Sunday:
Berry Punch hated Sundays. They were, in every sense of the word, the worst day of the week. You see, it all started out so grand. So relate-able. On Friday everypony was happy. "TCIF!" Thank Celestia It's Friday. Meaning the weekend was in-bound.
Friday's were easy. After work, the bars were packed. The patrons were all happy to be there. The drinks flowed like spring melt down the mountain. It was clear and clean and easy.
After two or three, everything got this sort of 'pause button' for Berry. Things got slow and steady; words came easy and smooth.
The bar would come ALIVE. The lights shined on HER. The only music was music that she knew ALL the words to. She was a hit. Not a drink was on her tab. The rest of the Friday night crowd was her friend. The Friday Night was her friend.
Saturday was a bit trickier.
Saturday morning was always like a walk through oatmeal. It was slow and wet and a mess.
What had happened the night before? There were so many happy faces and happy songs and happy times... where were they now?
The memories came in fitful spurts. Start and the Stop, like a broken wheel on a cart.
Years before, it may have been charming. Little lapses of lost time that added up to a good night. How long ago had that been? Berry Punch brushed her teeth in the mirror and get ready for a shower. Not out of any desire, mind you. Desire is inherently dependent on a self-driven need or want. No, this was out of social obligation.
The morning of Saturday started because the alarm said so. The ponies in town decided that Saturday was going to start prompt and early and nothing Berry Punch said or did was going to change that.
The shower was probably the worst of it all. In the shower of a Saturday Morning, there was nothing but alone time. THAT is when all the memories came back in force.
Had Friday really been that good? Everyone had a good time, sure. That was obvious to see on the smiles on their faces. “But what about when I spilled that one drink? The joke that I told that fell flat and everypony just nodded to before changing the subject...” Under the shower head, it all came flooding back. The water was an unwelcome simile to the past nights' events.
It was a show. It was an act. It was for the benefit for all the other ponies. Friday Night was fun because the other ponies agreed it was fun. The circle make Berry's head hurt. The logical fallacy made life want to stand still... But nothing stood still. Saturday was here.
Saturday was the second worst day of the week. Second only to Sunday. Sunday was the worst.
Saturday dragged on. It was dead and lifeless and pointless.... pointless. Pointless until there was that bottle in the cabinet.
It was hard, yeah. Something like 45% from Sweet Apple Acres. It was "The Good Stuff" or as her friends called it, "The Best Stuff."
Berry never called it any of that. It wasn't "Good" or "Best". It just was. It used to be "Best" oh so long ago, but that was beyond remembrance.
"Nah. It's not even noon! Who drinks before noon?!" Berry willed herself to think. Her coat was still damp from the shower as she stood, face to the floor in her kitchen.
It was an argument that was not even worth having. Her logic and reason had tag-teamed the most dense and problematic situations. They could overcome feeling and remorse and sorrow and all the stupid, romantic sentiment that had weighed all those "other" DUMB ponies down.
Berry was not stupid. Berry was not a redundant foal.
She knew how this argument would end.
"It's 5 O'clock somewhere."
"It's called a 'Breakfast Beer' and it's actually the symbol of being quite well-traveled."
"One. Will. Not. Hurt. You."
...
All of a sudden, Saturday became the BEST day.
...
The rest of the day was SO easy.
It only existed in fits and spurts. It happened on-again and then off-again. It seemed like the only things that happened (or that could be remembered) were the best.
Parties happened on Saturday. Picnics happened on Saturdays. Camping and Hiking and watching Sports. They all existed on this day.
It was social and it was fun. Ponies loved Berry when there were social gatherings. Berry was so much fun at parties and gatherings and sports.
She was quite quick, you see. She was sharp and snappy and just the hint of "laid back" that other ponies could never quite pull off at the time time.
For Berry, it was SIMPLE. It was a joke, really. How could she (or any other pony) ever be so concerned about crowds or faces or social situations? Just a few drops and it was all SO natural.
Then it became more.
Then the ponies brought out their own stuff. They all started having their own drinks and Berry had to keep up. She was "Berry Punch: The Party Animal" so there was no way that she would pass on shots. She had never in the past, and this Saturday would be no different.
Nothing would hold her back.
Except "The Fog".
We could, dear reader, be getting ahead of ourselves. "The Fog" does not exist on Saturday. Saturday is about nothing but drinks and friends and food and events.
Sunday is the worst day. Berry hated Sundays.
