Blackout

by mushroompone

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Berry Punch, DJ P0N-3, Death, Sad, Lyra, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Octavia, Bon-Bon, Suicide / Self Harm, Profanity
Length: 7682

Berry Punch purchases a typewriter to help her express her feelings in a more constructive manner. When she writes honestly, it works like any other typewriter. When she writes under the influence, however...

Under the advisement of her group therapist, Berry Punch purchases a typewriter to aid her in expressing her feelings more constructively. Most days she types up her boring daily routine. It helps, but only marginally.

After a particularly difficult day, however, Berry experiences a relapse and blacks out drinking. The next morning, she awakes to find she has written out a feverish tangle of emotions in the form of a dream-like rant... and it all seems to be coming true.

This fiction is on its fifth (?) rewrite. This particular version of it (and hopefully the most permanent version of it) is inspired heavily by the music of Bleachers. I recommend listening to their work as you read! Fans might be able to draw some very distinct parallels to events and themes of this fiction!

Published 2018-05-28 06:40:06 UTC
Last updated 2018-12-07 00:01:16 UTC

Chapter One

“What, you mean… like there’s nothing in the dream?” He asked.

“Yeah, dude,” I said, exhaustion saturating my voice. “There’s nothing there. No room, no ponies, no… no things. It’s just me and my thoughts.”

“I don’t get it.” The unicorn on the other side of me rubbed the back of her head. “How do you know you’re dreaming if nothing happens in the dream?”

“I just know, okay? I’m the one having them.” I folded my hooves across my chest and fell back into the metal chair. “I just wanted to know if anypony else, like, related or whatever. I wasn’t tryna be deep or anything.”

“Okay, everypony, let’s refocus.” The therapist cleared her throat. “Berry, you mentioned feeling distressed by these dreams. Can you elaborate?”

I shrugged and stared at the floor. “I dunno. I guess they’re just really hard to… to get over, you know? Like, after I wake up, after I figure out it was a dream… I’m still really upset about them.”

“And they all upset you?”

I sighed deeply and leaned forward again. “There’s three kinds of dreams. The first is frustration. Like I’m trying to do something and I can’t. If something actually happened in the dream, it would probably be like… like running in quicksand. Or when you go mute and can’t get anypony to even look at you.

“I guess the other one is… guilt? I wake up knowing that I’ve done something just… just completely unforgivable, right? And I have to live with the fact that I let everypony down. Even after I realize it’s a dream, I feel guilty.

“The last one is actually kinda nice, I guess. It’s happy, but sad, too. Like, I’m happy, but at the same time I’m so, so sad. Sad in a way that I know I can never fully recover from.”

I fell silent, tucked my forehooves between my knees.

The therapist nodded. “That’s interesting. How long do the feelings last?”

I shrugged again. “Sometimes it’s only, like, twenty minutes. Sometimes it’s all day.”

She nodded again. “Okay, everypony. What do you guys think? Have you ever experienced something like this?”

I looked down at the linoleum floor, staring at the tile and tracing the little black lines that separated them with my eyes. A few ponies chatted about their feelings. A lot of them related to the guilt thing. Big surprise.

The therapist called on a pony across from me in the circle of chairs. She was a quiet one, usually not speaking but sort of silently absorbing whatever information she gathered.

“I used to have dreams like that,” she said.

I looked up. “You did?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I had these dreams about other ponies and, when I woke up, I realized that it wasn’t about those ponies at all. They were about me. You know?”

I was silent. “You said you used to?”

“I bought a typewriter. I kept it on my desk and, every time I had a dream, I wrote down what it was really about. It helped, because otherwise I was just fretting about it all day. It forced me to figure it out right away.” She bit her lip. “If I didn’t do that, it felt really real all day long.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

A silence fell over the group. Somepony shifted in their chair, and it squealed across the floor.

“Berry, I’m going to give you an assignment,” the therapist said. “Tonight, when the meeting let’s out, go and buy yourself a typewriter. Put it in your bedroom and, the next time you have a dream, write as much as you can about the feeling it gives you. Does that sound okay?”

