Rarity's a Sociopath

by leeroy_gIBZ

Rating: teen
Tags: Alternate Universe, Sad, Equestria Girls, Rarity, Tragedy, Shining Armor, Twilight Sparkle (EqG), Sex, Human, Dean Cadance, Drama
Length: 5344

Rarity has antisocial personality disorder. Normally, that's not a problem. Then Cadance gets involved.

Rarity lives a good life. To the world, she's a beautiful fashionista, a paragon of grace and virtue, an exemplar of generosity and friendship. Furthermore, she has a girlfriend who loves her dearly - and buys her everything she wants. However, a lady can only keep up an act so long...

An argument spiraled out of control one day, and Sci-Twi came home with a bruise that day. Now Rarity's secret is in danger and Cadance is determined to uncover the truth about her and her charming facade. Seated in a trendy cafe, Rarity's carefully constructed life is about to come crashing down.

Edited by: Samey90 and Waxworks
Written for: ArtistFire's Disabled Character contest

Featured: July 26 2019

Published 2019-07-25 18:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2019-07-25 18:20:01 UTC

Over Civet Coffee, Events Transpired

Rarity has Antisocial Personality Disorder

Some time ago, Twilight mentioned her family – I had not particularly cared to ask up until that point, for I had no particular reason to do so. Personally, I hadn’t seen our relationship as more than just a fling. Scandalous, I know, but I do hope to be heard out nonetheless.

Now, I liked Twilight – I honestly did. She was an immensely useful sort of person to be around. Not only was she quite well off–she had to be to afford her endless array of gadgets–but she was generous with it. A lifetime of being disrespected by institutions gave her quite a lot to be humble about. The girl was just well-versed enough in everything I cared for to be a pleasant conversationalist, and she was awfully easy on the eyes to boot.

But it's her lack of self-esteem that I do wish to stress here. Certainly, perhaps unfortunately, she’s made leaps and bounds of progress ever since transferring schools. However, despite Sunset’s best efforts, she’s remained quite the doormat. Obviously, she isn’t in the same league as Fluttershy is, but said fuchsia-haired supermodel is, alas, straight.

What I am trying to put across here is that Twilight, when with somebody she’s rather fond of, melts into the sort of person you can literally slap an apology out of.

Normally, I like to think myself, myself being Rarity Belle the fashionista extraordinaire, to be the perfect lady or, at least, a very convincing facsimile thereof. I am cultured, classy and, most importantly, composed. Usually. However, I do have boundaries. Any sensible human being does. Mine are reached quite soundly with the introduction of a vegan chai macchiato to a pleated skirt.

It wasn’t my fault. Not entirely. Liken it to a hound. A pretty one. An Afghan perhaps. If you torment the poor dear with… oh, I can’t perfectly say, a dreadfully dry hours-long lecture on the theory of relativity maybe, she is likely to become just a teensy bit irritable. Top it all off with getting the wrong brand of treat–in this lady’s case that would be mistaking zircon for glass of all things–and one gets themselves quite the powder keg.

So yes, I did hit her. Rather soundly, with a balled fist, rings unremoved, right on the lower neck. But I did so only because I was at my tipping point – a place at which I make efforts never to be within five hundred feet of.

Twilight apologised before I could, with tears brewing like a thunderstorm beneath those adorably retro spectacles. Of course, being a lady of upstanding character, I accepted it, and hugged her while explaining the situation in terms she could safely comprehend before generously donating her a silk scarf, a beautiful one patterned with rosemary springs – it matched her eyes and hid the bruising – and then I sent her off on her way home.

To my infinite surprise, a police cruiser collected her. I presume that it was operated by her brother, a beat cop with aspirations unmatched by anything other than his own ego. Alas, I am of the firm belief that the law warrants neither of those things, and that the men who enforce it are crude, classless, crusty boars. Of course, being animals, I cannot fault them for hooting and squealing when somebody properly groomed, myself for example, crosses into their general vicinity. I can however fault them for getting grabby. I carry a taser nowadays, one Twilight engineered to be and I quote, “doubly effective, now with 2000 times the electrifying technology.”

Bless her heart – she nearly melts mine.

Anyhow, this story is not about her. It is, as all great tales are, about a far more important woman. Somebody with some charisma. Somebody with some cunning. Somebody with the savvy to actually put their brains and beauty to good use. Until recently, I naturally thought this story was about myself.

Then arrived Mi Amore Cadenza.

