It was a Monday, and so Scootaloo woke up alone. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she managed to drag herself free from the warm bed covers, despite how tempting it was to just lie there and keep sleeping, maybe forever. A lifetime snuggled in bed sounded pretty good right now.
But no, she had things to do. Places to be, ponies to hang out with, awesome scooter tricks to perform. Softly, quietly, she slipped out into the hallway, casting a furtive glance to the door at the end of it. It was a Monday, and so the door was closed. Still, Scootaloo made sure to be as quiet as she could, making her way down the hall to the kitchen. Once inside, she shut the door with a near-silent click behind her, and let out a breath she hadn’t really been conscious of holding in.
Breakfast.
Her mother always left the cereal in the high cupboard, the one she couldn’t reach. That was okay, Scootaloo was more than used to it. Grabbing a chair from the table, she dragged it over to the kitchen side, wincing at each and every screech against the floor. Once in place, she clambered up onto it, giving her wings a sad little flutter as she did so. This would be so much easier if she could just fly up there. The cupboard was still a stretch even up on her hind legs, small as she was, and the chair wobbled alarmingly as she managed to swing the cupboard door open.
Of course, it was right at the back.
Scootaloo lifted herself up onto the back of the chair, reaching out as far as she could. Just a little more. A little more…
She didn’t realise quite how far the chair was tipping until it gave way underneath her, landing with a crash as Scootaloo toppled after it. Her wings flapped instinctively, but uselessly, and she slammed into the countertop before rolling off the side and hitting the floor with a crunch.
For a moment, there was silence, the calm before the storm, and then she groaned at the hot, dull ache from the shoulder she’d landed on. Scootaloo climbed to her good hooves, and then slowly put some pressure on her injured leg, testing it.
Not broken.
Thank Celestia for that, at least. It didn’t stop it hurting like Tartarus, though. It was probably pretty bruised under the fur, but as long as she didn’t put too much weight on it she should be-
Her head snapped upright as that dreaded sound came from down the hallway. The click of her mother’s door opening. Oh crap. Not on a Monday.
Forget breakfast. Scootaloo bolted for the back door, clenching her teeth at the stabbing pain in her shoulder. This wasn’t going to help it heal, but Scootaloo didn’t care. She was out the door and closing it behind her as she heard the kitchen door handle start to turn.
And then she was running down the garden, grunting in pain with every step until she reached the end where her scooter lay buried in tangles of unkempt grass and weeds. She wrenched it free, dragged it to the path, and then she was away, scooting off towards Ponyville, the wind ruffling her mane and the pain in her shoulder only felt whenever she went over a particularly big bump. Her wings flittered happily as the morning sun warmed her feathers, and despite the gnawing and rumbling in her empty stomach, Scootaloo couldn’t help but grin.
***
“I’m tellin’ you, she told me herself!” Apple Bloom stomped her hoof indignantly against the cobbles.
“And you believe Diamond Tiara?” asked Sweetie Belle, rolling her eyes.
“Why would she make somethin’ like that up?”
“I dunno, she probably thinks it’ll make her seem more popular. Or maybe she just wanted to get under your skin.”
“What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Come on, Apple Bloom. Everyone knows you have a thing for Rumble. You even told us yourself at that one sleepover, remember?”
Apple Bloom’s cheeks burned red, only a further admission of Sweetie Belle’s story.
“What do you think, Scootaloo?” Sweetie asked.
Scootaloo blinked, shaking her head. “Sorry, what?”
“Jeez, we’ve been talking about this the whole way home. Where have you been?”
Rubbing her neck nervously, Scootaloo sighed. “I was just thinking about something, sorry.” Just thinking about the ache in her shoulder. Just thinking about going home. Just thinking about not doing that and dragging the walk back from school as long as possible. Just thinking about anything but home. “What was the question?” she asked sheepishly.
“Do you think Diamond Tiara really got a love letter from Rumble? She keeps telling everyone she did but Rumble says he doesn’t know anything about it.”
