?”

She looks up. “What?”

I frown at myself and close my eyes. Yes, actually speaking would’ve helped, but now that I have, I feel drained. Utterly exhausted. An empty cup fed by a slow drip. Like one of those drinking bird toys — how they sit on the edge of a glass and slowly teeter their way to the water, then bolt upright, and the cycle repeats until the end of time. I really need to figure out how they work, at some point…

“Hey, hey, stay with me.”

Something pats my cheek and my whole jaw becomes an echo chamber of agony. I grunt and shrink away and swat at a large orange limb.

The creature it belongs to — a pegasus, I remind myself, although she looks nothing like a pegasus — pulls back and rests her elbows on her knees. She must be very flexible, to sit like that. “Don’t go falling asleep on me, dingus,” she says in a tone I can’t quite comprehend, but it doesn’t sound mean. “What were you saying?”

“Why?” I moan.

“Why what?”

My hand starts nursing my cheek. “Why?”

“Rule Four.”

“…Rule what?”

“Rule Four: no touching.”

I pause, confused at first. I was actually wondering what made her think it was a good idea to rap on my jaw like a doorknocker, especially one that’s less half a tooth, but I slowly nod in understanding. Explaining the mistake would take too long anyway, and I lack the energy.

“But that’s not what you were trying to say, was it?”

I gently shake my head.

“So…?”

For some reason, I struggle to remember something that happened not a full minute ago. “How long,” I murmur. “I was asking how long I’ve been out for.”

“About fifteen hours.”

I raise my brows. “Really?”

She glances behind her to the shuttered window. “It’s approaching midnight.”

“And last time?”

“Twenty-three, give or take.”

I wait a moment or two, then straighten my head and stare up at the scaffolding. “I’m getting better at this,” I muse, though I sound more tired than humorous.

“At what? Comas?”

“Waking up from them…”

“Hey, I said don’t fall asleep.”

“I’m not, I’m not, I’m just… catching my breath…”

“And getting a little too comfortable.”

I peer at her from the corner of my eye. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Not when I’ve been asleep for half the day.”

“It’s not the same, you…” I turn my head fully. “What’s your name again?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“…But I don’t.” I frown to myself, realising what a strange thing it is. “I remember I did, but… I don’t.”

Her face hardens and she opens her mouth to make a snide remark… but something stops her. I can’t tell what, but she closes her mouth again and slowly deflates, looking at the floor. “Amber,” she says, and then clears her throat and meets my eyes. “My name’s Amber Dart.”

I nod. “Pleased to meet you.”

She winces. “Was it me that knocked a few screws loose, or the cockatrice?”

I give a light smile. “¿Por que no los dos?”

“Great, now you’re speaking in tongues.”

“In Spanish,” I clarify. “Español. It means ‘why not the two’.”

“You know a second language?”

“Bits and pieces. And not just Spanish.”

“…You’re lying again, aren’t you?”

“Au contraire, mon cher. But believe what you want. It’s not like I can stop you.”

She pauses, then folds her forelegs and looks to the fire.

“What happened to it, anyway?”

“What happened to what?”

“The… Medusa-chicken, or whatever it’s called.”

She turns back with a quizzical eyebrow raised. “The cockatrice?”

“…Yeah, that.”

“In the shed, where we left it.”

“…Right,” I nod to myself. “Right.”

“…You really don’t remember, do you?”

“What? No, I, uh… I…”

“Is everything okay up there?”

“Sorry?”

She angles her head somewhat. “What do you remember, exactly?”

“…I remember… heading to the cottage. With you. And the…”

“Cockatrice?”

“Was that what it was?”

“…Yes, it was.”

“…Could’ve sworn I was holding the axe…”

“I had the axe.”

“Oh. So, I was heading to the cottage… with you. And you had the axe… and I had the cockatrice. Is that right?”

“Do you remember reaching my house?”

I pause. I think. But nothing comes to mind. No images, no sound, no… Nothing. Any time I entered the clearing and saw her house, my hands had been empty. I slowly shake my head.

“No headaches, or nerve pains, or anything like that?”

“…What happened, Amber?”