She, as Twilight was so kind to mention, was her sister-in-law – her brother’s wife, in addition to her guidance counsellor, shoulder upon which to cry, and former school dean. Being a lady, I chose not to comment on that vile flavour of nepotism. Instead, I simply smiled, I nodded, and I suggested that Twilight should introduce this Cadance to me at the new and trendy café downtown. I heard it served civet coffee.

Now, I am a generous person by nature – I adore the concept of charity and the upliftment of one’s neighbour. Especially when said neighbour is me, and somebody else, such as Twilight, is footing the bill. If such is not the case, purchasing good standing is a perpetually helpful ability nonetheless.

Hence, while waiting, for a lady is never tardy – I could have been fashionably late, but fashions come and go, while style never does. Being perfectly punctual was perpetually stylish and that was definitely what I was.

Café del Sade was a French affair, from the Chateauneuf region, I do believe, right on the Maritime Alps and sharing a border with Italy. This logically meant that they were capable of producing the best cup of espresso known to man, woman, or interdimensional talking horse princess. I ordered myself a double civet espresso, pushed aside my internal grievances at the $77.34 price tag upon it, and assured myself that Twilight would happily provide. I arranged a table for three overlooking the rest of the city.

Outside, the balcony was refreshingly modern – opposed to the tasteless faux art deco interiors. Seated on a table of brushed steel and frosted glass, with just a hint of mahogany, I went through my preliminary preparations since darling Twilight and Ms. Cadance appeared to be running tardy.

My makeup was immaculate, my hand mirror informed. As was my hair, coiffured to perfect and tinted an exotic-yet-approachable shade of belladonna. My jewellery, all of it, glinted in the noonday sun and my outfit, a seductive-yet-respectable black halter dress and a comfortable pair of Louboutin kitten heels, should impress quite nicely.

This was, after all, my first time meeting Twilight’s family. I needed to make a good impression, at least until I left for college in Lucerne next semester. Then the girl could be safely disregarded and forgotten about, likely tucked away at Everton or some other Ivy League institute for the socially-inept and haplessly gullible.

The coffee arrived. Deposited on my table in a petite little glass – the café’s logo frosted onto the side – it smelled glorious. The civet coffee, the exotic and expensive Kopi Luwak always spoke to me of success, of pride and prestige, of rising about one’s own rather unfortunate circumstances and seizing victory from the jaws of defeat. Contrary to popular rumours, it does not, in fact, stink of cat faeces.

Pinkie raised, because culture only counts if nobody is watching, I took a sip. It was an incredible espresso, sweetly smooth with a hint of walnut and caramel. I would drink it everyday if possible, if not for one thing: it was dry.

With nothing else to do, save for fret and stare nervously at the door in the hopes I hadn’t stiffed myself out of two month’s and one commission’s allowance, I called the waiter over.

“Ah, Garçon?” I said, with a royal wave of the hand and a flutter of the eyelashes. “I’d appreciate some assistance.”

The waiter rushed over – he couldn’t have been a day older than myself and, unlike myself, he actually looked seventeen. His voice cracked, “Yes miss?”

“Be a dear and bring me another coffee. Kopi Luwak again, but in an Irish Coffee this time. Add Blue Label, if you have it.”

The boy gulped. He tapped something on his tablet. He showed me a number. Twilight would pay. She always does. This might be the most expensive Irish Coffee in history, but I was nothing but deserving of it. After all, I work very hard. I am very generous. I deserve to have my whims catered to, and I have many whims.

“Yes, that’s right. Hurry and there’ll be a tip in it for you.” I blew him a kiss – that would be all the tip he would be getting. Ladies do not trade favours for service, especially not with middle class acne-ridden teenagers.

Some minutes later–too many minutes according to my phone– Twilight had not arrived. Neither had Cadance. I am not a patient person by nature, but I make an effort to be. Goodness is sometimes worth the wait, and I was technically obliged to remain here until I had paid my bill. It was not that I was incapable of sneaking and or seducing my way out, I merely had nothing else to do.

Contrary to popular belief, fashion is merely a hobby, not my entire life. I am a human first, and a couturière second.

Right now, I was an impatient human. Staring out over the skyline, at the LEGO-brick buildings scattered about and sprawling towards the horizon, I drummed my fingers on the glass tabletop. I sighed and, to my horror, nobody was around to hear it and avert my boredom. Truly, one must never arrange a date on a Thursday. I never could quite get the proverbial hang of Thursdays.

My second beverage of the afternoon arrived. This one tasted of luxury, of deCadance, of the frivolities I aspire to commit every single day of my life. The whiskey complemented the coffee magnificently, and they played a daring duet across my palette as I watched a bunny-white cloud drift across the dusty blue sky.