Scootaloo blinked. “That doesn’t sound like Rumble.”
“That’s what I said!” shouted Sweetie triumphantly. “See, Apple Bloom? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Apple Bloom did not seem convinced. “I guess…”
The pulled to a stop so abruptly that Scootaloo rolled on a couple of feet before realising. Oh. They were here.
“Okay, see you tomorrow Scootaloo!” said Sweetie Belle brightly.
“W-wait you guys,” said Scootaloo, unable to keep the edge from her voice. “Don’t you want to hang out in the clubhouse or something?”
“Oh, sorry. Rarity needs some help with the store today.”
“Yeah, and I gotta help out AJ with the harvest.”
“O-oh,” said Scootaloo.
“But we can hang out tomorrow maybe!” Apple Bloom said, trying to diffuse Scootaloo’s clear disappointment.
“Sure,” said Scootaloo, trying to sound more excited than she felt. “Tomorrow.”
Her friends gave her one final wave before setting back towards Ponyville, leaving Scootaloo to push open the dilapidated wooden gate, dump her scooter back among the weeds, and make her way up the overgrown path towards the back door.
Acrid smoke filled her nose as she pushed it open. The chair Scootaloo had knocked over that morning still lay on its side, right where she had left it. Her mother sat slumped over the kitchen table, cigarette burning in her hoof and overflowing ashtray beside her, along with an empty wine glass next to a not-quite-empty wine bottle. Her mane was messy and matted, the rest of her fur not much better. She didn’t look up as Scootaloo entered.
“...hi, Mom,” she said.
Her mother didn’t answer right away, instead exhaling a long trail of smoke that drifted slowly up to the ceiling. “You woke me up this morning.”
“I did? Sorry, it was the chair. I-”
Her mother raised her head, dark circles around glazed eyes. “How many times have I told you to keep it down when I’m sleeping?”
Scootaloo cast her gaze down to the floor. “I’m sorry, Mom. I fell and-”
“I’m going back to bed,” her mother said, stubbing out her cigarette and grabbing the glass and bottle. “Don’t wake me up again.”
“Okay, Mom. Sorry.”
“And pick up that fucking chair.”
And with that, her mother shambled out of the kitchen and down the hall, disappearing into her bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind her. For a moment, Scootaloo stayed stock still, waiting, listening. When she was satisfied that her mother wasn’t coming back, she lifted the chair back up and tucked it under the table where it belonged.
Her mother wouldn’t come back out for the rest of the evening. Scootaloo took the opportunity to practice her scooter tricks outside, right up until it got too dark to see and she had no choice but to return home. When dinner time came, there was still no sign of movement from her mother’s bedroom, and Scootaloo knew she wouldn’t be hungry even if she was awake. Instead, Scootaloo had to search the kitchen herself. The refrigerator was practically bare, and the cupboards weren’t much better. If she’d had the bits she could have made her way into town to get some groceries, but there was no way she was going to wake up her mother again. In the end, she was able to scrounge up enough to make herself a couple of peanut butter sandwiches. Not exactly fine dining, but the bread and peanut butter were there, and at least it was somewhat filling.
After locking up the house, Scootaloo finally turned in for the night herself, loud snores echoing down the hall as she brushed her teeth. Loud enough that even with her bedroom door closed, it was a long time before Scootaloo was able to fall asleep. She lay awake in the dark, nursing her bruised shoulder, listening to the snores, until eventually she was tired enough that even the noise couldn’t keep her from sleep any more. Until even the thought of having to get up tomorrow couldn’t keep her awake.
***
It was a Tuesday, and so Scootaloo was woken by her mother gently shaking her awake.
“Five more minutes,” she murmured, digging her head further into the pillow.
“Alright, but you better be up by the time I’m done in the shower.”