She looks away again and, hesitantly, shrugs. “I don’t know. As soon as I locked the shed, you… collapsed. And you started screaming, and shaking, and… hitting yourself. And I don’t mean lightly — I mean… really hard. In the head. I managed to stop you, but… it wasn’t easy. Didn’t help that you jabbed me in the ribs a few times.”

“…Does it hurt?”

She looks back, but says nothing, and continues to say nothing for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

I lower my eyes.

“No,” she finally, quietly answers. “Not really”

The silence returns. This time, however, it’s a mutual silence — neither awkward nor comfortable — and I could use a breather from talking so much. From thinking so much. From trying to remember things I know I should remember, but can’t, for reasons I might never know.

Is it ironic that I claimed to have memory problems, and now, apparently, I do?

Even recounting my predicament makes me feel seasick. Like I’m on the floor of a small boat, going up and down and up and down, sometimes violently, sometimes gently. It’s nowhere near as bad as the nausea from last night, but… it’s hard to compare.

And I don’t want to compare it; I want it to end. I want this whole nightmare to end. I want Amber to lean over, whisper in my ear, admit she’s a figment of my imagination, and that I’ll be waking up soon, and everything will be fine. Everything will be okay. Because if it’s not okay, it’s not the end. And this world can’t be where my story ends. It just can’t be.

I can’t be that…

…But I am that unlucky.

I have to face the facts: there are some things that I just can’t change, and my reality, whether I like it or not, is one of them. This isn’t a dream because dreams are never this real. Even lucid ones.

Against the odds, I am, in fact, the one in a million. I’ve struck gold. Won the lottery. Lost a game of Russian roulette. Discovered a new planet, met a new species, suffered through two migraines and two day-long comas, the latest of which has left me with a mild case of amnesia, and now my only source of help comes from an orange pegasus with flaming hair, who’s as likely to slap me as she is to speak to me.

This isn’t fun. It never was, but it definitely isn’t anymore.

I just want to go home.

“…I can’t feel you…”

Already half-asleep, it takes a while for me to realise who spoke, and a little longer to recognise the tone. It wasn't harsh, or condescending, or derisive, or disdainful… It was reticent. Something I’ve never heard from her before. Hesitation, sure, and maybe timidity, but they were always in response to something — natural reactions to an outside force. This was unprovoked.

I shove the drowsiness to the back of my mind for a moment and turn to face her.

Amber sits with a hunch, head down, ears low, elbows on her knees, a distant, yet distinctly thoughtful look in her eyes. Blue eyes. Sapphire eyes. Almost luminous in contrast with the dark, and gleaming with the small, dancing reflection of the fire. Her mane and tail, too, seem to radiate with a similar golden glow. Her focus lies on her forefeet, one slowly, softly tracing the outline of the other.

“What do you mean?”

She pauses — possibly stiffens, as if I wasn’t supposed to hear her, but if she does, it’s so slight that I can’t say for sure. I may have imagined it. “When I touch you… I can’t feel you,” she answers, a little quieter than before, and meets my eyes again.

“I don’t understand.”

She hesitates, brows faintly creasing, and then slowly reaches over and puts a foot on my shoulder. As she makes contact, a small amount of hope fades. “What do you feel?”

I look down at the foot, then back to her. “A solid… hoof.”

“Hard?”

“Yeah.”

She lightly shakes her head. “That’s not what it’s supposed to feel like.”

“No?”

“I’m trying to be gentle.”

“…Well, you are being gentle.”

“No, I mean… you’re not supposed feel the hoof, you’re supposed to…”

“What?”

She pulls back and taps her forefeet together. “You’re supposed to feel something soft. And I’m supposed to… feel something. Besides resistance.”

“Wait, you mean… you can feel things through your feet?”

“Hooves,” she corrects, though it lacks her usual zeal. “But yeah, that’s what they do. I should be able to grab you too, but… I can’t. I don’t know why.”

“Then how’d you get me inside?”

“Dragged you. Both times. Hooked my forelegs under yours and dragged you.”

“Arms.”

“What?”

“They’re called arms.”

She frowns, and then blinks and shakes her head. “Whatever. You get the idea.”

“Can you feel me if I touch you?”