I know I could be doing something right now; however, I was not in the mood to do anything but simply stare, my little tiff with Vignette Valencia soundly turned me off social media for the time present. So, disregard what one says about art being a consistent practice. They lie. Art is flashes of abrupt inspiration, closets of unfinished projects to be donated and collections of sleepless nights when one is kept awake by one’s own fears. That is Art. It is suffering and, being horribly uninspired right now, I felt I was become quite intimate with that.

Well, I do suppose I can do one thing. I can continue this internal monologue until my girlfriend finally arrives, aunt and cheque book in grateful tow, and I can get this wretched afternoon over with. Another sip of the Irish Coffee. My, was it the naughtiest thing one could drink. Naughty in the sense of well-made lingerie that is, its especially risky, not in the sense of drawing on the walls – a dreadful habit my sister was prone to until quite recently.

Speaking of my darling kin, I do suppose this is a good opportunity to set certain things clear. Yes, I am lower middle class. Painfully so. It is one thing, a rather shameful thing might I add, to be an Ohioan. It is another to be the spawn of the most Middle America Middle Americans to ever walk this earth.

Think of a stereotype and my family will likely embody it. My father works a nine-to-five he’s had since 1988 and is a loudmouth lummox who enjoys the Super Bowl, NASCAR, Republicanism, and takes his co-workers out to Hooters. My mother has a beehive hairdo, housewifes up some poor turkey twice a year for Christmas and Thanksgiving, possesses a fondness for boxed red wine, and is a member of the Canterlot High PTA. My sister, tragically, enjoys superhero flicks–whichever is currently on the big screen she doesn’t care–in addition to K-pop, and she obsesses over boys like they’re beings of actual personality and worth rather than convenient means to the dual ends of getting off and getting pampered.

I would ask for pity if I were not talking to somebody who knew better than to give it to me – myself. I do suppose this does sound rather callous, yes, but I do enjoy being honest from time to time. It is stupendously refreshing from constantly having to pretend to tolerate everyone else. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t who I was. But, then again, I would do so only if I knew I could content myself with the mediocrity the rest of my family indulges. If I could feel their cheer, share in their underwhelming hopes and dreams, fall in and out of love...

Alas, I cannot. Don’t fret, I do have an excuse for being what I am, one that even surpasses the already-respectable margins of good taste as well. The few people who genuinely know me, read: my parents, my psychologist, Sunset Shimmer, as well as a few exes here and there, would all testify if given sufficient incentive that I am a sociopath.

They’re not wrong either.

Technically I suffer from Antisocial Personality Disorder, which is a dreadfully long and unladylike word to aptly describe a person incapable of being, well… being good.

Yes, I know that I am the Element of Generosity in this dimension – I’ll come to that later but, for now, do know that I am a very convincing actress.

Anyhow, ASPD as it is kindly abbreviated as, is a mental condition. Some would go so far as to deem it a disability, although, sitting in Canterlot’s most expensive café and drinking its most expensive cocktail, I have never felt overly disabled. I am not, and do pardon my French, crippled by it. I am merely deeply inconvenienced, and I go to lengths, some would say great lengths, to make sure said inconveniences are as minor and keep my reputation intact.

And, for I still lack a superior pastime past drinking heart-cuttingly-expensive alcohol, more of which I have already ordered, I shall now recite the list of symptoms I ail from.

No, not really. That would be boring.

That would be something Twilight would do, if she ever found out about my unfortunate little secret.

Simply put, and I am paraphrasing here my psychologist, I lack the essential team-building emotions that society, any society now not just Middle America, so heavily relies upon to function. Basically, I can’t feel pity, compassion, or remorse.

That all, combined with a rather glaring propensity for compulsive lying, spree spending, and excuse-making deem me the neighbourhood sociopath.

Of course, I know this - I do possess a great deal of self-awareness. I’ve known I was different in a less than ideal way ever since I was eight years old and I vivisected my cat, Opal. Yes, that Opal. No, not that particular Opal, merely her predecessor whose replacement I kidnapped from the spinster across the street. Do not fret, Mrs Cinch is a malefic toad-eating hag of a woman and her beloved pet is much happier in my possession.

