Blackout

“How were you feeling? At that point?”

I kicked my legs absentmindedly. They barely scraped across the surface of the linoleum beneath them. “I dunno. Sad?”

The therapist chuckled warmly. “You know I need more than that.”

“Well…” I sighed and sat forward. My back hooves dropped to the floor. “I mean, it had been a shitty day already, you know? Vinyl dragged me around and refused to listen to me. BonBon was all… all dote-y. I had to listen to everyone talking about love and happiness and I was just sick of it.”

“And then Roseluck brought up your sister?”

I grimaced, swallowed. “Yeah…”

The therapist cleared her throat. “Why do you think it is that you’re having trouble enjoying your friend’s wedding?”

“Pfft, that’s an easy one,” I said. “Vinyl hates me. I can’t really be happy for her if all she does is be rude to me.”

“But you still consider Vinyl your friend, do you not?”

I thought about that for a moment. The coffee pot in the corner belched out a strange sound. SOmepony jumped, another coughed.

“I guess.”

“And you consider Octavia a friend?”

“Yeah.”

“So,” the therapist said. “Why do you think you’re having so much trouble enjoying this time?”

I went back.

It’s both a wistful dream and an aggressively saturated reality.

Back to the bar.

I had stopped by. Sue me. Not to drink. But, honestly, if I had, who would have cared? It doesn’t matter if I drink or not. I’m not an alcoholic.

I got drunk.

But I hadn’t meant to. I went to the bar because that’s where you go when you need to talk to somepony. That’s where you go when you feel like shit and you need to rant, or listen to somepony else’s horrible life and realize you’re doing alright. Just gawk at the sad sacks who come in night after night. At least I’m not them.

Drunk and angry.

I had talked to a few ponies there. Some were empathetic. Some were not. Somepony bought me a drink. I don’t remember who.

But I drank it. I drank it, and I drank another, and another…

And that’s when I came back. I came back alone, to my apartment filled with cardboard boxes. In that state, I swear I could smell it. As soon as I opened the door; that sharp brown smell of cardboard boxes filled with crap I should have unpacked months ago.

They were stacked everywhere.They were piled up in corners, tumbling into living spaces, regurgitating books I’d tried to read and tchotchkes I refused to throw away.

I reminded myself that I liked it this way. It was freeing to not have to care. Right?

I dropped my apartment keys into the grocery bag by the door. There were little hooks in there especially for hanging your keys. But putting my keys in the same bag was close enough.

I remember the way the keys clattered against the metal hooks. One short sound, accompanied by the smack against the paper, and then silence. It reminded me of something.

I stumbled in a little further and kicked the door shut behind me. It was getting hard to stay standing upright. I should have something to eat, though. I should definitely eat something before I go to bed because that would make me feel better.

There was no reason to think that, of course.

I managed to get some bread into the toaster. It started its little ‘tick-tick-tick,’ sound. Rhythmic. Metallic. It reminded me of something.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick CA-CHUNK!

And the toast popped out. Not done enough.

I reached over, gingerly pulled down on the lever. It made a ratcheting sound as it moved, the little gears inside rearranging themselves to do it again.

That reminded me of something.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick CA-CHUNK!

The toast popped out. I stuck it in my mouth.

I chewed thoughtfully, much too thoughtfully for a drunk mare, and began to wander towards my bedroom. The box stacks grew taller as I went. More and more things which I hadn’t bothered to unpack. Personal things. I wondered why I kept them in the first place.

Toast crumbs fell from my mouth in a trail as I went. The light faded.

I entered my bedroom.

The typewriter winked at me as I wavered on my hooves. Those devilish keys.

But it was time. The world had told me so. So many reminders.

And so I wrote.

I sat at the typewriter with some difficulty. Staying upright in a chair was only slightly less trouble than staying up on my own four hooves. The little code sheet from my desk drawers had migrated to the surface. No excuses, Berry. Everything is just right.

I’m horrible.

It took some time to type, looking down at the code sheet for every unfamiliar letter, desperately trying to make sense of the blobs and squiggles on the paper. Trying to focus on it made me seasick.

Was it worth it?

I looked at my work. The dots and dashes bobbed and swam and dove before my eyes. I could hardly comprehend it.

The carriage return lever glinted at me. I pushed my hoof against it, and it clattered down to its original position with a satisfying ‘ding!’. My hooves hovered over the keys once more, wondering what to do next.

Alcoholic

This one came faster. It was already making more sense. The thudding of my hooves on the keys was ringing in my ears, and yet it was somehow music. I wanted to keep going, had to. Had to keep going.

Unemployed

The codes were coming back to me, ever so slowly. A memory of a memory of a memory. So distant, so far back in my past that I was practically a different pony. A total stranger.

Still packed

I could feel the rhythm of the keys. Like the beat of a song; driving, insistent.

Keep going.

You have more to say.

Say it.

Even BonBon hates me.

I rested.

The beat was gone. So quickly I had pulled out of my fever of writing. No more than ten words on the page. Ten lonely words, so weak and fragile. Yet they stood defiant in their loneliness. They spoke a truth which I had not known. Or, at least, one which I hadn’t been able to admit.

Hate.

I hated so many things.

I took the paper out of the typewriter, laid it delicately on the desk before me. If the words had been able to stay put, I’m sure I would have read it hundreds--thousands--of times before giving in to sleep.

But this is the last moment I remember of that night.

I say that as if it somehow isn’t enough. It is. It’s more than enough. It’s much more than I would care to remember, to be frank. And yet the memory remains. This one isn’t soft, either. It’s not gentle with frosted edges like the few nice memories I have. This one is vibrant, jagged, filled with sharp sensations I wish I could forget.

