Have you ever hated yourself?
I know what you are thinking.
Of course I have, Marble. All the time! I hate it when I do this, I hate it when I do that, I hate it when I should’ve seen that coming from a mile away, or been more careful, or said something at the right time. Or anything at all.
That is not the hate of which I speak.
This is the hate that lives within your bones. That festers in your gut and fills your stomach with bile. That sickens you to the core whenever you think of what you can never undo. That shadows and hounds you and nips at your heels when you see others smile and laugh. That carves out your insides when you try to do the same – to feel what they feel. What you once felt.
The true kind of hate.
A hate that is part of everyday life: you may pretend that it does not exist, but it will hang over you like a thick, dripping, noxious fog. It seeps in like damp through the woodwork. Ridding yourself of it would mean tearing yourself apart, reassembling yourself piece by wretched piece, hoping the hollow shell stays together. Even then, there is no guarantee.
But you must also ask yourself: Can you be bothered? Can you afford to waste your time on it?
I cannot. My family, now only myself, Limestone, Mother and Father, depends on me. It always has, and I have always done my best to be a dutiful part of it. I help where I am able, I speak when I must, but for all their love and support, I have never truly felt a sense of accomplishment with them – of gratefulness.
And yet, they are my family. I should be grateful. I try to be.
But ’tis never enough. Wanting to be better does not make it so, and what made me better is now out of reach. All I feel anymore, when I am not staring at the mirror and imagining what could have been, is numbness. And, oh, how I hate myself for it.
I used to think that there was nothing beyond this – that the brief moments of joy I felt before could only ever be fleeting, and others were simply better at retaining them. My sister, Pinkie, was particularly adept. I could not miss what I never truly possessed, though I had always found happiness intriguing: an accidental side-effect more than a craving, like the flavour in food.
But that was until I tasted sweet nectar, and realised how enchanting the real thing is.
Since then, I have never been the same, for I have come to understand the truth: I was meant to be happy. I was meant to smile and laugh. Not because it was expected, but because I felt the impulse, the need, the desire to do it.
What I am is a lesser version of what I could be. What I should be.
There is plenty to hate in that.
But all I can do now is despair.
I believe there is a point where hate outweighs pity. Guilt outweighs grief. Phrases like “if only” are replaced by “you fool”. And perhaps I was foolish, gullible and naïve. Perhaps I was better off never knowing the truth. Perhaps if I had been braver… if I had trusted myself more… if I had not cared so much…
Caring for myself has usually been an easy thing for me. In certain respects, it still is, for I am and will always be nervous around strangers, anxious of what they think of me, or what they might do. But I find it difficult to care about myself. For as long as I can remember, it has been this way. Now, ’tis even harder.
If it were not for my family, I dread what fate might await me; I fear I would see little point in leaving the farm, only doing the bare minimum to keep myself and the homestead afloat. I trust that I would do nothing drastic, but telling ourselves what we wish to hear is easy. My isolation would not be without precedent, however, as I have had trouble putting myself forward all my life.
That is how events unfolded as they did. That is how I waited too long. That is how happiness slipped through my grasp like water through a sieve. And that is also how the hate crept in, slow as an easy breeze smoothing over a rock, wearing it down to a pebble, then sand, and then dust. And like erosion, it was scarcely noticeable.
Who can say what comes after?
All that remains is what I see in the mirror.
Am I pretty?
’Tis hard to tell.
Mother and Father say good ponies should not be vain, so even if I were, it would be wrong of me to think that I am.
Limestone says I am, but that comes from a sister, so I doubt it holds much weight. Surely she is prettier, anyway, for she sneaks off the property every now and then to meet somepony. She is reluctant to talk about him, and I never ask, but whenever she comes back after I have covered for her, she wears a dopey, swooning grin.
She is not eager to discover whether they are meant to be together. Whenever our parents talk of the Choosing Stone, she is evasive and insists she is not ready – that for all she knows, she might never be. ’Tis a topic we have learned to avoid over breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Mother and Father try to be supportive, but we both know where their hearts lie: in keeping the farm alive. Since Pinkie lives in Ponyville and Maud is travelling abroad in the pursuit of knowledge with her husband-to-be, the pressure rests on Limestone and me to perform our duty to the family.
Neither of us are keen. In my sister’s case, she would rather forge her own path in life. Respectful of tradition and Mother and Father as she may be, she has always had qualms with any authority that is not her own.
As for me…
I have tried my luck at romance. It might not have been love, but it was special to me, for he would never be far from my thoughts ever since our first Hearth’s Warming together. Strong, quiet, gentle… dare I say handsome. I recognised a piece of myself in him – a pony who listened more than they spoke, and helped where they could if they were needed.