Alas, all would have been fine if not for my parents finding out. Not that I stole a cat and slew another out of pure boredom, but because I nearly bullied a child to suicide. Now, she was disabled. Not just socially disabled, as some would argue correctly that I am, but she was physically incapable too. Pastel Palette, yes that was her name, was properly crippled – and do excuse my French there. Never feeling wrong about it, I tormented the poor girl, nearly right off a rooftop if not for Pinkie’s deft reflexes and ability to defy spacetime and appear wherever the downcast require her to be.

A rather firm conversation was in order. My parents, the school principal, and I were all in attendance. I was recommended a real psychologist, not just our bargain-bin school counsellor – a dreadfully boring and banal badge bunny, or so I’m told. We never actually met, but I digress – two sessions in and the prognosis was clear.

A lack of conscience does not a productive and helpful member of society make. Somebody unfortunately prone to distasteful things such as deceit, bullying, theft and, possibly worst of all, egoism do not a capable human being make. Unless certain efforts are went to, that is.

Being very aware, even then when I was barely ten and still clad in dungarees of all things, that I was not going to fit in normally and, if I relaxed and went with the flow, somebody would invariably get horribly hurt and I would be horribly punished, I decreed that something needed to be done. Simply put, I decided to stop being a delinquent.

I chose to be a lady.

No one ever seriously suspects a lady, do they?

I put on the mask, so to speak. I put on a vaguely-aristocratic accent as well as my nicest skirt and blouse, a ring or two of costume jewellery and a hint of discounted mascara. I went into high school pretending to be above the hoi polloi.

Of course, Sunset made that rather difficult.

She, however, is not the only person capable of blackmail.

I might be a sociopath, but she slept in the library.

Curiously enough, after that little discussion and a bit of prompting, courtesy of my lucky scissors, she mostly left me to my own devices. How fortunate she did so too, because I discovered that I was actually rather fond of fashion, of the high life and of its glitz and glam. What began as a survival mechanism gradually turned into a lifestyle. And what a spectacularly enjoyable lifestyle it is, sitting here and drinking $100 Irish Coffees.

Now, I don’t know if there’s even a mask anymore. What I’ve been monologuing in really is my genuine speaking voice now. Although I can safely say that my outfit is a few steps higher up the social ladder, and that my tastes have become somewhat more patrician that fairy tale princes and courtly romances.

Of course, the question is then: why do I not simply go all the way? I have already established that I possess the brains, the beauty, the sheer force of personality to do great things, terrible things. Suffering from what I suffer from, it is not like I am ever actually going to regret any of it.

Well, quite simply, I was planning to, until certain events transpired. My habit of tossing away my rejected outfits to the less fortunate – again something done to keep up appearances as well as something done to clear out the closet – could be turned into a legitimate charity. The sort of charity that exists solely to funnel currency into my coffers.

Then Twilight came into my life.

I do not mean this particular Twilight.

Her counterpart, however, had other ideas. Suddenly, I was the Element of Generosity charged with keeping my old rival on the straight and narrow. Again, as I’ve stated before, I only put in if I’m getting more out. But now, I have certain ideals to live up to. I have responsibilities and I have convictions.

No, not really.

Not on an emotion level.

I don’t make friends for the sake of Friendship – I do it because I require other people, in various capacities, to get the most out of life. However, whenever I start being overly callous, cruel, crow-like, I am now forced to remember something.

The world is magic.

It has consequences.

Even for me, it does. No longer can I gallivant about and enjoy all sorts of pleasures without repercussions. Not when I have Sunset and the others unintentionally, usually, breathing down my neck. Not when actually breaking a friendship with one of these Rainbooms can shatter the only defence this world has from apocalyptic dark magic.

Honestly, during the whole Sirens affair, I was this close to walloping Rainbow Dash with her own guitar and trading in my loyalties to Adagio Dazzle, hopefully in exchange for unlimited wealth, power, and the key Sonata Dusk’s bedroom.

However, I saw through their little hex. Lacking empathy does have an upside occasionally – even if the mundane upsides translate to the equivalent of a reserved parking space at the local K-Mart. I realized that I would be fish food, literally, no matter what bargain I attempted to make.

The same applied, though hopefully not literally, for the rest of my magical encounters – Gloriosa, Juniper, Valencia – all would have cast me aside the second I stopped being a useful minion. Even Sunset herself was content at brainwashing the school and taking her homeland back by force.

That left me with two choices.

Either be good, and get better at it.

Or be bad, and become the best at it.

I decided, after no small amount of hemming and hawing, to be good. As good as I could be, given my condition. More effort was put into learning how people tick, how their hearts worked and what I was supposed to feel. Of course, I can’t feel it, but I can understand it intellectual. I am still though, excuse the French, our little team’s weakest link, after all.