Scootaloo drifted in that in-between of sleep and wakefulness as the soft clop of her mother’s hooves stepped out of her room. She heard the bathroom door shut, and shortly the sound of running water, slowly lulling her back into sleep. All too soon, it shut off, and she quickly pulled herself upright with a groan.
She staggered into the kitchen, where her mother was already sat, towel wrapped around her mane, eating her cereal across from an empty bowl laid out for Scootaloo. When she sat down her mother pushed across the box without a word, and together they ate in virtual silence, aside from the crunch of their food.
Scootaloo could feel her mother’s slightly unfocused gaze on her, but she kept her head down, trying to pretend like she didn’t know, avoiding eye contact at all costs.
She hated Tuesdays, perhaps more than any other day. They were the days when her mother was so close to being how she used to be, being a real pony again, rather than… Rather than that empty stare from glassy eyes. Rather than the conversations that started nowhere and ended much the same. Rather than her mother’s smile that only made the sadness in her face even more pronounced. So close to the pony she still was deep down, that it only made the pony in front of Scootaloo now even more horrifying, made her heart ache even more.
Her mother finished first. She never ate much anyway, and her near-skeletal thinness was there to prove it, the outline of her ribs clear through her fur. With a disappointed sigh, her mother shuffled over to the counter. Scootaloo kept her eyes glued to the table, to her food, as the familiar clink of glass against glass and sloshing liquid filled the room. Freshly filled drink in hoof, Scootaloo’s mother dropped back into her chair a little too heavily. She sat there for a moment, sipping her wine and watching her daughter, and then finally broke the silence that had been hanging over them like a shroud.
“How are you doing, Scootaloo?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Everything okay in school?”
“Yes, Mom.” Scootaloo didn’t know why she bothered. The same tired questions, the same equally tired answers. An interrogation from a mother who had never really learned how to talk to her daughter, even after all these years. Who had never really tried to learn. Who had been too busy refilling her glass to care to learn.
“And how’s Sweetie Belle, and Apple Bon?”
“Apple Bloom,” corrected Scootaloo.
“That’s right,” her mother said. “Oh, you should invite them over some time. It’s been so long since I last met your friends.”
Scootaloo glanced apprehensively around the filthy kitchen. “Yeah, maybe,” she said, knowing that she would never invite her friends around to her house again. Not after the last time. Not after every time before that. She cringed with embarrassment just remembering her mother’s attempts to act friendly, stumbling through the house and continually barging in on their sleepover, drunkenly trying to take part.
No. That was never going to happen again. Scootaloo wouldn’t put her friends through it. They’d never talked about it after, never mentioned how they’d awkwardly played along, trying to be polite. Shooting Scootaloo glances that asked so many questions Scootaloo had no way to answer. Is she always like this? Is she okay? Is she going to leave?
And that was on the good nights, the ones where she could still manage slurred speech. The ones where she could still stumble around of her own volition. Scootaloo couldn’t bear to imagine what her friends would think if they saw her on the other nights.
The nights where she would have to drag her mother to bed. The nights where she would find her collapsed on the floor, and have to check to make sure she was still breathing. And that horrible, unforgivable moment, where Scootaloo wasn’t sure what she wanted the answer to be. Or the nights where her mother got angry, got nasty. The nights where she took every part of her pain and hurled it at her daughter, as if Scootaloo was somehow to blame for every mistake she had ever made. It would always start with something tiny, insignificant. Something that she should have dealt with anyway. Perhaps Scootaloo hadn’t done the dishes yet, or mopped the floor. Some small excuse that she could blow way out of proportion. And all the other nights besides.
No, Scootaloo wasn’t as young as she’d been then, back when she’d tried to have friends over. She wasn’t as naive. And as long as she lived under her mother’s roof, she would never ever subject Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom to this again.
