Author's Note
Where does the line between blame and reality lie?
I considered not uploading this darker tale and I considered too leaving it to upload months later. But, I have it to upload now and uploaded it shall be. I wanted to delve into more of a psyche study, similar to what I tried to do in My Rights but this one came together much better.
My Fault
My Fault
Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)
Don’t think. Don’t do anything. Don’t even fucking breathe.
Just walk. Keep right on walking there, one hoof in front of the other. Think about the sound the pavement makes as your hoof hits it, unshod and unwieldy. Just when are you going to get those things trimmed again? They’re long in the toe and you walk like a cripple, pushing your weight to the outside. Everyone’s laughing at you as you hide into your hood and try to look like your attention is on the ground before you and just that, moving one hoof in front of the other with agonising repetition.
Embarrassment. That’s just what you are. So just keep on walking. Maybe you’ll walk far away from everyone and everything will change then. Why’s that? Because you’ll be gone.
Gone, gone, gone.
And wouldn’t that be nice? Then nobody would have to deal with your ugly face, those brown eyes that you think can be nice, when you’re not pushing your glasses back up, but are really just dead inside. That’s why you don’t like looking in the mirror, isn’t it? See, I know. I know everything. I know that you don’t like looking in the mirror because you’re worried what you’ll find there.
What will it be today, I wonder? Hatred? Fear? Anger? Upset? Oh, I do hope you’re going off the deep end this time. It makes me so very happy. It makes a lot of other people happy too. They want to see you self-destruct, explode in the most spectacular of fashions and make a scene that will have them shaking their heads and saying that, yes, yes, they did indeed know all along that it was going to happen, anyone with eyeballs could have seen that you weren’t worth the ground you walk on.
So why don’t you be a good little filly and go give them what they want? Run along now!
Try it. Trot. Trot on! That’s it, such a stupid little filly. Keep those legs moving: trot, trot, trot! You got to get things done, don’t you know? You’ve got to move and move and move, even though you’re not actually going anywhere. You never get anywhere, no matter what you do. And why is that? Why, my dear, because you are completely and utterly fucking useless, that’s why. What a pathetic slut. Can’t even whore yourself out properly with your tits out, can you?
That’s not what you’re doing – oh, I can hear you muttering too. Did you think that part of you was sacred from me too? Did you think you could have even a shard of rest or respite from this onslaught? I, darling dearest, am here to stay and I will chew and tear away every last part of you until there is nothing at all left.
Of course, that implies that there was anything worth saving to begin with and, well, nobody would claim that. You, of course, are nothing, worth nothing. You don’t deserve to be here. So why don’t you just do the rest of the world a favour and die so someone else can take your place? I’m sure someone else needs all that junk you’ve collected a damn side more than you do. You don’t need to be stuffing that food in your gob when someone else will appreciate it so very much more. How useless you are, a whore mare that’s a complete and utter waste of space. You’ll never amount to anything and, well, dear, I’m damn well sure sticking about to make sure you know it.
Back in your own house? Aw, how cute that you think that is still a sanctuary when I follow you everywhere you go. And it’s not much of a home, is it? You move around so much that there’s nowhere you can go that is safe anymore, nowhere that I can’t find you. Do you still call it a stable? Think it’s cute that your little housey-wousey is a stable?
No, it’s not cute. It’s pathetic. Don’t you know that? You do now.
Breathe. Think. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.
Don’t be such a whiny bitch. You deserve everything that’s coming to you and, really, if you’re like this, doesn’t it mean that someone else isn’t taking this pain? You need it, you deserve it. You earned every fucking last bit of this and the only relief you’re ever going to get is in the blackness of death.
Don’t think like that. Better. Good. See the horses. Yes, go see the horses.
Oh, the fucking ponies again, is it? You think that an animal is going to help you? You think they can chase me off? You are so pathetic that it’s a wonder you’ve even made this far in your life, truly. Having to lean on an animal for support at a time like this. It’s useless. You’re useless. If you were strong, you wouldn’t have to run away with tears running down you cheeks – yes, I can see those too – for some kind of support.
Nothing. You are nothing. Won’t you like it so much better when you feel nothing too? When there’s nothing but blackness around you, floating and drifting for eternity. Of course, I don’t know what death is like, truly, but I’m sure I can feed you enough to make it a truly enticing reality, drawing you down the garden path, my little pony, to a pit you will never, ever climb out from.
You did this to yourself. It wasn’t me. It was never me. I only tried to help you. I tried to do good for you. But you simply weren’t saveable and, honestly, you weren’t worth saving. I don’t know why I ever bothered trying to lift you up, whispering in your ear and wrapping myself around you when you were in the depths of agony. Maybe my words weren’t the best ones for you to hear in those times but, hey, I tried and you should have seen the true meaning behind my words, that I was actually helping you, regardless of what I said.
Twisted... Not true.
Go on, try to fight me. I love it really. Because you fail each and every time.
Lies. They’re lying. The snake isn’t real.
Of course, I’m real, dearie – I’m right here, aren’t I? Whispering and muttering and stalking your each and every step. So try to stop me. It makes my day oh so very much more interesting, the beast that cannot be caged or tamed or sealed away through any manner of liquor or drugs. Nothing will stop me.
I will stop you.
No, you won’t. Because everything that’s happened, every last heartbreaking shard of it, is all your fault. This is why you’re up all night, tossing and turning and staring at a ceiling that seems to flicker with the shapes of demons in the dead of the night. You can sleep if you wish but I’ll still be there, hissing through your dreams as I coil and twist and turn all to the darkness. For that is all you have now and there’s nothing more for you in this sorry old world.
So go. Everyone wants you to go anyway. They want to see you six feet under and smirk at your grave. Maybe they’ll even give it a kick. It’s no more than you deserve.
It’s all your fault. Take your penance, whore, for it’s time to face the music.
It’s not my fault.
It is. It truly is.
It’s not my fault.
Oh, how I adore your pleas – so fervent! You find that last shard of energy and you think you can win, think you can turn me. But I’m here and I’m here to stay. Try. Expend your energy. It’s all futile and useless: just like you.
Leave.
No.
I’m not listening to you.
You think that’ll work? Blocking your ears to me? I’m still here and I’ll go louder if you won’t listen! Will you listen to my screams? Will you sleep when I’m howling in your ear, wrapped around your throat so you can’t breathe? Is your chest nice and fucking tight now? How’s that for showing you who’s really in charge here?
Oh little filly... Are you listening? Little stupid filly, are you there?
You’re wrong.
I’m right. And I know you’re listening because you replied: so predictable. You always give in and you always cave, always think you’re better than me. And that’s why you’re in this position now, because you think you better than everyone else, that you think you’re actually capable of beating me when, well, you’re not capable of anything, are you? You never were able to achieve a damn thing, you little emo, and the past only serves to remind you of that while the future is another hole to fall into, not the blank slate you think it is, a fresh start for your little scrabbly pen.
Are you there? You’re dull now, thick and senseless, dim-witted with idiocy. That’s why it’s all your fault too, because you never were intelligent enough to do a single thing with your life.
Little whore filly, answer me.
...
Answer me!
It’s not my fault.
Fucking cunt.
It’s really not my fault.