But I am a member.

To the world, I am still Rarity Belle, lady and an epitome of grace, a personification of style, and the quite literal Element of Generosity.

Of course, I still have limits. Unfortunately. One can only feign for so long, even on reflex one still gets tired. One makes mistakes. Mistakes that, even though I can’t regret, I still realize can cost the world it’s freedom. Masks start to chafe.

I live in the world.

And I value my freedom very highly.

That’s why I date the human version of Twilight. Speaking of, she just sent me a text.

My phone trilled and, apparently, she couldn’t make it.

It's times like this I do so desperately wish I had more self-control. I am cultured, classy, and composed. All of that is by choice. Compulsive spending, compounded by a desire to be seen as the best person in the room by any margin, is not something I would choose if I had the choice.

I was now down $419.52, awfully tipsy, and the unfortunate splatter-faced waiter has been replaced with a stern and definitely uncompromising manager who has just started her way across the balcony to my table.

Oh joy.

I do sincerely hope I can charm my way out of this. She’s awfully close now, with a horrid stern glare and a pinstripe pantsuit that tries to look more expensive than it really is.

A woman burst into the balcony and my jaw hit the sidewalk, fifty stories below.

My clothes were good, stylish yet seductive. Hers were bespoke, entrancing and imperial. My hair is good, coiffured and luscious. Hers was amazing, flowing on an invisible wind and perfectly natural. My body, excuse the vulgarity, was good. Hers? Let’s just say I had trouble tearing my eyes away for just a second to listen to the managerial tirade unfolding in the background.

In short, I am rather attractive. And Aphrodite had just entered the restaurant.

She didn’t walk so much as glide. She glided, this positively pink angel in an impeccably smoothed pencil skirt, silken-soft blazer, and mesmerizingly low-cut blouse, right over to my table for three.

The manager conjured a menu. The angel ordered a tea, the kind Twilight prefers – I had to get her something for her birthday, so a box Marsala Chai it was.

The manager disappeared. The angel sat down, and I’m almost rather ashamed to say that I didn’t pull out her chair.

“You must be Rarity,” said Cadance.

I opened my mouth, and suddenly it was desert dry. I closed it.

“Twily told me all about you.”

Even though it was a faux-pas, I had no alternative. I merely nodded, dumbstruck. How had Twilight’s porcine schlub of an older brother married her. Married this?

“Don’t worry, she said only good things.”

I blinked. One of my eyelashes might’ve fallen into the dregs of my spiked coffee.

“Unfortunately, she couldn’t come today. So, it’s just us.”

I was not opposed to that.

“You know,” she chuckled. “I actually used to teach a girl like you. Well, not so much teach as care for, but I worked hard nonetheless. Mind me saying, but you do really remind me of her. It must be the eyes.”

“Huh.” I managed.

“Her name was Pastel Palette.”

That is an odd coincidence. I ruined that girl’s life.

“Pardon?” Cadance asked.

“No-nothing at all.” I said, before extending a hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you. As you’re already aware, I am Rarity Belle, Twilight’s girlfriend.”

She shook my hand with both of hers. They felt like rose petals.

“I gathered,” said Cadance. “Now that we’re talking, I really must apologize for being late. Something came up.”

“I take it that it must’ve been dreadfully important.”

A nod. “Family always is.”

“Ah. Well, I cannot fault you for that.” I agreed.

“I’m very glad you can’t. Actually, it involved Twilight.”

“That why she couldn’t make it, I suppose.”

Another nod. “She needed to talk.”

“Oh? She usually talks to me.” I usually provide mechanical consolation and empty solutions.

“You see, and I mean no offense here, but Twily and I have known each other a lot longer than you have known her. And, sometimes, it’s nice to talk to somebody you aren’t romantically involved with.” She cast a glance through the glass railings, down to the street below.

There, in between the dusty greys and the ratty browns, a police cruiser was parked.

I have never liked policemen.

“And would you guess what she showed me?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Cadance reached into her handbag, and she produced her phone. It was tapped open to reveal a cluttered home screen depicting a laughing baby and an impossibly goofy-looking man. Then, a finger, one with a flawless cyan-polished nail, went to tap open the picture gallery app. From the countless images of what I presumed were family, as well as sickeningly cute animal memes and landscape vistas, she selected one rather abstract one.

The phone was turned to me. It took me some time, longer than I would admit to her, to place the lavender-tinted snapshot of neck, shoulder, and collarbone as Twilight’s. And it isn’t like I have removed the straps of bras from that shoulder before.