Sunday is, by all definition, the day that "The Fog" exists. It's only fair to lump all the bad into one day.
Sunday was when Berry woke up at 11:30 AM for the simple and isolated reason that you could answer "no" to the question of "did you sleep until noon".
It was a day that was dark and only got darker.
The shower was now totally forced. Berry was not going out to see anypony today. There were no parties planned for Sunday. There were no events. The shower was routine, and it HAD to exist. The shower HAD to keep going, like brushing her teeth on Sunday or doing dishes in Sunday. If these things did not exist, then it meant giving up. Berry was smart. Berry was kind and loving and nopony had a bad word to say about her. She did not give up. She did not give up on herself and she did not give up to the point that friends would think there was a problem.
....
But that wasn't really true. Because "The Fog" had hit last night. Saturday Night.
The shots all happened SO easily. It all fell like domino's, just one piece after another.... It was clear that shots would be offered, and then a chaser after that. It was calculated. It was logical and understandable.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped making sense.
The words and quips that Berry was well known for... became slow and slurred...
The puns and wit and wisdom... was muddy and unexpressed...
"The Fog" had taken over. Somewhere along the way, it had slipped into the evening and spoiled it. "The Fog" made things dark and dim and slow and slurred and muddy and murky and dank and depressing and one great big run-on sentence of 'how could that be me??'
"The Fog" was to blame. In the shower on Sunday. "The Fog" was what made life unlivable.
The moments of the night prior crept back in. Splinters and fractions of things forgotten came crawling back.
Ponies were no longer laughing at the amusing things that Berry had said... but instead laughed at the way she had tried, and failed, to say them.
Ponies were no longer entertained by her amazing wit or wisdom... but by her inability to grasp words a foal would know.
Ponies no longer enjoyed her slick movements and winning dexterity... but they enjoyed the time she staggered and fell down.
The bruise on her flank was purple and red and all the wrong colors. It was mocking her for falling off a seat in the bar... when had she gotten to a bar last night? It must had been after the sports event... or was that last week?
"The Fog". "The Fog" had blurred the events. It had descended like an unwelcome guest over the night and taken hold. It was ALWAYS there. It always took hold these days.
Sundays were the worst. Sundays were the place where the events of Friday and Saturday began, for the first time, to take focus. They started to come in perspective as to... what Berry really was...
Was she as sly and smart and quick as she thought? The ponies last night were laughing, but AT her and not WITH her.
It all started coming back. The night before. The week before. There was a time that she had not had an EXACT weekend like that, but Celestia only knew when.
Berry got out of the shower and found some food to eat. Leftovers. Of course. Sunday was the day of leftovers. Leftover food, fun, and memories.
"It's not so bad" she thought. "It's not so bad. A little salt. A little spice and water.... that's all it needs."
Memories kept crystallizing. She had fallen off a bar stool. She had flirted with a married stallion. She had told a joke that, in no WAY could be thought funny... "The Fog" had done it's job obfuscating the truth all thought Saturday Night. Saturdays were the best, really.
But, the next day, they were so, so bad.
And there, in that same dark cabinet, was that bottle of the "Best Stuff." It was the same always-half-empty bottle that was constantly being drank but always refilled... it sat there and it waited in the back of Berry's mind.
"The Fog" was gone, you see. It existed only on Saturday Night when there were people and places and events that needed Berry to be social and special and approachable. "The Fog" was nowhere on Sunday.
And that same bottle sat in dark stillness in the kitchen cabinet for Berry. She, at that moment on Sunday, would have given ANYTHING to forget it was there. But no. She remembered every failed joke and every face-plant and every awkward moment and every painful memory from every past Friday and Saturday... and she remembered that there was half a bottle....
Every drop eager and thirsty for her blood.
It was Sunday.
There was no pony to impress.
There was no party to attend.
Berry didn't need to "tie one on" to fit in.
She didn't need to "throw one back" to relax.
Berry didn't need to "have a few" in order to stop being uptight.
And yet, that bottle was in her hoof.
It was dark and at the same instant shown with the light of the sun. It had all the promise of the sea; I will set you free... so look and despair.
No matter what, Berry was going to stay at home, do nothing, and then sleep until Monday.
There was no need for this bottle. It's promise was hollow and empty as the bottle from last Sunday.
Berry drank on Friday to party with her friends.
Berry drank of Saturday to fit in.
Berry opened the bottle on Sunday and poured into an empty glass.
Sundays were the worst.