And my dreams aren’t normal anymore, either. I dream frustration, guilt, or nostalgia.

That night was frustration.

There was a radio… I think. And then…

But the morning came. The morning came with the slow-rising sun, and I awoke feeling only blind anger and confusion.

A radio?

My head was at once swollen and crushed. It felt as if somepony had very gingerly forced a spike in one temple and out the other, where it now hung, weights dangling from each side. I could hardly keep my balance as I sat up in bed.

Outside of my own power, I drew in a sharp breath through my teeth and put a hoof to my head.

My eyes remained closed, not daring to face the light of day.

It is strange to experience a feeling with no memory of where the feeling came from. You want to act on it, or at the very least do something to lessen the strength of it. What does one do when emotions come from nowhere, with no reason? How can it be conquered?

The answer: a hangover.

There are few things which can survive the might of a very powerful hangover. I honestly couldn’t even recall being that drunk… at least, not by my standards. There seemed to be another element to this particular misery.

The worry that I had picked up some sort of bar flu flitted through my mind. Too terrifying to dwell on.

I opened my eyes.

And, of course, there sat the typewriter.

I sneered at it. “You son-of-a-mule…”

Ah, yes. The thudding of the typewriter keys. How could I forget? That could certainly have something to do with my headache.

With a confused and poorly-coordinated flurry of hooves, I managed to push the blankets off my legs and struggle out of bed. Once again, I stood facing the typewriter with contempt. This time was different, though. It had successfully trapped me into baring my soul.

“We meet again,” I muttered.

The typewriter said nothing.

“Hope you’re happy,” I continued. “Now we both have to live with all that crap out in the air.”

The phone rang.

“Celestia, everypony needs a piece of me today, don’t they?” I remarked. That stupid typewriter got me started on a dark path, didn’t it? First a diary, now talking to myself…

I drug myself out into the living area and managed to make it to the phone. It took me two tries to get the phone out of its cradle and up to my face.

“Hel--” I cleared my throat. “Hello?”

“Berry!” Vinyl’s voice. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, well…” I started to walk towards the kitchen. The weight of the coiled cord stretched out behind me. “It didn’t really seem like you needed me the other day. I, uh… I needed the break.”

“I know, dude,” Vinyl said, almost sympathetically. “I’m sorry about Bon. I know you and her aren’t exactly…”

I cleared my throat again. “Aren’t exactly what?”

“I dunno. Sympatico?”

“Equestrian, please.”

“Like, buddies.”

Vinyl was further removed from the situation than I thought.

I chuckled. “You think me and BonBon are the ones with compatibility issues? That’s cute, Vinyl.”

Vinyl scoffed. “Look, everypony knows that you and I clash because we’re both a little high strung. But you’re my friend, you know?”

“And BonBon isn’t?”

Vinyl let loose the deepest, most affected sigh I had ever heard. “Alright, dude, whatever you need to tell yourself. It’s not you. Trust me, if she weren’t so chummy with Tavi it’d be just you and me out on these errands.”

“Oh, shucks,” I muttered, dripping with sarcasm. “Too bad BonBon’s around.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“Look, I gotta pick a caterer today. You’re coming, right?”

“I suppose I have to?”

“You wouldn’t say no to free food, would you?”

I was quiet.

“Just…” Vinyl struggled to keep herself calm. “Just meet me at the corner by Bon’s place, alright?”

“Is she coming, too?”

“I mean…” The phone barely translated over some sounds of contention. “She’s in the food business, you know? Tavi wants her opinion on this stuff.”

“Sounds good.”

I didn’t wait for Vinyl to bid her farewells, just dropped the phone back into the receiver. The gears of my mind coughed and sputtered, tried to drum up a reason for Vinyl’s strange behavior. My pounding headache was a wrench in the system.

Toast again.

I had to cover my ears with my hooves as the toaster sang its tune of monotony.

I get it, dude.

All I eat is toast.

I feel bad enough about it without the toaster chastising me.

At least today I’d get some salad or soup or something. A little protein? If I was lucky, it might make me feel a little bit more like myself.

If I was lucky.

I wandered to the bathroom, stared at my reflection. There was always a small part of me that hoped I might not look as bad as I thought I did. I hated how well I knew myself sometimes. Hated that I could accurately predict looking like shit run-over every single morning.

There was a comb resting at the top of my bathroom box, and something pushed me to pick it up for the first time in a few weeks. I removed it from the pile of other assorted toiletries and began to pull it through my mane with jerking, tugging motions. When I withdrew the comb, nearly a whole squirrel’s worth of hair was caught in its plastic grip.

I tossed the comb back down into the cardboard box beside me. My mane didn’t look any better. It might have looked worse.

My self-image affirmed, I left the bathroom and headed for the door. It took some rootin around in the bag by the door to find my keys amongst the hooks. Just one ring, with one key on it. I don’t know why I had bought more than one hook.

My hoof hovered over the doorknob.

No, I couldn’t leave like this.

I tucked my keys away and trotted back to my room. The paper on which I had so feverishly written less than even a full sentence still rested in front of the typewriter.

I glared at it. Reread its menacing message.

I’m horrible.

I know.

Alcoholic

I know.

Unemployed

I know.

Still packed

I know.

Even BonBon hates me.

I crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into a box beside my desk. After a moment’s consideration, I decided this wasn’t quite enough, that it must be hidden more effectively, and so I stuffed it into a drawer and closed it inside.

Alcoholic

Unemployed

Still packed

Whatever, drunk Berry. You think you know so much, don’t you?

I went to meet Vinyl.