Then the nail pointed to the rather unpleasant stale-banana-yellow bruise splattered across a fist-sized portion of the image. I did what a lady was supposed to do in scenarios such as these: I pulled a face and winced.

“Goodness gracious,” I gasped, “the poor thing! That’s horrid.”

“Yes.” Cadance said, and her angel of love persona turned to one of wrath. “It is horrid.”

“… However, mind if I inquire, but why are you showing this to me, exactly? And where is Twilight right now? I hope she isn’t in the hospital or anything.”

A shake of the head. “No, she’s fine. Physically, at least. She’ll probably be a bit sore for the next week but, other than that, she’s as right as rain.”

“That is a relief indeed. I was quite worried there.”

“Aren’t you going to ask who did this to her?” Cadance questioned, moving the phone an inch or two closer.

“You’re the one married to the policeman. I presumed you’d know, and that you were about to tell me.”

Her alabaster-warm smile faded. Her cherry-red lips frowned. Her baby-blue eyes narrowed. I wanted very much to be somewhere else right now, and I had planned to do as much until I spotted the straight-backed skulk of a man occupying the café’s only exist.

I hate policemen.

“I want you to admit it yourself, Rarity.”

“Admit what? That I love her?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Not when you hurt my family.”

I gasped, a hand over my heart. “Oh my! You don’t think I did this, do you? I would never!”

“You did to Pastel.”

Pardon my French but, FUCK!

I calmed down. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“I could be.”

Under normal circumstances, a lady never performs certain favours. But this day being what it was, I just batted my eyelashes, before giving my best ‘puppy-dog eyes’ to Cadance. I pouted. “What, exactly what, do I need to do to not be accused of anything here?”

Cadance started, paused and put the phone back in her bag, and laid her hands on the table so that her ring finger, ringed with a marvellously pure diamond, was on top. “You tell me, Rarity,” she ordered, as calm as a windless sea.

I thought for a few seconds, guessing what Cadance would want to here. This is what I came up with, “Our relationship is clearly over. I am going to break up with her, in a way that doesn’t hurt her any more than absolutely necessary.”

A nod for troubles.

“And I am going to return to her all that which I convinced her to buy for me.”

Another nod.

“And then I am going to reconsider our friendship and the dynamic of our band as a whole, possibly leaving both if the need arises.”

A third nod.

What more could this woman want? I wracked my mind, rummaged through hours of memorised psychology notes and sessions, and backtracked right through my life right up until that fateful macchiato was tipped a degree to far to one side.

I had nothing.

It's times like this that I do desperate wish that such things like compassion and common sense were within my abilities.

Alas, they were not. I was only human, after all and deeply flawed at that, no matter how I tried to hide it. I made mistakes. Mine just so happened to be able to destroy the entire planet and, with it, the reputation I had worked so hard to produce.

Thousands of hours of slaving over a sewing machine, leafing through tabloids and journals, learning how I was supposed to work would all go to waste.

“I don’t know.” I sighed, staring down. “That’s quite literally everything I can think to do.”

Cadance smiled. To my total surprise, it wasn’t malicious at all. It was motherly. She laid a petal-scented hand over one of mine. “That’s all okay, but first you’re going to apologize to her. You’re going to explain why you did that, and you’re going to ask how she’d like your relationship to progress from now on.”

“Of course, how could I forget?” I lied, “I merely thought that was so obvious you didn’t want to hear it.”

Her eyes rolled. My soul, if such things are real and if I then also happened to actually have one, it sank. “She’s in the car downstairs. I’d recommend you get this over with now, before you do any more damage.”

With that, she nodded over to her husband by the door. Shining Armor nodded back, smiled with relief, and stepped aside.

It is not ladylike to run.

However, I had always been pretending. I might’ve been pretending with so much conviction that the character I acted seemed more real than the person I really am, but I just pretended nonetheless, all this time.

I ran out of that café so fast; I didn’t even finish my drink. I certainly did not pay for it either.

That’s all I can do, really – I can pretend, and I can fake and I can act so perfectly well, but I’m just human, after all. Eventually, a mistake will be made, and my head with be on the chopping block. Although, I didn’t expect somebody as marvellous as her to be my executioner.

I thought ladies weren’t allowed to do such things.

Sometimes, I’m wrong.

Sometimes, I want to be content and compassionate and I want to no longer have to worry about all of these ridiculous situations and nuances I’m always needing to weasel my way out of.

Sometimes, I wish I was normal.

But that will never happen.