Sweat! How utterly undignified! Ugh, sweat. I refuse to accept that this offensive dampness had anything to do with me! But how did it come to be on your bedclothes, on your inconceivably attractive body, pray tell? How dare you, sir! My feline, ’twas my feline! Or else a devious somepony snuck in during the night, that bearer of ill will, seeking to frame me or worse. As I said, the very notion that I, Rarity, am capable of such secretion, even in a state of unconsciousness, is laughable at best, and downright offensive at worst!
This feeling, too, is quite unlike me. However, I must admit it is rather a splendid feeling. As if I had been exercising in my sleep. That is not to say I feel tired, no. Quite the opposite, in fact. I feel positively… why, positively invigorated! But I must leave! The walls are closing in around me, infernal cheek! This house, this restrictive space must be vacated at once!
I am out the door in an instant.
Afternoon is approaching, I can sense it, as though a passenger on the glacial wind, playfully tossing the brittle, auburn leaves. They frolic gently about my hooves, offering a merry rustle as they dance, so dead they are alive. Goodness, Rarity, that was morbid!
It is a dark day, even for the time of year, and yet this insufferable gloom causes the hopeful sunlight which pierces the rumbling, tumbling grey overhead to appear all the more optimistic. No, light is never wholly absent from Ponyville. But those dreams, those frightful dreams which beset me during the night! I remember now!
It is not that they were dark, but rather that there was something wrong with the light by which they were illuminated. It was as if the very source of it was something decisively appalling, something utterly malevolent. And then there was the company I had! Their faces were fastened on, and I could see where what they passed off as hearts had been assembled. What is more, if I recall correctly, their thoughts and their desires filled the air around us, like a sort of mist. And what they wanted was me.
“WHO’S THERE?!”
Good gracious, that is one way to obtain somepony’s attention! Springing out from behind a skeletal tree, eyes wider than, well… a lot of things, truth be told!
“Pinkie Pie!” I protest, making certain my voice is loud, but still several decibels less than my friend’s. “You startled me!”
Miss Pie gives me a strange look – I have not the foggiest idea what it signifies – before repeating her outlandish greeting of “who’s there?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, baffled. “You know exactly ‘who’s there’, darling!”
Pinkie sighs and falls flat on her face. “You’re supposed to say ‘knock, knock’, Rarity!” she moans, mouth probably full of dirt and leaves.
“I… I… what?”
Pinkie Pie is suddenly draped over my back. “Rarity, I know that you know that I know precisely what I’m talking about,” she babbles, scarcely intelligible, “but have you found it?”
“Found what, darling?” I ask patiently, shaking her off me. “I do not believe you have told me what it is yet.”
“No?” Pinkie Pie says absentmindedly, lifting up the tree she sprung out from behind, presumably so that she can look underneath it. “I could’ve sworn I told you approximately three days from now!”
It is at this point I realise that I am shivering uncontrollably. But why, then, do I not feel cold? “Pinkie dear, you are confusing me, even more so than usual.”
“Take a seat,” Pinkie intones, ushering me onto a chair which, by all accounts, did not exist a moment ago. “Rarity,” she says solemnly, “I have lost something, a very important something. I need your help to find it, and the circumstances dictate that you and only you can be of use to me.”
“Why does it have to be me?” I splutter, but not, of course, in such a way as would suggest the loss of my composure. “What are these circumstances to which you refer?!”
Pinkie Pie gravely holds up a piece of paper. It has my name scrawled on it in pink crayon. “See this?”
I squint at it. “…Yes?”
Pinkie nods at the word. “I wrote that.”
“Erm… o-okay?”
Pinkie nods at me, blue eyes practically bursting from their sockets. I have never seen her this utterly demented before. “I did!” she insists. “Look at it! That’s my writing!”
“Pinkie, I have little doubt you wrote that,” I assert, exasperated and more than a little alarmed, “but what does it mean?”
“What it means, Rarity, is that I know I’m going to know something I don’t know yet!” Pinkie cries. She is possessed, I am sure of it now. “And soon!”
It hits me, positively slaps me about the snout like the sight of somepony wearing mismatched attire, an intuition so potent it is physical. I must make her a dress! Yes, I have never been so certain of anything in my life! Pinkie Pie must have a new dress, and I shall be the one to make it for her! I will begin right away.