Bed, desk, boxes. The decor wasn’t exactly up to snuff, I suppose, but it was liveable.

As instructed, I had purchased an enormous, bulky, intimidating typewriter. It sat in the very center of my desk across the room from me. Mornings were like staring contests since I got that thing. I’d wake up, roll around in agony from the obligatory hangover, and eventually make eye-contact with those two shiney keys. They glinted like the eyes of a cat in the hazy morning sun, even as it filtered through my canvas curtains.

I had bought it about two months ago. I hadn’t written a word.

This morning was one the frustration mornings. I had dim memories of looking for something, or following something, and being unable to find it. It was more than just an angry frustration, though-- it was mingled with sadness.

I sat up in bed. My head throbbed with the motion. I whipped the covers off me and gathered them around my neck, settling into the cape as I squinted at the typewriter. It crouched at the end of my bed like a tiger.

What did they even expect me to say? “Write as much as you can”-- such bullshit. I’ve written as much as I can. It’s nothing. I can’t write anything about being frustrated over nothing.

I could almost feel the weight of the bags under my eyes.

It had been years since I’d even taken a typing class, you know? That’s not something you can just pick back up. I’d have to dig through my boxes to find that old coding slip… stupid typewriter. Why couldn’t I just write in a diary like everypony else?

I mean.

I suppose I could.

But, no, I’d bought a typewriter. Like some kind of aging genius author. It didn’t exactly match my style of decorating (cardboard boxes and whatever furniture was too big to fit in a cardboard box).

Part of me was ready to admit that writing stuff down might be kinda fun and nice. The rest was utterly determined to spite the group by continuing to treat myself like shit.

Before I could come to any sort of decision, the phone rang.

I heaved a deep sigh. Who in the hell was calling me at such an early and uncelestial hour?

My gaze drifted to the alarm clock which sat on top of a particularly battered cardboard box beside my bed. Much to my surprise, it wasn’t early at all-- it was nearly ten-thirty, a full half hour past when I had agreed to doing things which I didn’t want to do.

“Oh, Celestia damn me.” I muttered.

I lurched forward and over to the side, rolling ungracefully out of bed and nearly falling on my face in the process. The blankets tangled in my legs like the tentacles of a swamp beast as I tried to disengage. The phone was nearing its final tones as I finally broke free and made for the door.

A mechanically tuneful voice sprung to life. “Hello. Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system.”

“Berry Punch,” my own bored tone interrupted her.

“Is unavailable,” she picked up flawlessly. “Please leave a message after the beep.”

The machine beeped just as I reached it.

“Hey, Berry, it’s BonBon.” She cleared her throat. “We waited awhile but we’re going to need to get a move on to beat the Saturday crowds.”

“I’m pretty sure that cow’s outta the barn, Bon.” Vinyl added.

BonBon grumbled something I couldn’t understand. “Look, when you wake up--”

“If she wakes up.”

“--we’ll be at Ponyville Stationary. Come meet us there, okay? I’ll call you if we go somewhere else. Hope you’re alright!”

BonBon hung up.

I released the deepest of sighs, one that rattled my very ribcage with its force. BonBon was too sweet for her own good sometimes.

Thankfully, the stress of missing the meet-up had entirely replaced the frustration of my dream. It was now only a memory of frustration. A memory of a memory.

It was always a feeling of ebb and flow. With the happy-sad ones, it was like a wave at the shore. It washed in with some force and receded gently, everything left behind it softened. With guilt, it was like the shout of a crowd; a quick build-up and a very slow release, the feeling of being watched by a million judgemental eyes.

The frustration was like thunder. It rolled into my mind with an ominous warning and disappeared into its own echoes, leaving behind a vague sense of unease which I could sense would be hanging onto me all day.

I shoved some bread into the toaster and waited impatiently for it to ping and spring back out at me. I considered making coffee, but the state of the coffee pot was somewhat despicable. I wasn’t very attentive when it came to washing that thing out.

As the toaster ticked, I trotted into the bathroom to get a look at my face.

I didn’t like what I saw. Heavy, dark circles pulled at my lower lids. My mane hung limply, clearly unwashed. Even the color of my coat, usually a light lavender, seemed distorted. Though that may have been the crummy lightbulb I had illuminating my vanity at present.