Scootaloo finished her breakfast, back in that awkward silence. At one point her mother excused herself to the bathroom, and Scootaloo heard the telltale sound of the medicine cabinet opening. It was one of her mother’s hiding places. She’d always found that quirk particularly weird. Most ponies would just have a drinks cupboard, was her understanding, or some other place to keep it. Whereas her mother had squirrelled away bottles all over the house, in various cupboard and drawers – some that made perfect sense, and others that seemed nonsensical. Scootaloo didn’t know why she did that, but she had some theories. Perhaps so there was always a bottle around and available, ready to have to hoof at a moment’s notice. Perhaps so her mother couldn’t tell how much she was drinking; so she could look at a bottle and say to herself Ah see, it’s half full. I haven’t had that much, and not feel as guilty as she poured her fifth glass of the day before noon. Scootaloo was pretty sure it was something like that, and probably a little bit of all of them.
When her mother returned it was with a little more sway in her step, a little more flush in her cheeks. She dropped back into the chair a little too heavily this time, and it creaked in protest under her weight. She gave Scootaloo what she must have hoped was a reassuring smile, but Scootaloo saw the guilt buried so deep that even her mother had convinced herself it wasn’t there.
She always saw it.
And when her cereal was finished, and Scootaloo dumped her bowl in the sink and made for the back door, she could see the pang of loneliness that flashed across her mother’s face.
“Bye honey,” her mother called out, as she pushed open the door. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Mom,” Scootaloo replied, out of pure reflex. She glanced back for one moment before closing the door behind her. Her mother sat there, no longer able to keep the sadness and exhaustion at bay behind a fake smile. A broken mare falling apart at the seams.
Scootaloo was long past feeling sorry for her. She had done, for a long time, but that feeling had been well and truly stamped out by now. She’d given her mother every chance to change, she’d been more patient and understanding than anyone else had been. Definitely more than her father had been.
She’d hated him for leaving when she was younger. Now, she still did, but only because he didn’t take her with him. Because he left her to take care of the train wreck that her mother had become.
Scootaloo shut the back door and started down the path towards her scooter, and she didn’t look back once.
***
It was almost dark by the time Scootaloo returned. She’d pushed the crusading as long as she could, any excuse to play and spend just a little longer with her friends, instead of coming home. It looked so bleak and imposing as she pulled her scooter to a stop outside the rickety gate. Dark grey brick, jet black glass windows staring down at her. No lights on inside, despite the encroaching darkness, despite that Scootaloo knew for a fact her mother was in there. She always was, on a Tuesday evening.
She was probably asleep. That was the pattern, of course. Drink so much that she passed out, sleep off the alcohol just enough to wake up and then drink some more until she passed out again. The predictable cycle.
But her mother was not asleep. Scootaloo found her in the living room, curled up on the sofa and staring out a dirty window at the world outside, clutching a bottle tightly. Not wine. Something a lot stronger.
She blinked fuzzily as Scootaloo lit the lanterns. “Oh, hi honey,” she said happily, her words slurred and breathy. “Did you have a good day?”
“Yes,” she said. Right up until now, she left unsaid.
“I should make you some dinner,” her mother said, frowning as if surprised she’d only just thought of it.
“It’s okay, I can do it,” said Scootaloo.
“No, no, I’m going to…” Scootaloo’s mother pulled herself up off the couch, only to lose her balance immediately and tumble back onto it with a loud giggle.
Scootaloo didn’t find anything funny about it at all.
“Maybe… Maybe you should do it,” her mother murmured, eyes closed.
“Okay,” Scootaloo replied, privately thankful her mother wasn’t going to try cooking anything. It was never more adventurous than stuff she could put in the oven and forget about anyway. And then she would forget about it, and hand Scootaloo a plate of blackened bits and pieces while assuring her that they were fine, she should stop being so fussy, they’re just a little burned, what’s the problem? Better Scootaloo do it herself and avoid all of that. “Do we have anything?” she asked.
“Yes,” her mother replied softly, already starting to drift into sleep. “I went shopping today.”