“…Yeah, the rest of me is fine, but… how’d you like it if your hands went numb, and you lost your fingers, and the only way to feel somepony is to brush against them?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Somepony?”

“Yeah.”

“…What, like, just ponies, or…?”

Amber blinks again, this time in surprise. “No, nothing like that,” she says quietly, looking away and shaking her head once more. “It’s my version of someone. Or somebody, if you want to be specific. It’s what I grew up hearing.”

I nod absently. “Sounds pretty exclusive.”

Her ear twitches, and she peers at me with an irritated glint in her eye. “Well, I’m not trying to insult you.”

I raise my hand defensively. “Never said you were.”

Eventually, she seems to relax, and she looks away again. “Still,” she murmurs, “you wouldn’t like it, would you?”

“…Not a whole lot.”

“Me neither.” She slouches, returning her elbows to her knees and staring at upturned forehooves. “It’s weird. Really weird.”

“I can only imagine,” I breathe, closing my eyes, and my strength leaves me once more.

“I don’t think you’re getting better.”

I don’t argue, and I don’t try to: she’s right. It probably took me about ten minutes to shake off the stupor yesterday, but now, after what I think is a similar amount of time, I barely have the energy to lift a finger. I feel light, but heavy. Weightless, but grounded. Sick, but not sick. But mostly, I feel… nothing. A big, empty void of nothing, towards which I am falling eternally. But I’m not afraid — I’m too tired to be. Too tired to feel anything. Too tired to sleep.

“How’d you know how to save me?”

Her voice, unusually soft, pulls me from the abyss. “I didn’t,” I mumble. “I just got lucky.”

Another pause. A long one.

“…Why did you save me?”

Something about the question confuses me. Irks me, scares me, upsets me… concerns me. For a number of reasons, I think, but they go unnamed. I crack open my eyes and turn to her, but all I see is a blur of orange, white, black and blue.

“Why not?”

The blue circles linger on me, then look away as two forelimbs cross. For a second time, if memory serves me right.

“Something wrong?”

They glance back at me. “No, I’m just… thinking.”

“What about?”

“…About why you didn’t turn to stone. You’re not strong-willed, so it can’t be that. But if it isn’t that… I don’t know what.”

“Are you asking me?”

The blur shrugs. “If you have the answer, sure.”

I give a weary shake of the head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

She pauses again, and some of the details finally return. Nothing too specific, at first, but I spy the familiar wrinkles of a troubled frown.

“Hey,” I grin weakly, “at least I can say I told you so.”

Amber turns back to me, and, in an instant, her ears perk up and the frown becomes a glare. “Do you want me to knock you out again?”

My grin widens, grows stronger, and I tap a finger against my cheek as I chuckle. “Chip the other tooth and you have yourself a deal.”

Something makes her pause, then fold her ears and look away. I think it’s my response, but I don’t see why; it was a joke, nothing more, nothing less. It was supposed to lighten the mood, not make her feel worse.

“I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

Her eyes, reluctantly, meet mine. “What for?”

“Touching you.” I’m not sure who owes who an apology, or if one is owed at all, but it feels like the right thing to do. “It was my fault; I should’ve remembered. I can’t blame you for keeping a promise.”

Again, my answer seems to bother her, and her wings ruffle as she shifts uneasily in her seat, but she doesn’t try to argue.

I don’t press the issue, and decide against telling her that she’d given me my first dislocated joint. Today’s been too much of a downer anyway. Better to steer the subject onto a more light-hearted track. “You look funny.”

She flinches.

…I want to slap myself. Why on Earth would I think that was a good way to start a conversation? I didn’t even use the right tone, for goodness sake. And I can’t blame the drowsiness — I’m almost fully awake now. It was a poor choice of topic and bad phrasing, and I need to make amends. I open my mouth to apologise again.

“You’re one to talk.”

I stop. I consider her words. And then I faintly smile. “How so?”

“Are you kidding?” Amber retorts. “Look at yourself; your eyes are too small, your face is too flat, your ears aren’t in the right place, your legs and arms are too thin and you wear clothes all the time. What isn’t weird about you?”

“…What’s this obsession you have with clothes?”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“But you won’t stop bugging me about it, will you?”