I pulled a brush through my mane a few times and quickly gave up. I’d just wear a hat.

The toaster finally pinged. I followed the sound and retrieved the bread with care.

I looked to another cardboard box for the jar of peanut butter I had stashed. There were three in the kitchen, all filled with mixed food items packed rather carelessly. After rummaging through bags of flour I’d never use and seasonings I had somehow never heard of, I happened upon the peanut butter.

It was a strange feeling to be in a kitchen with empty cabinets. I kinda liked it. It was like being on a permanent vacation.

Toast made, peanut butter spread, I stuffed a piece in my mouth and began to pace back and forth before the kitchenette.

It wasn’t that I was dreading the day. I think I was dreading… certain aspects of the day. I was certainly dreading spending time with Vinyl. She had become almost completely insufferable since her engagement. I was happy for her and all but, Celestia, did I have to listen to her talk about how happy she was every second of the damn day?

And I liked Octavia. I liked her a lot. I thought the two made a lovely couple, thought they were quite good for each other. That didn’t change the fact that Vinyl despised me for reasons unknown.

I’m certain she didn't invite me along on this inane errand. I know it was BonBon. And, on the one hoof, I was grateful. On the other, much larger and heavier hoof, I hated her for it.

The peanut butter went down like wet cement. I grabbed a bottle of water, crammed it into an otherwise empty saddlebag, and headed out the door.

I lived on the third floor of an apartment complex. It was too high to be convenient to climb the stairs, but too low not to feel guilty about using the elevator. I tended to take the elevator anyway, since I’m a glutton for emotional punishment. Vinyl’s words.

I trudged down the metal stairs, my tongue exploring every nook and cranny of my own mouth to dig out the pockets of peanut butter still remaining.

The moment I opened the complex’s door was the first moment the full force of the morning sun had hit me.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake!” I winced and drew in a hiss of breath. The sun and my hangover were not the best of friends.

Lucky enough for me, Ponyville Stationary was just down the street from my apartment.

In my condition, the trek would be a difficult one. But I would survive. For cardstock.

The heat of the pavement radiated up through my shoes and made each step an unpleasant sizzle of pain. I did my best to tilt my head downward, both avoiding the gaze of others and shading my eyes from the sun. My frizzy forelock had the substance of a wispy summer cloud, and did very little to dull the intensity of the harsh sunlight.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I looked up reflexively.

“Miss!” A stallion. Clean-shaven but… tired. Nevertheless, he wore a goofy grin. “Would you care to talk about the environment?” He held up a sheaf of colorful flyers, printed with pie charts and the like.

I scoffed, tilted my head back down, kept trotting down the street. I heard the stallion huff gently and drop the stack of unregarded flyers onto the pavement.

Ponyville Stationary was the very next building. Its pastel siding and lace-trimmed awning were easy to spot.

I picked up the pace, goal in sight. I’d rather be yelled at by ponies who know that I deserve it.

Just as I was about to push into the store, the door was pulled away from me, and I nearly fell into the pony beyond.

She drew in a gigantic gasp, and an absurdly large grin broke out across her face. “Berry Punch?!” That condescending tone, that over-enunciation, as if it was a radical surprise to run into somepony who had always lived in the same town as you.

“Hi, Ditzy…” I muttered, still doing my best to hide behind my forelock.

“Well, how about that!” she continued, unaffected by my own tone. “Gosh, how long has it been? How’s um… golly gee, what was her name?”

I could feel a bubble of pure anxiety rising in my chest.

“You know, your sister?” Ditzy finished. “How is she?”

I drew in a deep breath, steadied myself. “Ditzy, if you don’t mind I’m already late to meet some ponies.”

She cocked her head.

I raised my eyebrows, nodding in the direction of the store which she so thoughtlessly blocked.

“Oh, goodness! That’s my mistake, Berry.” She scrambled forward and pushed past me into the street. “Well, we’ll have to catch up sometime!”

“Sure thing…” I murmured.

The door closed behind me, a little bell tittering over my head.