He was the first outside my family who I felt might understand me, and for months in the mines I would catch myself wondering where he was, what he was doing, whether anypony in particular was on his mind. Sending him a letter would have been too presumptuous, I thought, so I satisfied myself with imaginings and fantasies until the next Hearth’s Warming, and the next and the next, and every meeting I found myself growing closer to him.
He would blush and so would I, he would laugh and I would giggle, and by the time I decided to meet him and his family for Hearth’s Warming, we had shared five successful encounters – the most time I had spent around anypony in my entire life. This time, I would talk to him and tell him how I felt, and with luck on my side, perhaps he would tell me that he felt the same.
I had never ventured forth on my own before, and boarding a train full of strangers was daunting, but he was worth being brave for, and I would not let him down. Two days later, I arrived in Ponyville, and the most startling thing about the place was how large it was – a city compared to my hometown. That, too, was a shock, but I steeled my nerves and pressed on, for if that was where he lived, then the ponies who also lived in it could not have been too bad.
And besides, he was close. A few minutes’ walk and I would find myself at his door. I had warmth in my barrel and hope in my heart – the most courageous I could ever remember being.
And it all fell apart when I saw him in the square, kissing a mare I had never seen before.
It was not a harmless peck.
It was the kiss of a shared bond. I had come to surprise him, to offer the only gift I could. But somepony else had offered it first, and he accepted without reservation. There was no room for me.
What could I do but run away?
I cared little for the other passengers on the journey back. They could not hurt me as much as I had been already – that ache without end, as if my heart were resting on a bed of ice. Not even Mother’s soup could unthaw it, though I never said why it had been frozen to begin with. If she or Father knew of my intentions towards him, I shudder at what they would think of me.
Limestone, however, could not be fooled. She had known since he and I first met. Why she was so tolerant, I can only guess – ’tis not a subject I am eager to broach – but now that she has found a rebellious love of her own, I suppose she can no longer judge from on high.
And from what I have seen, it might just be the true kind of love: she stays up late sometimes and practices what sweet nothings she will whisper to him when next they meet.
Perhaps I would be jealous if I did not find it so…
…Cute?
No.
Cathartic.
She has what I thought I had.
All I can do is be happy for her, even if I cannot feel it myself.
I wonder if this is how Pinkie feels, when her mane deflates and the colour drains from her coat. I have never asked. We look somewhat alike when that happens – we are twins, after all, despite being complete opposites. Maybe there is more to it than mere coincidence, but if there is, its significance is lost on me. The irony between our personalities, however, is not.
I also wonder if there is more to that than mere coincidence – a reason why she was born with such an excess of joy. The only one I can think of is that it was made so by destiny: she is the Element of Laughter, a hero to many, and she needed the happiness of another to follow the path determined by fate, thousands of years in the making.
But that is a dangerous thought, and I would never think ill of her. Good ponies do not covet what others have, though I have often pondered what life would be like if our lots in life were reversed – if I were destined to be an Element. Being a sister to one, it was bound to cross my mind at some point. But for as much energy as I would certainly gain, I doubt that I would have the charisma to be as outgoing as her.
I like to think I am kind. Whether I truly am is another story, but I have rarely, if at all, spoken poorly of anypony, or harmed them, or wronged them. I was raised well, by parents who know what it means to be devoted. Not only to each other and their marriage, or even to us, their daughters, but to everypony I have seen them interact with – treating strangers and familiar faces alike to good manners and polite conversation.
Limestone is kind too, in her own way, but more loyal than anything else; sometimes loyalty means having to tell somepony a harsh truth. Which would make her honest as well.
Pinkie would know where one begins and the other ends. The only Element none of us could possibly possess is magic. Not to the same extent that Princess Twilight does. We know from the earth where gems are buried and which crags are safe to crawl through, but anything we do pales in comparison to raising and lowering the sun at will.
Magic helped her defeat so many monsters before – so many dangers that threatened the world. Mother and Father have faced some of their own, fending off beasts that tunnel through bedrock and eat frightened ponies like me for dinner.
I can never watch when that happens, too scared to look, even though they always win.
…Maybe there is wisdom in leading a quiet life.
A storm is brewing outside. I see it through the window behind me, reflected by the mirror. How long I have been here, I cannot say, but it was not there when I woke up.
Neither was Limestone, and she has yet to return.