“I’ve only mentioned it twice. You’re the one who thinks it’s okay to go swimming with complete strangers — you’re the weird one.”

“I didn’t say that,” I snicker, “I was just pointing out the irony.”

“What irony? It’s about context, idiot. I wouldn’t sneak a peek if you were changing, would I? You know why? Because it’s basic manners.”

“But why?”

She baulks. “What do you mean ‘why’?! You don’t look at ponies when they’re changing, alright?! Or bathing, or anything like that! It’s manners!”

“No, I get it, I get it, it’s just…”

“Nothing! It’s ‘just’ nothing!”

“No, you’re not listening, Amber. I’m asking because… if you don’t wear anything most of the time anyway… and I assume most… ponies are the same… why would skinny-dipping be taboo? Not that I mean to imply anything.”

“It certainly sounds like it.”

“Amber, please don’t dodge the question. Why?”

She scowls at me for a long while, huffing to herself, fuming her exasperation. And then she shakes her head, turns away and shrugs. “I don’t know,” she grumbles. “It just is.”

I slowly nod. “It’s the same with me and clothes.”

She looks back, though the scowl remains.

“Most of the time, people… humans wear clothes. Even privately. What I’m wearing now is casual. You might be comfortable wearing nothing, but I’m not. I know there’s no real need for it, but where I’m from… that’s just how things are. So, please, if you’re going to tell me to do anything… please don’t tell me to strip. It’ll just make things weird for the both of us.”

She stares a little while longer. “No argument here,” she slowly, bitterly answers, "but you will have to change sooner or later.”

I groan, “Why?”

“Your shirt’s torn.”

I look down at myself and, indeed, find two gaping holes in my shirt, through which I can see scratch marks on my chest and stomach. Smaller tears, threads fraying at the edges, pockmark the rest of the fabric. “Ah.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing about clothes — they wear out.”

“…Eh.” I shrug and sigh. “Wasn’t my colour anyway.”

“Oh, give it a rest, will you?”

I snap back to her in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“The tough-guy act. The carefree attitude. Just stop it — all of it — you’re not fooling me.”

“…I’m not trying to fool you.”

“Then stop! Act like it bothers you!”

“Like what bothers—”

“Your shirt, dingus! If covering yourself up means that much to you, then why don’t you bawl your eyes out for it, like the wuss you are?!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you rather I lose a shirt or lose you?!”

Amber pauses, taken aback, but her bewildered look slowly morphs into one of disgust.

“Don’t read into that,” I warn as soon as I realise the double meaning. “I don’t like you. You’re one of the rudest, most obnoxious, most insufferable people I’ve ever met, and you’re giving me every reason to hate your miserable guts… but I couldn’t live with myself if you threw your life away and I could’ve done something to stop it. So, you want to know why I saved you, Amber? That’s why; I had to, because that’s what good people do.”

“So, I’m just a tool to gain the moral high ground?”

“Oh, get over yourself, Amber! I’m not trying to prove anything, I’m just trying to do what’s right.” I point to my tooth. “You’re not making it easy.”

She shuts her mouth, and I catch a glint of something in her eyes before she looks away. Something foreign to her. Something I wanted to see, but never thought I would.

Shame.

Maybe I’m too forgiving. Maybe, deep down in my psyche, there’s a little voice that tells me to go easy on others — no matter what they’ve done, or how serious the damage — in recompense for all my past misdeeds. I tend to remember my wrongs more than others’, anyway.

“I don’t like hating people, Amber,” I say, softening my tone, but keeping some of the edge. “I don’t want to hate anyone. I don’t want to hate you. But when you treat me like garbage… smack me down just for standing up… I’m sorry, but it’s hard not to.”

She doesn’t reply.

I cast my eyes about the room as I let the air between us dissipate, noticing things I hadn’t before; tiny bumps and cracks in the walls, imperfections in the scaffolding, furniture and floorboards, and two bowls resting by Amber’s feet. Hooves. Hindlegs. “Is one of them for me?” I ask, peaceably, when I think enough time has passed.

She follows my gaze and, after a short pause, gives a short, quiet, glum response, “Yeah.”

