The Practise of Burdening
“So, let me get this straight, you’re asking for a cellmate?”
“Yes sir,” I stammer.
“Hmm,” the warden mutters, flicking idly through a file I strongly suspect is empty, “We don’t get that too much. Most of the time folks like it when their cells are free.”
“Well, sir, I… um, don’t really do well on my own.”
“Oh? You don’t do well?” he asks, voice devoid of sympathy,
“No sir,” I force a smile, and I know I’m visibly drenched in sweat.
“Well, I’m sorry but we can’t arrest someone just to make someone like you feel better,” he replies. A guard comes up behind me and begins to usher me away. I suppose the conversation was closed then.
They delivered the mirror as a joke, I think. I woke up one morning and it was laid on the empty bottom bunk of my bed. I had taken to sleeping on the top, as it made me feel less lonely. Ponies don’t tend to sleep on the top when there’s no one else around, and at night I could pretend someone was down there.
Much as I knew the warden hated me, I didn’t think he was being exactly fair. There were other singly occupied cells, I knew this for certain. Surely there was some other pony in here who didn’t want to while away their time alone. I hadn’t been lying to him, I really didn’t do well alone. It made me feel awful. I had been scared all the time, I didn’t like the dark.
And the lack of conversation!
I just wanted to talk, and talk and talk! A mind like mine shouldn't be hogged selfishly. Its numerous insights yearned to be shared. I had started talking to myself. Not just muttering, but full blown conversations. It made me feel a little better.
But back to the mirror, this was apparently their ‘solution’. If they wouldn’t give me a cellmate, they’d give me the next best thing. But I took it and propped it up by the wall, determined to meet their mockery head on. And wouldn’t you know it, when I had it set up and could see that other me, staring quizzically into the glass, I felt a little better after all.
I stared at it. My reflection and I made unbroken eye contact and had been doing for an hour. If any of the guards came by to see what was going on, none had said anything. I had been talking to myself, coming up with ideas for research in the library. It was where I spent most of my scant time outside of this cell, and though most of my time was spent composing my poetry, I was eager to look into new horizons. But as I had been talking, I had heard something respond.
‘Good idea’ had rang out, clear as a bell. My cell wasn’t occupied by anyone on either side, and there hadn’t been any guards around. If it had been a prank, it had been a very good one. The only thing that was different to my cell to normal was the mirror. I had checked it thoroughly, there had been no devices strapped to it that could have made a sound. It had come out of nowhere.
And if I was losing my mind, I wanted to be certain of it. So I stared, looking for any movement that would tip me off that something was wrong with me. But all I saw was myself, looking intensely back into my eyes.
I continued regardless.
When I opened my eyes, I turned to the mirror nearly instinctively, like I had known I was about to see something strange. And there I was, sat up in bed, head propped up on one hoof, and a faint smile on my face. I, however, was lay in bed, covered by the thin blanket they’d provided.
And although I knew it was either a dream or all in my head. I was still frightened, because of course I would be. I got up and trotted tentatively over, and my reflection did the same with an air of breezy confidence. But then, when I sat down in front of it, there was something like a sudden change, and he acted like me again. All nerves and bloodshot eyes.
After a further hour of staring, I didn’t see any movement that was out of the ordinary. I resolved to look up insanity caused by isolation at the library tomorrow. It’d be good to know more about.
“Can you take this mirror back?” I ask the passing guard. I had been pushed up against the bars for over two hours, waiting until one patrolled by. They knew I hated solitude and had no chance of breaking out, so they gleefully seemed to leave me to myself for hours at a time.
“What?” he says, somewhere between hostility and boredom.
“Well, I don’t really like it. Could you take it back?” I say, and I hate the fact that I’m sweating again.
“But I thought you wanted a cellmate?” he asks tauntingly, then leaves before I can respond.
“They’re very cruel for ponies supposedly in the right, aren’t they?” a voice asks, and I whip around. From where I’m standing, I can’t see the glass. But I know exactly what I will see if I move around.
“It’s okay,” it continues, “You know full well what I am, you’re incredibly intelligent after all. Why not come and say hello?”
“This is insane. I’m insane,” I mutter through nervous breaths.
“Yes, maybe. But is it worse than having no one to talk to?” he says, and I have to concede he’s right. Of course he is, he's me. And when I walk around to the front of the mirror he’s stood there, bold as brass. When I sit, he takes his time, reclining with a contented sigh.
“Hello,” he says with a smirk. He’s nothing like me. No sweating or stammering.
“Hello,” I say back.
“So, given my circumstances, it’s only logical I have lost my grip on reality.” I finish, gently closing the book I rented out. It’s a great speech, I have quite an enviable mind in most respects.
“That makes perfect sense, you’re very intelligent,” he insists, and I swell at the praise.
“Oh pish posh,” I reply with a wave of my hoof.
“Not at all,” he begins, taking a second to stretch and giving me a good view of the muscles rolling beneath his coat. I've never looked at myself like this before, “There’s not that many ponies who could reason and research like you.”
“Does it count as narcissism if my reflection is saying these things?” I laugh.
“It’s not narcissism if it’s true,” he points out, and I laugh harder.
“Well, it’s getting pretty late. I’m gonna get some sleep,”
“Sunflower,” he calls out as I turn.
“Yes?”
“Would you be able to put me on the bottom bunk?” he asks, and immediately recognises my surprise, “Only it doesn’t really feel like we’re sharing the room when I have to sleep all the way over here.”