Despite everything, I sleep relatively well. I go to bed at eight, ten at the latest, and rise between five and six on the next day without fail. Mother and Father made sure of that, after years and years of telling my sisters and me when we ought to sleep, to better make use of tomorrow’s light. Plenty of ponies want what we sell, after all – some of the purest mineral deposits in the county, and plenty of equally fine-quality stone – so it would be shameful if we did not do our best.
Limestone does not follow the same rules, though. Not always. That does not make her a bad pony, just… less obedient. When others’ desires clash with hers, she stands against them like a mountain. Unless it strains relations with our parents, of course.
As for me, I sway in the wind like a newly grown sapling. Conflicting with others is not in my nature, so I do what I can to make all parties happy – that is a lesson I learned from Pinkie. I may not share her passion, and the hero’s life may not suit me, but there is method to her madness, and wisdom in her outlook on life.
I wanted to comb my hair. That is why I sat myself here, on the stool in front of the drawers. My hoof has been waiting on the brush’s handle all this time. I have been staring so long that the sun has been swallowed up by clouds. Dark clouds from which rain pours forth.
If it fails to let up within the hour, mining shall be scheduled for another time. The dirt will be too sodden, and stone will grow too slippery to trust. Ponies in our line of work are renowned for their surefootedness, but even we have our limits. I have a chipped tooth from when I slid on an icy rock during my third winter as a filly. ’Tis the main reason why I refrain from showing my teeth when I smile, though Father says mine is beautiful.
I know he means well, but I find it hard to believe.
My mane is what I like best about my appearance: I can see through and past it, but if I angle my head just so, I could almost be invisible. One might even call it attractive. As I begin to slowly comb the brush through it, straightening some wiry strands, I think I see the ghost of a smirk in the corner of my muzzle.
Perhaps ’tis but a figment of the imagination, yet I am not opposed to the idea. It would be the first time in many a month where I had done so of my own accord, and not because it was expected of me.
That is an unfortunate thought, how long it has been, but with a quiet breath and a languid glance away, I…
…Pause.
By chance, my gaze has been drawn to the window, and I now see that a shadowy figure is walking in the rain outside. Rather, they limp, and they are headed to the front porch.
Air catches in the back of my throat. My barrel tightens as my heart skips a beat. I consider crying out, but realise that would do very little good: Mother and Father will not arrive from Ponyville for another day or two. Limestone and I are the sole caretakers for the time being, and while she is away on her rendezvous…
The figure continues ambling for our house.
Lightning flashes in the distance.
My ears flatten as I lay the brush down, then carefully lower myself from the stool. The floorboards are like untuned violins, discordant and disturbing. They remind me how empty this place is when nopony else is around – how large and hollow it feels. ’Tis a comfort at times, but now it only serves to make the figure even more ominous.
Nopony walks like that, even with a limp. They do not freeze and shudder, or aimlessly wander to and fro. But a villain might.
Or somepony who is not in the right state of mind.
…A good pony gives others the benefit of the doubt.
My insides sink as I turn and creep toward the staircase. They sink even further when I peek over the railing. But there are no malicious spectres waiting for me at the bottom, much to my relief. That does not, however, address the real issue at hoof, and my teeth chatter behind a tight-lipped grimace as I sneak around and descend the steps.
Some ponies sweat when they’re nervous. Some ponies push through the fear and do what needs doing. I am unsure where I fit on the spectrum, for my legs are as frail as Limestone’s temper on a bad day, but with Mother and Father’s teachings held close to my heart, responsibility compels me onward.
It only brings me as far as the last step.
I wait there, staring at the floor at first as if it were lava, feeling like I had been shoved onto a stage before a crowd of hundreds But then I peer around the corner to the left and watch the windows, and wait. And wait. And wait.
And there, I hear the thud and creak of a hoof arriving on the porch, followed by another, a third, a fourth. And I have the sudden urge to bolt upstairs and dive under the covers of my bed, especially when their silhouette bobs into view. They would never think to look there. The monsters at night never do, so why would they?
Coldness envelops me, and I brace myself against the wall on my right, ready to retreat at a moment’s notice. Better to be safe than sorry.
The figure slinks away, behind the door. They try twisting the handle.
Locked. ’Tis good I remembered to do so last night.
I doubt it will hold them for long.
They try more forcefully, and an irritated groan echoes through the house as their efforts prove fruitless, rising to a growl, and then…
…A whimper?
And then sobbing.
“Marble?” the interloper beckons, thumping on the wood in slow, weak blows, as if all the strength had been drained from her. And her familiar voice is no better, cracked and crumbling like brittle sandstone. “Marble, open… open the door.”
A new fear takes hold of me as I recognise who it is. I rush to the entrance without another thought, unlatch the door and fling it open.