“May I?”

Her attention turns to me and she stares for a good, long while. Not with any particular mood behind it — she just stares, impassive and unreadable. And then, slowly, she reaches down and picks them up, holding one close in the bend of her ankle, offering the other with her forehoof on the rim.

How she can make objects defy gravity absolutely baffles me, but I resist the urge to ask again and accept the bowl with a gentle hand. “Thanks.”

She doesn’t react, and instead watches me with the same idle expression.

Once I finish shuffling into a more comfortable position, I look and see what dinner tonight would bring. “Same as last night?” I wonder aloud.

“Same as every night,” she answers quietly, and begins sipping her soup.

“And how long is ‘every night’, exactly?”

She stops and frowns at me.

“Rule One?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Rule One,” she confirms, and goes back to her dinner.

So, for the most part, the meal goes by in relative silence, broken only by the crackling and hissing of a dwindling fire. And, indeed, the soup tastes much like it did before — not exactly tasty, but not completely tasteless either — but it’s something to eat, and something to drink. I have to be careful with how I chew, though, and it hurts to swallow, but my throat feels much better by the time I finish. No doubt the fact that it was almost cold had a part to play in that.

But now that I think about it… how long had the soup been sitting there, cooling off… untouched?

I look up from my empty bowl to Amber, who eats in the same fashion as she did last time, but slower. More subdued. “Did you wait until I woke up to start eating?”

She lowers her bowl and chews a mouthful of sodden vegetables, then swallows, licks her lips and wipes them with a foreleg. “So what if I did?”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe not,” she says impassively, and starts eating again.

“…What, that’s it?”

She stops and narrows her eyes. “Let’s get something straight,” she declares, then gulps down whatever’s in her mouth. “I don’t like you either. I know that might be a tough pill to swallow, but I don’t. Just because you saved me from being a statue for all eternity doesn’t mean jack — you’re still annoying as ever, as ugly as ever, and I don’t owe you anything. The only reason I’m helping you is so you can get out of my face for good, and take that stupid cockatrice with you.”

“How very gracious.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

“When have you ever?”

“Exactly. So, shut up.” She gestures to my bowl. “You done?”

I hand it to her. “Yes, Mum.”

She snatches it from my grasp and leans closer with a face of contempt. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, but you can call me a dingus half the time, right?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“In fact, you call me names all the time. How about I call you a beehive from now on? See how you like it.”

Amber pauses, and then, slowly, leans even closer until her nose is a finger’s length from mine, and snarls through grit teeth, “Say that again, dingus. One more time.”

I glare back into the dark depths of her freakishly large eyes, unblinking, daring her to make the first move. I doubt I could protect myself if she did, especially with my jaw added to the list of injuries, but I’m sick of being put down. I want to hear my name from her for once. Even if it’s an insult, I want her to…

And then it hits me.

“…You’ve forgotten my name, haven’t you?”

She flinches. She tries to hide it, but I see the slight jerk of her head, the twitch in her upper lip, and the faint trance of shame in her eyes again, which only grows the longer she stares. And as slowly as she came in, she pulls away, and before her scowl fails completely, she stacks her bowl into mine, slides off the chair, and heads for the kitchen, all without a sound — except for the clacking of hooves on wood and the soft grinding of earthenware.

I watch her go, not sure what to say, or if I should say anything.

She returns a few moments later, predictably without her homemade crockery, and turns for the door to her bedroom, frowning at the floor as she goes.

“Amber.”

She yanks herself to a halt. Her frown deepens.

“Thank you.”

Her ears twitch. Her scowl turns on me.

“For everything.”

She doesn’t react. She simply glowers at me for what feels like a whole minute. And then, finally, she lowers her gaze to the way in front of her, continues through the door, and locks it behind her. I hear footsteps, then the rustling of sheets, and then there is silence once more. A frosty silence, but not an unwelcome one.

“Good night, Amber,” I call out, and expect another thump on the wall.

But it doesn’t come. And even as I make myself as comfortable as I can on the wooden bench, and the fire fades to little more than an orange glow through blackened timber, I hear nothing. Not a peep. And I wonder how many days will be like this one.