Scootaloo died a little inside at the thought of her mother staggering through the market in the state she was in. That lack of self-awareness was perhaps the worst part. Whenever her mother insisted on dragging Scootaloo with her, and she was forced to bear the brunt of her mother’s behaviour, because she was so far gone she didn’t even realise how bad things had gotten, didn’t realise that having to stumble home, leaning on her daughter for support, was not normal.
She shrugged off the memories like water off a duck’s back and made her way into the kitchen. Scootaloo had gotten very good at forgetting things like that when she needed to. She wouldn’t have lasted this long otherwise.
A brief forage through the kitchen cupboard confirmed her suspicions. Mostly just poorly stacked cans of various foods. No fresh vegetables, no bread, nothing that could easily spoil or required even the slightest bit of preparation. Because if it could spoil, it would. If it required effort, it would never get used. Scootaloo didn’t really know how to cook – and it wasn’t as though her mother was ever going to teach her – but at least she could read the directions on the back of a can or box.
***
It was a Wednesday, and so Scootaloo was woken by a rough shake from her mother. The pattern was set, now. When she woke up on Thursday and Friday it would be to more and more careless attempts. Often on Friday her mother would just chuck something at her from the bedroom doorway. Usually it was soft. Sometimes it wasn’t. Scootaloo had learned to get up early on Fridays, just in case.
The days would pass like always. School, friends, laughs, fun. The evenings would pass like always. Awkward silences. Poorly cooked food. Chores that she wasn’t asked to do but wouldn’t be done otherwise. There used to be arguments in the evenings, lots of them. Back when Scootaloo had been angry. Goddess, she’d been so angry. When she got old enough to realise how bad everything was, how this wasn’t normal. Lots of young ponies went through a rebellious phase, Scootaloo knew, and maybe that was all the anger had been. But she didn’t think so. It wasn’t a phase, it wasn’t anger for the sake of it, it was retribution. It was fury at the fact her mother would rather drown herself at the bottom of a bottle than to be a mother. Hay, to be a pony.
The anger had stopped after a while. Once Scootaloo realised it didn’t lead to anything but more fights, more arguments. It didn’t fix anything. So after that, she’d tried a different approach.
She’d tried to help.
Scootaloo had done every single thing imaginable to make her mother see what she was doing to herself. She’d bargained, pleaded, yelled, begged. None of it had worked. Her mother was so steeped in denial and hopelessness that all of Scootaloo’s efforts were just shrugged off. They couldn’t be true, because if they were then she would have to change. If they were, then she would have to face them.
One time, in an attempt to get her mother to see how far gone she was, Scootaloo had taken an empty bottle and filled it with water. When her mother walked into the kitchen, she poured it down the sink.
Scootaloo never did that again. Her mother had rushed at her, screaming hellfire, her face a rictus of fear, anguish, and pure, unadulterated hatred. Nothing her mother had ever done had hurt as much as the expression on her face in that moment. Nothing had ever made Scootaloo feel so heartbroken as her own parent staring at her with such wild hate, the kind that was usually reserved only for someone’s most mortal enemy. And in that moment, before Scootaloo explained it was just water and not her precious alcohol being poured down the drain, there was not a single flicker of love in those eyes. Not a trace.
When she had explained, in tears, as her mother wrenched the now-empty bottle from her grip, that look of rage was replaced, just for an instant, by horror as Scootaloo’s mother realised how angry such a small thing had gotten her. And Scootaloo thought she had gotten through. It would all have been worth it, if she could just have gotten through.
And then the moment passed, and it was back to indignation and embarrassed anger. Not with the same vehemence as before, but anger nonetheless.
And that was when Scootaloo gave up.
In that fraction of a second she’d seen that her mother knew. Deep down, she really did know everything. The denial was her protection. And when it cracked, and the truth shone through, she was too scared to let it break. It was back to denial, back to the bottle, and never think about it again. Patch up the breaks and act as though they never happened. Scootaloo wondered if she even remembered that moment, if she remembered dropping the bottle on the floor with a loud thunk and ordering her sobbing daughter to her bedroom. She had probably chosen to forget.