There, soaked and dripping from the rain, and looking just as miserable, is my sister. Her foreleg is curled close to her barrel, and its lower half is stained red from a gash close to the inward bend of the elbow. Her ears are pinned back, her jaw quivers and body trembles, and her eyes – normally so bright and passionate – are red from weeping.
Words are stolen from me, snatched away as I gasp, as though by razor-sharp claws like a monster from the depths. Limestone never cries, even from injuries such as this. And my nerves prick and tingle because of it, like a thousand needles piercing me all at once.
She sniffs, and instantly collapses forward with a desperate whine, draping both forelegs over my withers. The sheer, sudden weight of her forces me to stumble away, and I fall onto my rump a little further indoors.
Instinctively, I reach around her barrel and hug her close in kind, holding her, stroking her, trying my best to calm her down.
’Tis difficult to say whether I do any good.
“He…”
My ears perk up, and I peer at her from the corner of my eye. All I can see of her is a drenched mop of hair, a few twigs and leaves befouling her mane, but I stay my tongue and wait, continuing to hold her to me. ’Tis sometimes better to let others speak on their own, lest one presume too much.
“…H-h-he doesn’t want me anymore…”
I freeze, and the image of her gash flashes before me. My grip on her tightens as more imaginings fly my way, and a rare feeling that I cannot name starts crawling its way from my core to my heart, broiling inside me like a simmering kettle. ’Tis not fear, I know that much, for I am no stranger to it.
Nevertheless, good ponies proceed with caution.
Leaving her for the moment, I stand up and stride for the open doorway, where I stop and gaze out into the distance, searching for another mysterious figure. But through the rain, ’tis next to impossible, and I prudently shut the entrance and lock it for good measure.
Limestone is hunched over on the floor, shuddering with every breath. The wound continues to leak, and now that there is no rain to wash it away, I can see just how serious it is. I have to wonder how long ago this happened. How long she had spent stumbling through untamed badlands, maimed, fit to be food for coyotes, vultures and other wild beasts.
How somepony could do this to her. My own sister.
The simmering feeling within me begins to boil.
But standing about and gawking will do neither of us any good, and I rush into the kitchen for what first aid we have. When working around a mine, it pays to be prepared. Caves are as much places of danger as they are of refuge.
After seizing the tray from beneath the sink, I carry it by the handle in my mouth back into the living room and set it down in front of Limestone, then immediately lock onto the gash and assess the situation.
Antiseptic first, dressing second. I shall see if she needs stitches when the bleeding has ceased. So, I take her hoof into mine and hold it up, then sprinkle the bottle of steriliser onto the long streak of red.
She bites her lip and hisses, but does not pull away. She knows what I am doing and what to expect, and would rather deal with a dash of pain now than a fever later.
Next comes the absorbent padding, and the bandages that hold it to the wound. Everything is under control.
For the most part.
It sickens me that this happened to her. It revolts me that somepony who was supposed to adore and cherish her could bring himself to hurt her. And even if it was not his doing, and she had merely tripped and stumbled, he had caused this – behaved cruelly and maliciously and broken her heart after all the rendezvous they had shared.
Whatever the explanation, this is unforgivable.
Yet I find it impossible not to ask.
“Why?”
Limestone snivels, wiping her eyes and snout with the back of her hoof. “He… he said that… th-th-that it wasn’t supposed to happen. That he couldn’t handle…”
I look up at her questioningly.
She meets my gaze with hesitation, and then penitently lowers her eyes and the same hoof all the way to her belly.
I stare, and as the information sinks in, I gasp, an icy river roaring down my spine with the force of thunder.
“It’s his,” she mumbles, voice cracking once more. “It could only be his. And he doesn’t want anything to do with it, or… or me.”
My teeth start chattering again, but no longer out of fear. That feeling is far behind me now, and I at long last have a name for what compels me to clamp my jaw shut. To grind my rear hoof into the wooden floor in the hopes that something might break. To snatch her up and hug her close and promise myself that I would never let anything like this happen to her ever again.
Outrage.
Resentment.
Anger.
He stole her happiness. Turned tail and ran when the unexpected happened. Hurt my sister – a pony who has loved me and cared for me for more than I am worth since the day I was born. I may be destined to be broken, but that does not mean she should follow in my hoofsteps, nor should anypony become like me
“I don’t know what to do, Marble,” she whimpers, and then bawls into my shoulder. “I d-d-don’t know what to do…”
Nor do I, except that I must be stronger.
For her.
For my parents.
For all of us, even myself.
Conflict is not in my nature. I have not hated anypony but myself for many years now.
Perhaps it is time I started.
Author's Note
Related blog.
Please read.