“Pinkie, I have just now had the most divine idea!” I cry, breathless as I pull my friend into an ecstatic embrace. “A new dress! A new dress for your good self! You simply must accompany me back home so that I may retake your measurements!”
But the moment the words have all left my eager mouth, it dawns on me that I already know Pinkie’s measurements! Allow me to rephrase: her updated measurements! I break away, staring at the space Pinkie’s face currently occupies. What a bizarre notion. How can this be? But good grief, I must be improving!
“Rarity, are you okay?” Pinkie inquires, looking rather concerned, which would normally have concerned me, however, I am presently reeling from the realisation that I am even more magnificent than I believed mere seconds ago.
“Never mind, darling, never you mind!” I exclaim, giddy with exhilaration as I turn tail and gallop back the way I came. “Sketches to draw, fabric to select! Farewell, my dear!”
I wake with a short scream, rigid with… pleasure? There had been something odd about Pinkie’s eyes yesterday, but all thoughts pertaining to her are subordinate to all thoughts pertaining to her dress, and all thoughts pertaining to her dress are subordinate to all thoughts pertaining to the dream I just had. Why, it was so… animalistic, so unbecoming, and yet… so satisfying!
It all took place in a waiting room, I believe, the whole space once again illuminated by that insidious light. I was the only pony there, so I did not have long to wait. The doctor entered the room, but as soon as I rose to follow him out of there, he motioned for me to instead lie down on the floor, on my belly. This doctor was a strange creature, indeed, in that he maintained the form of a pony, but there was a fuzziness, a lack of clarity along his edges, as though he were painted, but left unfinished and, thus, waiting to dry.
As I lay there obediently, the doctor started to pull on the strangest, most sinister apparel. It seemed tribal, ceremonial, and complete with a senseless, brutal-looking mask. Once dressed, the doctor placed a large mirror before me, taking a moment or two to carefully position it, and then a battered, brown briefcase, much closer, a mere pace from my chin.
That was when he climbed atop me, made me his. My entire body shook with the force of the bestial doctor’s exertions, and I could feel his mechanical heart pounding into my spine, his burning exhalations scorching my right ear. I involuntarily opened my mouth to utter a shameless whine, but at this point, the briefcase opened of its own accord, and something forced its way down my throat from out of the dark maelstrom within, something hot and hungry and with an appetite so great that it would not stop until I was utterly consumed.
No wonder I am restless! But no matter, I shall put my state of agitation to good use. The sketches of Pinkie Pie’s new dress I began yesterday are nearing completion. Breakfast? Good heavens, no, I simply have not the time! This project is of paramount importance. But what is this? Oh, these sketches are not correct! I want the dress to articulate both Miss Pie’s insurmountable character and my insurmountable devotion and attachment to her! This will not do! Not one bit!
There, that is more like it. An infinitely superior design, if I do say so myself, which I do say so myself. Oh, just look at the time, though! Night approaches once more, it seems!
“Hey, Rarity!”
Up to now, I had no idea I was able to jump as high as I did then. Why, I was practically an Alicorn for a few seconds!
Pinkie Pie has been standing behind me for Celestia knows how long. She looks rather sleep-deprived, her striking cerulean eyes having adopted a decidedly anxious lesser shade, the exact name of which escapes me at present.
“PINKIE PIE, for the love of an uncomplicated existence! Must you always announce yourself in this… in this lifespan-decreasing manner?!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pinkie says apologetically. “It’s just that this morning, I found another piece of paper with your name written on it, this time in the mailbox.”
I blink disbelievingly. “Somepony… mailed it to you?”
“No, no,” Pinkie giggles, “now, that would be weird! Nah, see, I reminded Mrs. Cake to remind me to remind her to put the paper in the mailbox, then to remind me to remind her to remind me to forget that I reminded her to do that.” Pinkie pauses, blinks. “Hey, wait a minute… I remember that!”
“Really, Pinkie,” I sigh, “you are becoming insufferable!” I stop in my tracks. “And what is more, you cannot be here! You simply cannot! The very notion of you seeing the design for your new dress, thereby spoiling the surprise of its unveiling is almost too much for me to bear!” I begin propelling her toward the front door. “Out! You of all ponies should be well-acquainted with the gravity of such matters!”
In but one movement, Pinkie breaks free, spinning around and planting herself firmly in the doorway with a hoof on either side of the wooden frame.
The two of us stare at one another for a time.
“Rarity, something really, really strange is happening,” Pinkie tells me slowly, “and I don’t know what it is yet. But I will find out.”