Scootaloo couldn’t forget it even if she wanted to.
And so she’d stopped trying. There was no point. The anger was gone. The sadness was gone. Every time she looked at her mother, every moment she spent in that house was just hollow, empty. The world was grey and cold and there was just no more room in it for anger and sadness. There was too much nothing to worry about instead.
And so the Mondays tumbled into Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, and on and on and on.
And then would come Saturday.
***
On Saturdays, Scootaloo wouldn’t be woken up at all. She would stir awake far too late, the morning almost over. Her mother’s bedroom door would be shut.
But Saturday was a good day. At least while the sun was up. It was the best day. Scootaloo would wolf down whatever she could find for breakfast, sprint down the path to her scooter, and ride on down towards Ponyville.
The wind whipped through her mane, her eyes stinging as Scootaloo beat her wings faster and faster. The ache in her shoulder had faded to almost nothing now, and its slight presence only spurred her on.
Where was she?
Scootaloo scanned the skyline, searching as she bounced over the cobbles of Ponyville’s streets. There! A speck in the distance, moving too fast to be any bird. Scootaloo broke out in a wide grin as she skidded around a corner and set off in the direction of the speck, out towards Sweet Apple Acres.
When, finally, she got close enough for Rainbow Dash to spot her, the pegasus above gave her a wave, and Scootaloo could see the cocky smile on her face even from here. Dash lowered her head and began to speed up, and Scootaloo followed with a smile of her own. The race was on.
Above her, the rainbow streak stretched across the sky as Scootaloo grit her teeth and accelerated down the dusty path. Faster, faster. She let out a happy cry as she vaulted a particularly large bump, and still she pushed, more and more, until her wings started to burn with effort and there was nothing but the rushing wind and rolling wheels, blood pumping so hard through her veins.
She rode like her life depended on it, like there was nothing else in the world. She left everything behind her, and whenever the memories and the doubts and the worries started to creep back up to her she’d just go a little faster, outrun them a little more.
And for the first time ever, the rainbow above her was starting to dwindle as she neared the source. For the first time ever, Rainbow Dash didn’t simply disappear into the distance over the finish line and wait for Scootaloo to catch up. Instead the little dot began to grow until it was pegasus-shaped once more, and Scootaloo’s smile widened. She was doing it. She was catching up. She could-
Scootaloo didn’t see the branch, but she did hear the crunch as it went under her scooter’s front wheel, did feel the sickening lurch as it seized up beneath her and threw her off like an ill-tempered mule. And she definitely felt it as she went sprawling into the dust. The world spun, the ground rose up and smashed into her as she tumbled and rolled, coming to a stop a good distance from where her scooter landed, one wheel still spinning uselessly in the air. For a moment, she lay there, waiting for the pain to set in. It did.
Grimacing, she pulled herself to her hooves, sore, battered and bruised, new grazes on her legs burning from the dust as she brushed herself off, wincing at each jolt of fresh pain.
Fuck.
With a wordless shout of frustration, Scootaloo yanked off her helmet and threw it at the ground. It hit hard enough to bounce, rolling into the shrubs at the side of the path, almost hitting the familiar pegasus that had landed beside her.
“Easy, squirt!” Rainbow Dash said cheerfully. “You could hurt someone.” And then, looking at Scootaloo’s beaten up form, “Er, more than you already have.”
“I crashed,” Scootaloo said pathetically, sinking to her rump in defeat.
“Yeah, I saw it. Don’t worry, it looked awesome.”
Scootaloo blinked. “Huh?”
“You shoulda seen it from up there. Two words: Totally. Badass.” Rainbow Dash grabbed the helmet and planted herself beside Scootaloo, looking down at the smaller pegasus with a grin. “And you came out of it without a scratch!”
Scootaloo laughed bitterly. “No, I didn’t,” she said. “I got a whole bunch of them.”