Somehow only noticing me for the first time, BonBon looked up from the large binder of cardstock she had been poring over. “Oh, hey! There you are, Berry!”

I flashed her a small smile.

Vinyl whipped around from her place in the shop, glasses pushed up onto her forehead, red eyes glinting. “Damn! Only about forty-five minutes late this time. Impressive.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t listen to her. We only just got here ourselves,” BonBon explained. “Come over here, Berry, and help me find some good paper.”

My eyes still trained on Vinyl, I wandered over to stand beside BonBon. Vinyl eventually turned around to continue browsing the available fonts.

“Hey.” BonBon gave my a little elbow.

I shook my head a bit and looked at her. “Hm?”

“Are you doing alright?” Her voice, gentle and sincere. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

I shrugged. “I mean… yeah. Yeah, what wouldn’t be okay? You don’t always have to be checking up on me, you know.”

“I was just asking.”

I chewed on my lip, stayed silent for a moment. Once the silence began to settle into awkward territory, I cleared my throat. “So, what exactly are we doing?”

“Um…” BonBon struggled to jump tracks. “Well, Octavia wanted Vinyl to send out save-the-dates.”

“Yeah, and I have a fuckin’ brilliant plan,” Vinyl shouted across the shop. She started over to our position near the paper.

“Vinyl!” BonBon hissed. “For Celestia’s sake, this is a nice place!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Vinyl nodded towards the disgruntled elderly mare behind the counter. “I’m used to much more swear-appropriate spaces.”

I clenched my teeth.

“Wanna hear about my idea, Berry?” Vinyl asked.

“Not particularly.”

“So!” Vinyl stomped her hoof to articulate her brilliance. “The whole ‘thing’ with me and Tavi is, like, opposites attract, right?”

“Sure.”

“So my plan is, since we gotta pick paper and font--”

“--and layout and phrasing and--”

“--Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Vinyl waved away BonBon’s corrections. “We gotta pick font and paper. I wanna get, like, one totally righteous and crazy thing, and then one super fancy and up-scale thing. Like a real gnarly paper with cursive, or one of these lacey deals, but with, like… I dunno, vaporwave text effects.”

BonBon cleared her throat. “Well… some of that is possible.”

“Sick.”

“Are you sure that’s what Octavia would want?” I asked. “It sounds pretty wild for her.”

Vinyl shrugged. “I think she trusts me. Why else would she ask me to do this on my own? She likes me, she likes my style.”

BonBon smiled. “That’s kinda sweet.”

Vinyl smirked. “What can I say? We’re the fuckin’ cutest.”

I rolled my eyes. As if an echo, Vinyl rolled hers right back.

BonBon, ever trapped in the middle of the tension, coughed delicately.

“Whatever,” I said. “I’ll let you know if I find ‘gnarly’ paper.”

Vinyl trotted back over to the other side of the store, leaving me and BonBon alone again.

BonBon ran her hoof along the deckled edge of a sample. “You know, you didn’t have to come out with us. I know you and Vinyl can sometimes…”

We both peered over at the pony in question, currently nodding her head to a beat that nopony else could hear.

“... butt heads,” she finished cautiously.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“I know, I know.” BonBon turned a page in the sample binder. “But just because you can doesn’t mean you have to.”

I grimaced. “I mean… I have to do something.”

“I suppose.”

“Would you rather I just stay shut in all the time?”

“Berry, I invited you out.”

I fell silent. How is it that I always managed to do this? Even the most benign of conversations could somehow turn me to spite. I hated it.

As we browsed the binder, my thoughts drifted. The papers all looked the same, honestly. Barely different colors (some literally exactly the same, with a minor textural difference being the only defining feature), slightly different edges. Nothing screamed ‘DJ’ to me, which seemed to be what Vinyl wanted. I knew that her request would leap up and bite me, if such a thing existed, and so I practically dozed as I turned page after page cream-toned cardstock.

A wedding was probably the last place I wanted to be. And it has nothing to do with my own bitterness regarding “happy endings.” It’s more like… Well, it’s like a betrayal. I don’t know how I could go have fun without guilt, you know?