That is when I kiss her. And I do not mean a peck on the snout or the cheek. I push her up against the door frame, shoving my tongue into her mouth as I attempt to swallow her face whole. I taste my friend’s astonishment, her saliva is saturated with it, and cannot help but moan with the sensation of my body against hers, heat and softness and motion.
For the second time this day, Pinkie breaks free – why, she is slipperier than my Opalescence! – gives me a dazed look, and then promptly disappears into the frigid autumnal murk.
I do not sleep this night. I cannot sleep this night. Everything suddenly feels so unbearably delightful.
Dignity be damned, I think to myself as I slam my head into a wardrobe, then into a wall. I taste blood, and it is utterly delicious, honey by way of magma. It is scalding but oh so sweet, and laughing joyously, I bound across the room, crashing into a ponnequin. The two of us plummet, lovers of old, and I whimper with pleasure when my body strikes the cold, hard floor. What am I saying? It is not the slightest bit cold. In fact, nothing is any longer. All is white-hot, and a mere glancing blow against any and all parts of my physical being is enough to send me mad with gratification.
I clumsily arise and begin dancing with myself – quite the euphemism, one I am rather proud to have coined – screaming, overwhelmed.
Thinking of the doctor pony who was not a pony, my heart rate doubles, if not triples. The simple act of replaying the events of my dream in my head takes me over the edge. Every sensation is like a small explosion, forceful and like a type of pulse. I am now a beacon of senseless pleasure, and I shall ignite everything I can lay my hooves on, such that all may feel what I do.
But the doctor’s mask… It was not a mask at all, not really. It was his face, his true face! He had put it back on! And that was not his hot breath, but rather smoke. Something had been ablaze.
I wake lying upon the floor. It is growing dark once again. If logic is to be believed and applied, I must have slept through the entire day. So much time wasted.
Lurching drunkenly to my hooves, I perceive that a crimson halo has manifested along the borders of my vision, a tunnel of shrieking watercolour gore. So much time wasted!
The briefcase. I dreamed about the briefcase. It was empty. Something had its claws wrapped around my heart. That bestial doctor, having completed the operation, had departed, but something else had arrived. It was curled up inside me where it would keep me warm.
Pinkie Pie’s dress. I must make the new dress. Everything, everything depends on it! But which fabric to use? Which material would communicate all the things I desire it to? But what is this? Oh, it is soft, much softer than anything else I possess, surely! But of course, how silly of me! And right under your own stupid snout the whole time, Rarity, you fool!
But wait… the briefcase was not empty, after all! I looked inside it. I looked deep inside that briefcase, and I saw only black fire. Black fire and… my own face, flickering and crackling as it danced amid the flames. I was a mere cinder, utterly dark, save for the bleeding crater of my mouth!
Oh, but it cuts just like paper! A slight resistance, and then it all simply submits to my scissors! Never again shall I use the puny mainstream fabrics I have until this day bartered. This is unspeakably perfect. I have not the words to articulate this arresting contrast, this sublime relationship expressed in the snowy white and rich red.
What are you? Where did you come from?
I am you. I come from you.
I begin stitching the pieces together, a work of art if ever I beheld one. It occurs to me that the world is on fire. I am on fire. Everything burns, and it is superb, absolutely superb.
What do you want from me?
Perfection. Only perfection…
My needle has become slippery, so I replace it with a new one. It is unbelievable how well-suited this material is to the sewing machine I currently have. By Celestia, this was made to be! Something, however, is missing. What could it…? Ah, I know precisely what it is. Decorations, of course. The icing on the cake, so to speak. I shall remove them now.
I see you. I can finally see you.
Yes, but not for much longer.
I use my magic to raise the scissors.
“RARITY! RARITY, STOP!!”
I turn my head much more slowly than I would have expected. Pinkie Pie, of course, is standing there – how does she do that? – her face a living mask of ferocity and rage. “LEAVE HER ALONE!” my friend screams.
The sound of Pinkie’s cry reverberates within my skull, echoing and multiplying at a sickening rate, like an orchestra caroling from the depths of Hell. Her primal howl rebounds off my eyelids, and through the violent haze, I perceive the strained gasp I release as the deafening drumbeat of my own heart, the horrific throb of my own lifeblood overwhelms me.