“Pff. Battle scars, Scoots. They just make you… I dunno exactly, but some percentage cooler.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. And it saved my butt too.” She reached out and ruffled Scootaloo’s mane. “I didn’t know you had it in you, squirt. When’d you get so fast?”
Scootaloo shrugged, staring down at the divots she’d made in the dirt.
“You woulda had me if you hadn’t eaten shi-” Dash caught herself. “I mean, crashed,” she finished, lamely.
Scootaloo smiled, but that gnawing disappointment still overwhelmed anything else inside. “This wouldn’t have happened if I could just fly,” she said, bitterly. Her little wings flitted restlessly as she spoke. “I hate it. I wish I could just fly away like you can. I’d never have to worry about crashing again.”
Rainbow Dash thought for a moment, and then stretched her own wings out to their full, impressive wingspan. “You see that?”
“What?” Was she just showing off? Rubbing it in?
Dash reached over and parted her fur at the ridge of her wing, revealing a jagged, silvery scar. “That.”
“How did you do that?” Scootaloo was sure the answer would be appropriately awesome. Fighting a dragon with her friends, or saving the world, or-
“One time, I wasn’t paying attention and flew into a tree,” Dash said.
“A… A tree?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone.” Rainbow Dash leaned back with a rueful grin, “Applejack was pretty mad at me. It was a good tree before I hit it, apparently.”
Scootaloo laughed despite herself.
“But you know what?” Dash asked. “Everyone crashes, Scootaloo. I crash. The Wonderbolts crash. Everyone messes up sometimes, everyone has a bad day, or even just a bad moment. So what do you do?” Rainbow rose to her hooves and stepped over to Scootaloo’s scooter, pulling it upright and wheeling it back over to her. “You get back on, right? You try again. And you keep trying, no matter how many times you crash, or mess up. And you don’t give up. Falling down doesn’t make you a loser. Giving up does.” And with that, Rainbow pressed the slightly battered helmet back onto Scootaloo’s head. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not a loser.”
Hesitantly, Scootaloo stepped back on to the scooter. The handlebars felt right in her hooves, the deck like home. And all that frustration started to melt away, thawing like snow in sunshine.
“Thanks, Rainbow,” she said, quietly.
“Hey, I don’t want my best competition to throw in the towel,” Dash replied with a grin. “Alright, let’s see if you can keep up. Last one to the barn’s a rotten egg.”
“Oh, it’s on.” Before Dash could react, Scootaloo launched herself down the path, the familiar rush of speed all she needed to wick away the lingering sullenness. She heard Rainbow Dash tear into the air behind her, and together they raced off into the distance, an orange blur below a rainbow trail.
***
Later, as the moon began to creep over the horizon, Scootaloo regretted not taking the time to recuperate after wiping out. She ached all over as she wheeled her scooter the last few feet to her house, but it was a good ache, one that felt earned. Her good spirits had already begun to fall, though, as the house loomed. No lights again, but this time it truly would be empty. It was a Saturday, after all.
She dumped her scooter in its usual spot, and quickly made her way up the path, letting herself in with the key under the mat. The rest of the evening passed much as usual, although her mother was nowhere to be seen. Scootaloo knew where she had gone, though. She knew what happened on Saturday nights. If she’d been around earlier she would have seen her mother bustling about, picking out clothes, trying to find the right makeup to hide the bags under her eyes.
She wasn’t back by the time Scootaloo went to bed, which could either be a blessing or a curse. It wouldn’t matter either way as long as she could fall asleep before her mother got back. Scootaloo lay there in the dark, eyes tightly shut, trying desperately to fall asleep, counting sheep, breathing slow.
But she was still awake when she heard the door open. Scootaloo sighed in resignation as she heard loud muttering and giggling from the kitchen, followed by her mother’s drunken shushing. And then the low voice of a stallion. She’d found one, then. She usually did.
