I am the "great and powerful" Trixie. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. But somehow, I can never truly convince myself that I am worthy of that title. I've always known that I was never what I kept saying I was, that it was all just a lie I was telling everypony, including my self. I've always known just how worthless I was, just how small I was compared to everypony else. I would, and still do, cry myself to sleep at night. When I finally drifted off into a deep slumber, I would dream of a different world, a better world. I would dream of a world where my existence meant something, where I could do the most extraordinary of tricks. I dreamed of actually having friends, people I could talk to. I dreamed that my parents actually cared about me. I dreamed I was happy. I dreamed I could actually process the emotion that is Happiness. And I would only feel sadness when I woke up in the meaning, realizing all I had felt was a vision of what could never be. I would crawl out of my worn out bed, hearing the creaking of the rusty, worn out strings underneath me, I would look around my room, the walls covered with dust and cobwebs, and I would cry. All my dreams were, and are, just vision of a world that would never be. I would tell myself that one day the visions I had seen in my sleep would become reality, but I had always known I was lying.
I didn't really live the most luxurious life. I didn't grow up in the luxurious city of Canterlot, I grew up in Fillydelphia, the bad part of Fillydelphia. I lived in the part of Fillydelphia where the streets were covered in the blood of the bastards unlucky enough to get caught by one of the many gangs wondering the streets. I lived in the part of Fillydelphia where the houses were all run down, and covered in gun shots. There was not one day when I hadn't feared for my life, or my mothers life. Our house was just as run down as everypony else's, maybe even more. We had changed the windows, celestia knows how many times. My father would almost always be seen sitting in the only peace of furniture in the living room, drunk off his ass, yelling profanities at the TV.
My father was a terrible pony. He has a rough beard, a balding mane, and a greasy tail. He smelled like a combination of beer and shit. His personality was just as bad. I truly never saw what my mother saw in him. He was mean, abusive, and not meant to be a father of anypony. My mother was the polar opposite of him. She was a beautiful looking mare, with a long, if messy, main and tail. She was unicorn, like me, while my father was a Pegasus. Her personality was as sweet as she looked, her cutiemark was that of a bird, and boy, could she sing. Her voice was that of an angel. Sadly, she couldn't find any work that allowed her to use that talent, so she simply worked as a waitress at a local rundown diner. Any money she made went to my fathers alcholism, leaving us without food for days. My father did not have a cutie mark at all.
As I said before, my father was abusive. I would constantly be kept up at night because of the sound of him hitting my mother across the face with one of his wings. I would hear my mother crying as he would just let out all of his drunken rage on her. I wish I could have done something, I always wish I could have done something, but I was just too small, and just too afraid. I feared one day he would finally put my mother in her grave. I feared he would put me in my grave. Still, my mother stayed strong, and I tried to stay strong.
Since I did not go to school, I would stay in the backroom and practice my magic. I was able to do small things, like changing hair color, manipulating rope, the simple things. My magic was all that kept me from spiraling into total despair. While it may not of been much, I loved it. I always did. Because of that, I got my cutie mark at an early age. Even then, though, I knew it didn't mean much. I loved my magic even more due to the fact that it annoyed the hell out of my father, even though that fact sometimes ended in permanent scars. When I did magic, it was like I was in my own little world, a better world. Those were the times i ever got close to being happy.
My mother embraced my abilities, always happy to help me practice when she could. Some nights we would stay up doing magic tricks together. We would perform till the sun came up. I loved my mother, and I knew she loved me. To this day, I have no idea why she put up with my father. That has always baffled me.
The true beginning of my misery came one night when I was 11. My father was extremely drunk, and my mother was working an extra shift for a friend. My father called me into the living room one night, the first time he ever did so, and said he had a surprise for me. When I came in the room, he looked at me with a stare that implied arousal. He looked at me in a terrifying way, like he was eyeing me up getting ready to do something terribly wicked to me. And that was just what he was going to do. I'll spare you the details and just say he raped me, his little girl. My mother walked in while this was happening, and just stood in horror. Afterwords, he grabbed my mother and took her into the kitchen, and I heard her screams. He grabbed a knife and slashed at her throat, the blood pouring out, draining out of her. I ran in when I heard her screams, and ran out the door when I saw her lifeless corpse laying in a puddle of blood.
My father ran out to chase me, but Luckily, I was faster then him. I don't know what happened to him, all I can do is hope that he is either in jail, or dead entirely. All I know is that that was the day my life began to sink slowly into a living hell. All I know is that it only got worse from there. I must stop now. The pain is just too much. I will tell you what happened at a later date, when I get into my days as a runaway.
Author's Note
So, how was the rewrite?