With a final effort, I levitate the scissors up toward my sweltering face, intent on severing the image of my dark damnation forever. Something strikes me hard, swathing me like a blanket of stone, and the scissors fly past their target, shearing off my right ear instead. I scream. It hurts! I am in agony!
I am back on the floor, apparently. Pinkie is holding me. She must have tackled me down. I look up at her tear-streaked face, at the saliva which escapes her sobbing mouth.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” she cries.
I raise my left foreleg, bare and bleeding, and gently caress her soft head. My entire body hurts, but I am so drained now. “Perfection,” I whisper. “Only perfection…”
The sun is rising when I open my eyes, still there, against all odds. The pale smudge of daybreak spills in through the open window, sluggish and uncertain. I am cold, but I dare not reach across the bed to cover myself with the duvet. My wounds have likely dried, but I do not want to risk it. Merely imagining the horror of parting body from bedding results in a nauseous moan. The pain, speaking of which, is very much present, however, it has a distinctly dulled quality at this point. Pinkie must have given me something.
Miss Pie is perched on a chair beside the bed, using her teeth to carefully unpick my monstrous creation. She is covered in me, as if having bathed in my remains. I cannot help but gaze at the blood – my blood – gathered on and around her mouth, on her white teeth as well.
“Pinkie,” I say, and as I do, I feel my face beginning to constrict, my lip beginning to quiver. “Pinkie…”
My friend looks at me tiredly, but with palpable relief. She gently places her hoof on mine. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be fine now. You’ll see.”
“I am ruined,” I sob, the heaving of my chest causing excruciating tremors. “I am ruined! I have killed m-myself!”
“Hey, no, shh,” Pinkie pleads. “Hush now. You’ll only hurt yourself more if you do that!”
“I do not care!” I cry wretchedly. And I well and truly do not. Nothing could be worse than this. There is no spell in Equestria which can repair this damage I have inflicted on myself. I am maimed beyond all recognition, a corpse that forgot to die. “Let it h-hurt! I deserve it!”
“No, Rarity,” Pinkie murmurs. “It’s me that deserves to hurt. I did this to you. This is m-my fault. They worked so hard to make me blind, and it took much too long to see that the one I was looking for was you.”
“They? W-who are they, Pinkie?”
“They are fire,” Pinkie tells me, a faraway look in her eyes. She resumes the unstitching of my unholy artwork. “They are fire, and they’ve lived inside me since I was just a filly. The fire wanted us all to burn; that’s why they came. But I trapped them. I trapped them all inside me. I burn each day so that nopony else has to.”
I roll over onto my side, instantly regret it. “I do not understand,” I reply, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth. Oh, my ear… And I am still so cold. “I d-do not understand what you are s-saying.”
“They made you feel good, didn’t they?” Pinkie asks me rhetorically. “That’s what they do. They make everything feel wonderful. They also make it so you can do all kinds of impossible things. But it isn’t for nothing. They do it cos they want you to murder yourself in the most perfect way and as fast as possible.”
“So, what happened? H-how did one get inside me?”
Pinkie Pie sighs. “I’m not sure. There was something wrong in one of the rooms. Somepony who isn’t a pony must’ve interfered with the things which breathe and make it so the world and everything in it can, too.” She gives me a sorrowful look. “It’s no good replacing things which breathe with things which don’t, you know.”
I would like to tell myself that my mind is reeling, struggling to comprehend whatever it is that Pinkie is telling me, but all I feel is a hollowed-out resignation. “And?”
Pinkie spits a bloody thread onto the floor. “And that meant my defenses were temporarily weakened. So, before I knew it: poof! One of them just... ran away. It’s difficult keeping them all inside at all times, though. Pure chaos. Most mornings, I’ll wake up, and I’m falling from the sky or drowning at the bottom of the ocean. A few times, I even found myself already smashed to pieces or something like that. It’s a fight that never stops.”
“You must be incredibly brave, darling,” I murmur.
“I do what I have to,” Pinkie responds with an exhausted shrug, “and so must you.”
“How can I?” I exclaim. “How can I? I will never recover from… from this! I am disfigured! My life, my story is at its end!” I stare out of the window at the gorgeous dawn despairingly. “For goodness sake, draw the curtain; it has already fallen!”
Pinkie smiles down at me. “Don’t be silly, Rarity, this isn’t the end. Not a chance. After all, you should know by now that I have a few friends who know a thing or two about impossibility.”
And with that, Miss Pie begins stitching me back together again.