“Hey, hey!” Vinyl drew me out of my thoughts after a mere moment of contemplation. “Check this out!”

She held up a binder similar to our own, showing off a particularly elegant entry. “Save the Date,” it read, in beautiful--yet conservative--calligraphy. Each stroke of the pen left shimmering silver on the page, yet behind the particularly tight curls and turns the lay a soft pink. It didn’t just call Octavia to mind… it practically shouted her name from the rooftops.

BonBon smiled. “That’s a nice choice!”

“Nice choice?” Vinyl repeated. “Nice? Dude, this is the perfect thing!”

“You don’t wanna keep looking, see if--”

“Perfect!”

“Okay!” BonBon chuckled and shook her head. “Okay, it’s perfect.”

“Now we just need the perfect paper!” Vinyl smiled triumphantly. “Halfway there!”

She squeezed herself between us at the paper-sample binder. Her mane danced distractingly in front of me, the fringey bits of blue tickling my snout. The mare was incapable of standing still.

“Find any good stuff?” she asked.

I ground my teeth.

“W-well…” BonBon flipped back a few pages. “This one’s blue?”

She was right, technically. Though it was less the assaultive, electric blue which Vinyl bore. More of a powdery, baby blue.

Vinyl reacted exactly as one might expect.

She scoffed. “Bon. C’mon.” She gestured to the paper. “Not radical.”

I snorted and shook my head in an attempt to join the conversation from behind Vinyl’s mane. “There aren’t exactly boundless options for you. This is a sophisticated place.”

Vinyl flipped her mane back to glance down at me. “What, you’re saying I’m not sophisticated?”

“Is that, like, some sort of surprise?”

Vinyl allowed her mane to fall back over my snout. “Do they have anything less… fragile?” She said, to BonBon only.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize I was being excluded. I withdrew from the conversation with a light ‘harumph,’ just to be sure everypony was caught up on my internal monologue, and began to wander the store.

Ponyville Stationary was a cute place. In a way. The interesting thing about it was that, while it seemed very neat and tidy at first glance, it was actually a gigantic mess. The illusion of organization came from the strict adherence to their visual aesthetic (which was, in a word, granny). Beyond that, there was no adherence to anything. At all. The place was a sty-- papers everywhere, tacked to every surface. Fluttery paper bits and “notes to self,” even unrelated scraps of cloth or photographs just… out. In the general space of the store.

Honestly, it was sort of impressive how well the illusion held up. You really had to tilt your head and squint to see the mess at all. It seemed purposeful.

My gaze drifted about the store, dancing over the pastel menagerie, and finally landing on an odd little display built into the wall. It blended right in with everything else, but it appeared to be a photo album.

“Ah, those are my customers!”

I jumped what felt like a full meter in the air and let out a small exclamation of surprise.

The elderly mare, the one who owned this little place, was standing just behind me. She wore a wistful smile as she looked past me at the photos. A little pair of spectacles was balanced on her wrinkly snout.

“Your… customers?” I asked.

She nodded. “Lots of ponies come here for lots of things. Some want scrapbook tips, or to print playbills. Most of my customers, though, are here to get married, yes?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

“Well, dear--” She reached past me to turn the scrapbook to its cover. “--these are their wedding photos. Oh, I just love showing ponies this book. So much love in these pages!”

I watched as she turned the pages of the scrapbook. Each page had a group photo from the wedding, an individual photo of the couple (sometimes a first dance, sometimes feeding cake to one another, sometimes a kiss at the alter, or any number of other things), and one copy of their wedding invitation. The photos started in black-and-white, their edges crumbling. The latter half of the book was empty.

“Wow…” I let a smile grace my own lips.

“You see, I made each of these invitations special-order,” she explained. “The couple comes in, and I design the invitation just for them. These older ones just aren’t nearly as good as my latest--”

“Wait, wait,” I stopped her with a hoof on the shoulder. “You do wedding invitations special-order?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “It’s in the window.”

She pointed to the large front window. Sure enough, there was a simply ancient sign which read ‘Unique Wedding Invites: Available On Request.’