They spent some time in the kitchen, muffled voices and too loud laughs, and then Scootaloo heard the pair of them stumble past her bedroom and into her mother’s. She heard the door shut, but it didn’t stop her hearing them through the thin wall. Not clear enough to make out actual words, but that wasn’t going to be the problem. Scootaloo grabbed her pillow and buried her head beneath it, desperate to block out the sounds that would soon begin, and waited.
She lay there for what felt like an age, until her hooves holding the pillow grew stiff and sore. It still wasn’t enough to quite block out all the noise, no matter how tightly she clutched it, and Scootaloo could only grimace into the pillow in answer. If only she’d fallen asleep.
Eventually, finally, the sounds quieted. Scootaloo resurfaced and sunk down into the pillow, already trying to erase everything she’d heard from her memory. It didn’t work, it never worked, but as long as she could stop thinking about it… Never think about it.
And with the remnants of those sounds still ringing in her ears, Scootaloo finally drifted off to sleep.
***
It was a Sunday, and when Scootaloo woke up to go to the bathroom, she almost walked into the stallion emerging from her mother’s room. He was wincing and clutching his head as the morning light shone into his eyes, and he probably didn’t see her until the almost collided. She couldn’t have missed him, however; he was big even for a stallion, but skinny, and gaunt. When he did spot Scootaloo he peered down at her with a strange expression – disgust mixed with disinterest, the kind of expression one might give an insect before stepping on it. Not that Scootaloo ever really did that. She’d much rather just put them outside.
And when he looked at her like that, Scootaloo just rolled her eyes and shut the bedroom door in his face.
Later, once she’d heard him leave, she re-emerged. Her mother’s door was shut. It would only open briefly on Sundays. To let out the stallion she’d brought home. To grab another packet of cigarettes, another bottle. To rush to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet. The usual.
Scootaloo made her way into the kitchen with aims on breakfast. On the table were remnants from the night before. An ashtray, full. Two glasses, empty. A bottle. Scootaloo stared at the bottle for a long time.
Just what was it, she wondered, that was so compelling? That was enough to make her mother do nothing else but drink and not even really live any more. To barely exist.
Scootaloo had tried it before, of course. She hadn’t really understood the appeal, though. It had just made everything… fuzzy. Unbalanced. It had felt like the world was sliding out from under her hooves, and it didn’t even taste good.
But there had to be something, right? So many ponies drank so much of it. The queue to pick up the Apple’s cider when they made it stretched almost further than you could see. Why?
Before Scootaloo had really thought about it, she’d poured some of the blood red liquid into a glass.
Was it really worth it? she wondered, lifting it to her muzzle and sniffing, filling her nose with the tart scent. Was it that special?
…
Should she?
Maybe it would stop her hurting. Maybe the fuzz was the point, making it too hard to see and feel anything else through the haze. Maybe it was better than the alternative. Floating through the days, not just having them beat through her over and over like a drum, one by one by one.
She raised the glass to her lips.
…
No.
Scootaloo set it down again, eyeing the wine warily, as though it might sneak up on her if she wasn’t careful. Like it almost did.
But that would be giving up. Her mother had given up, she saw that now. The allure wasn’t the drink, the allure was not caring, not seeing. It was giving up and not feeling the consequences. But Scootaloo wasn’t a quitter. Rainbow Dash had seen it, and she’d told her so, and Scootaloo knew Dash was right. She wasn’t going to give up, and no matter how many crashes life threw at her, she wasn’t going to become her mother. Scootaloo was better than that.
She’d made it this far. She would get through this, however long it took, and she would move out when she could, and she would leave her mother to her loneliness and her bottles and her throwaway stallions. Scootaloo would leave her in the prison of green glass that she’d made for herself, and she would never look back.
And she wouldn’t give up, Scootaloo told herself, as she emptied the glass down the sink where it belonged.
Because she’d seen what giving up looked like.
***
It was a Monday, and so Scootaloo woke up alone.