“Yes! That’s a great idea,” I reply, and hope I don’t sound too eager.
“Wonderful,”
I go to move the mirror frame, and he grabs onto it too. And even if I am insane, it feels lighter when he’s helping me move it.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” I insist, pointedly turned away from the mirror.
“I know it’s hard, but I think you need to. I know you didn’t mean for him to-”
“I said I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT,” I shout, “I tried to help him, it wasn’t my fault. Nothing would have happened if he would have just LISTENED,”
“You think I don’t know about this better than anyone?” he protests, and rolls his eyes when I cover up the mirror, “Oh really mature Sunflower. This is affecting you, affecting us both. We’re gonna need to talk about it at some point!”
I ignore him and climb into bed. I put my pillow over my head to drown out the things he says. I know it wasn’t my fault. I know I’m good. I don’t want to talk about it.
I feel cold when I wake up. And lonely.
I had stormed off to bed at only the early evening, and now it was the middle of the night. As much as I was mad, I did want to talk to him still. I got up and gently climbed down the stairs. When I reach the bottom bunk I listen, and hear no gentle snores under the blanket I’d covered him with. I knew he wasn’t asleep if I didn’t hear those snores. They were gentle, adorable. I’d stayed up listening to them before now.
“Sunflower,” I hear, and know the jig was up. I pull away the blanket and find him lay in bed, staring at me. He looks worried. I move the mirror so I can sit next to him, and he instinctively moves closer.
“Sunflower, I’m not saying these things to make you feel bad. You’re so intelligent, and you’re so courageous and you didn’t do anything wrong. Only an idiot would think you did.”
“I know,” I say, sniffling, and look up at him. He is so different to me in ways I envy. From his toned, lean muscles to his subtle confidence. I can’t help myself. I bite my lip and move closer, and he does the same albeit without my pathetic nervousness.
I lean in, and feel my lips gently touch the glass, just where his are. It’s electric. I feel like he’s really here. Maybe he is.
When we pull away each of us are breathless, more disheveled. But we’re both smiling.
“I, uh…” I say, but the specific words are lost to me. Instead, I push the mirror onto its side and against the wall. It lies along the edge of the bed, making it feel like a double. He smiles at me as I cuddle as closely to him as possible. When I start to drift off, I almost feel his hoof wrap around my stomach.
I get to the end of the poetry I’ve written, and I can’t help but admit myself that it’s sublime. I am a superlative wordsmith, one among many talents. Even though it’s nerve wracking to perform like this, he’s stunned by the end.
“You’re a genius,” he mutters, and he's right. He beckons me closer. I come to sit by him readily. With a smirk he reaches out and I press myself against the glass. We often sit like this now. I want to feel as close to him as possible. It’s the only time every other problem melts away.
“He didn’t know what he was talking about,” I hear him sigh, and I pull away instantly.
“What did you say?”
“No! I just meant-”
“I’ve told you, I don’t want to talk about that.”
“But I was defending you!” he demands, “He was wrong!”
“I don’t… I don’t know who was… just SHUT UP!” I shout, but this time he is undaunted.
“You can kick and scream but you do want to talk about this. I’m not gonna just cuddle up with you at night and never be able to say what I want to say!”
“Please stop.” I moan, starting to cry. I’ve never had his confidence.
“He was wrong! You had to make him see he was wrong, that’s all. It was him who exacerbated everything. You’re a genius.”
“I don’t want to-”
“You could have changed that school. You’re a poet without equal Sunflower, and what do they say to your application piece? Derivative, pseudo-intellectual, arrogant. That professor was asking to be set straight.”
“I didn’t want to ‘set him straight’! You’re making me sound insane!” And it was true. All I had done was come by after hours to have a conversation with him about why he was wrong about my poem. There had never been anything serious about it, much as the police might like to lie. All I had done was politely tell him why I disagreed.
But then he started acting scared, like I could be a threat. And when I’d bolted the door shut so we could just finish our polite chat it was him who started threatening me, saying this was harassment just because I’d sent a few follow up letters. Saying he’d contact the authorities.
“Sunflower, honey,” he starts, sounding sympathetic, “I just don’t want you to feel bad. It’s not your fault he called your poem a pathetic mess, devoid of substance or true meaning. I know you obsess about it still. About how you worry he might be right about your work being a charmless parody of real art. Why do you do that Sunflower? What is going on in your head Sunflower? What’s wrong with you Sunflower?”
And when I can take no more, and kick the glass with both hooves, the crack I feel is decidedly organic. The glass seems to melt away and his ribs crunch inwards and he splutters, spitting blood. All I can think of is when the professor tried to push me away and I had to hit him, just a little, until he’d finally been still and shut up.
But it’s different this time. This is someone I love. I walk up to the surface and try to push through it to get to him, but I’m held back by shards that tear up my forearms. He gasps, and goes still and I scream and scream and scream. Why hadn’t he shut up, why had me made me react like this? Why could no one do anything right but me?
And the guards finally come when I won’t stop crying out for someone to help because the stallion I love is dying. They come and look horrified, and I don’t know whether the blood on me is mine or his.
When I finally get through the shards I’m able to reach out into his cell, into his world. For a brief moment I nearly touch his chest, but then the guards are on me and they’re pulling me away. And I continue to scream. There’s glass in my arms and mouth. It sears me with pain. But I don’t care about that and I don’t care about them. Nothing is worse than the punishment I’ve created myself.
Even though he made me do it.
Even though it’s not my fault.