I sighed deeply and shook my head. “Vinyl…”

She ignored me.

“Vinyl!” I repeated, louder. The volume made the old mare jump.

“What?” Vinyl whipped her head up. Everything that mare did was quick and aggressive.

“You should probably come over here!”

Once again, I withdrew. The three ponies began to discuss their plans, their budget, all the nitty-gritty details that didn’t hold my interest. I went back to browsing the wedding album.

The photos, especially the candids, called to mind a familiar and bittersweet rumble in my chest. Rolling in like the tide, washing out to leave everything softer. Gentler.

It was hard to stay peeved as I looked at the photos. This is what Vinyl wanted, after all. She just wanted happiness and comfort and her photo in a book like this. It was very picket-fence of her, to be honest. Not the move you’d typically expect of a pony like her.

And yet…

I kept turning pages. The nostalgia of the past began to turn over to the present. Photos were color now; more vibrant, better quality. The dresses were newer. The ponies became familiar faces, ones who still lived right here in town. And without those rose-tinted glasses, a different feeling nestled into the recesses of my mind.

Difficult to identify. Something of a wish, a longing. But not so pure as that.

I looked back over at Vinyl. She was practically galloping in place, dancing on the very tips of her hooves as the elderly mare held back layers of papers pinned to the walls.

“That’s it! That’s it!” the bride-to-be was exclaiming over and over.

She turned to BonBon to give her a hearty shake of excitement and revealed the paper.

It was a perfect, stark white. About two-thirds of the way down were there horizontal stripes of pure color: light blue, dark blue, purple.

It was perfect.

“I remember the stallion who ordered this one. Wasn’t even for a wedding!” The mare chuckled. “Just a show of some kind. But I thought it was a nice little piece of graphic design. How many will you need?”

The conversation faded into the background once again.

Crisis averted, I suppose.

“Tavi’s gonna love these.” Vinyl was still holding up the prototype. This was something like the two-hundredth time she’d expressed this particular sentiment. “Holy crap! She’ll love it.”

BonBon chuckled good-naturedly. “So you’ve said.”

“I just--” Vinyl sighed and stuffed the invite away, at long last. “I just want to make her happy, you know? Proud. She left me in charge of everything and I wanna prove to her that I deserve it.”

“You’re doing a fine job, Vinyl,” BonBon said with a playful nudge to her shoulder. “Just fine.”

“Where is Octavia, again?” I asked.

Vinyl huffed. “We’ve told you this, Berry. She’s in Canterlot looking for a flat.”

I wrinkled my snout up at Vinyl’s bristled tone, but resisted mocking her. “Why aren’t you with her, exactly? I’m assuming you two will be living together after marriage?”

Vinyl rolled her eyes so hard I could see it through her shades. “We’re having a wedding here. Somepony has to plan it.”

BonBon swallowed, cleared her throat delicately.

“I’m, uh…” Vinyl sniffled, forced a laugh. “I’m also sorta garbage with that stuff. Too eager, apparently.”

“I can see that,” BonBon agreed. “Tavi has an iron stare. I’ll bet she’s doing great”

Vinyl’s smile and energy returned at the mention of her betrothed. “Gosh, you think she’ll find us one of those cool Canterlot apartments like on Pals? With the big window and the balcony and kooky neighbors… Damn, that’d be awesome.”

“You can’t actually get an apartment like that in Canterlot,” I said. “And definitely not on the wage of two mares in the customer service industry.” I chuckled to myself.

As usual, my humor was not well-received, and the conversation ended there.

We walked along in silence for a few minutes. The streets of Ponyville were still busy as ever, and the chaos of it all nearly made the silence natural. It was hard to have a chat when you were constantly being jostled about by crowds, talked over by strangers in their own conversations.

Eventually, I’ll admit the silence got me.

“Um… are we going somewhere else?” I asked. “I thought it was just invites today.”

Berry leaned around Vinyl, the great separator. “Octavia wanted us to look around for some possible florists. It’s a little early to actually get flowers, but… you know.”

I nodded.

“First stop, Roseluck!” Vinyl pointed triumphantly forward. “My gal’s a roses mare.”

Her gal.

The longing boiled in my veins again.

I remembered Roseluck. Sweet mare, if a little anxious. She had been a few years above me at school. I think the same age as BonBon and…

Oh dear.

“Hey, uh, I heard there’s actually a new florist in town.” I trotted a few steps ahead of the other two. “Her name’s Petunia? Petunia Petal? She seems real nice, and--”

“Nah, nah.” Vinyl shook her head. “This isn’t a petunias kinda wedding.”

BonBon frowned. “I don’t think the florist’s name has much to do with which flowers they actually sell.”

Vinyl looked doubtful of this. Only Celestia knows why.

“Besides,” Bon continued, “we’ve known Roseluck for years! I’d like to patronize her place if we can. It’s been so long since we saw her last!”

“Don’t you think that’ll be a little awkward?” I asked, panic creeping into my voice. “She’s the nervous type. Won’t she think we’ve been avoiding her or something? Best just to go somewhere else, catch up with her later, don’t you think?”

Please catch the hint.

Please don’t make me go.

“Berry, you’re acting ridiculous,” BonBon said. “Are you sure you’re not the nervous type?”

I laughed forcefully. “Maybe you’re right! I could go home, or--”

“Bonnie!”

Fuck.

BonBon turned towards the shout of recognition, a grin spreading across her face. Vinyl and I stopped short and turned with her.

“Rosie!” BonBon ran over to embrace her old friend. “Gosh, we almost missed you! How are you?”

I cringed away from the happy reunion, hoping I wouldn’t be recognized.

The town bustled along behind me.

“I’m just great, thanks for asking!” Roseluck gestured to her storefront. “We just moved shop! So many customers, we could afford to expand! Ain’t she a beaut?”

It was nice. In the glances I could manage from behind my forelock, I saw a deep green building bursting with healthy, vibrant flowers. Roseluck was positively glowing with pride.

“Oh, wow!” BonBon began to take in the surroundings herself. “It’s wonderful, Rosie!”

Rose beamed. “How’s my favorite chocolatier, then?”

“I’m good, I’m real good!” Bon responded. “We’re actually here to chat with you about a sale!”

“A whole group of you? Don’t tell me, don’t tell me…” She thought for a moment. A look of recognition slowly dawned on her. “Are you planning a wedding?”

BonBon squealed with glee and bounced up and down. Roseluck did the same.

I backed off a bit.

Vinyl looked taken aback by this reaction, but grinned anyway.

“Who, who!” Roseluck demanded. “Who’s getting married, Bonnie?”

BonBon looked over to Vinyl.

She giggled somewhat sheepishly and rubbed the back of her head. “It’s, uh… it’s me and Octavia. We’re finally tying the knot!”

Roseluck looked as though her smile might burst out of her cheeks. “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful! Gosh, where is that mare? Is she not with you?”

Before Vinyl could say explain, the world slowed down.

A puzzled look crossed Roseluck’s face as she, once again, took stock of the ponies before her. There was more missing from this group than Vinyl’s fiancee, that much was true. She scanned us, trying to figure out just who was missing.

“Well, gee…” she said.

Don’t do it. Don’t say it.

“You’re missing Lyra, too, aren’t you?” Roseluck observed oh so astutely. “Knowing her, she wouldn’t miss this for nothin’. She must have something else pretty amazing lined up!”

“Oh…” BonBon’s face fell. She looked back at me, realization and apology in her eyes.

Vinyl stiffened as well. I could almost see the wave of discomfort running up her spine. I guess this was something we still agreed on, wasn’t it? How strange.

“Oh, Rosie…” BonBon bit her lip. “Lyra passed away last year.”

Chapter Two

“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.

ACT ONE: LOVE/HATE

Woke up, I’m in the in-between

There are things here I no longer want to see

The thunder rolls in through the curtains

And I remember her

~~~

Joy around me, undeniable

I cannot join them

Not from anger or from hate

From guilt

~~~

I see my shadow trailing behind me

It is all of me that anyone else can see

A fraction of myself

Only the things not worth talking about

~~~

One day

I’ll have the power to change

Myself

My world

My heart