Music Therapy

You wake up around 3 PM. You couldn't really sleep last night. Echoes that haunted you. That Earth song.

You liked music, you really did. But nothing in Equestria compared to that song Anonymous showed you. And what he said about beauty? It made you feel something else. An emotion you didn't know exis—

A sharp pain runs down your hooves, and it comes back to you.

You relapsed last night.

You groan and roll out of bed, feeling the crunch of paper beneath your hoof. The poem you wrote. "Drinks for Two."

You don't like it.

You never like it.

Carelessly, you crumple the page and stumble to the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror, you don't know the mare who looks back. She's tired, her mane's greasy, and her eyes are puffy from crying.

Hey, Eri. Why the fuck do you cry so much? It's not like you have any real problems. What stallion is gonna want you, when you look like that? Oh, that's right, you don't even like stallions. You're into mares, because you think being a muff-muncher's a substitute for having a personality. Stop fucking deluding yourself, you bitch. You might as well be celibate because nopony's touching you with a ten foot rod.

"JUST SHUT UP!"

You slam your head into the sink, in a desperate, impulsive bid to stop the ridicule. It stings sharply and knocks the living daylights out of you. You're seeing stars, you can't stand up straight, you're...

...aaand you're down.

You wake up and it's dark.

It's dark? FUCK.

You hastily pull some socks on and run out the door.

She's definitely not showing tonight. This sucks. You stupid creep, you just had to go and cross a line last night.

You hope she's alright.

Fuck it. If she's not coming, you might as well try to enjoy yourse—

The door bursts open as she charges through it. "Shit, sorry I'm late! I was asleep, and, I— fuck—"

You leap off the couch, throwing your hands down to your sides. "Miss Eri! I— I didn't think you'd show."

You both stare at each other for a moment, looking equally exasperated with yourselves.

"Right," you continue. "Well, come on in, please sit down."

She obliges while you take your desk chair. The two of you sit in silence hesitantly.

Apologize to her.

"Listen, about last night—"

"I don't really want to talk about it," she interrupts you, curtly.

"Oh," you whisper. "Okay, sorry."

You look her over. She's much more disheveled than she was the last couple of nights, and...

"Did you cut yourself?" you ask.

Her eyes immediately go wide. "What?" she yelps out.

"Your cheek is bleeding. I think you might have accidentally nicked yourself somewhere."

She lifts her hoof up to her cheek, wiping away a tiny drop of blood.

"Oh, yeah," she mutters, exhaling a sigh of relief. "It's... an old cut. I think it reopened when I hit the door."

You pull out a tissue and hand it to her. "Sorry I don't have a band-aid or anything. I hope this is enough."

Slowly, she takes it from you, and presses it against her cheek. "Thanks."

You nod to the hoof you handed the tissue to. "I like the socks. What's the occasion?"

She glances down at them. "I-I just sleep in them. Forgot to take them off in my rush to get here, that's all."

"Aw, and here I was secretly hoping you got dressed up for me."

Have you learned NOTHING?

Still looking away, she cracks a faint smile.

Hang on, that actually elicited a positive reaction? Maybe this is an opportunity. Don't waste it.

"Can we talk about what landed you here?"

Please don't storm out, please don't storm out, please don't

"Okay," she mumbles.

This is going to be a tightrope walk.

"Do— Do you want to die?" you ask.

She bites her lip, fighting to suppress her emotions, and hesitantly nods.

"Can you tell me why?"

She takes a few seconds before answering. "I don't want to live."

That's not an answer. That's restating the question, that's

Wait a minute. You know what she means. You know exactly what that means.

Time to lay your cards on the table.

She deserves to know.

She's not alone.

"You know, I tried once before," you tell her.

She stops avoiding your eyes. She's looking straight at you now. "You have?"

"Back on Earth. When I was 19."

"Why?"

"If you can believe it, it was because of a girl."

She's watching you intently. Now it's you who can't meet her eyes.

"That's not to blame her, it's just—" You sigh. "I was younger then. I thought that's what love was. Something you died for. She didn't love me. And that was just the straw that broke the camel's back. My head was a mess, and that was what finally made me decide to kill myself."

"How'd you do it?"

"I'm not going to give you suggestions!" you say, half-jokingly.

Did she just chuckle? You barely caught it, but you think she did.

"Anyway, it obviously didn't work. It landed me in the psych ward, where they kept people who wanted to hurt themselves. I was there for just a few days, but it was grueling hell. Every second I spent in there was a reminder of how broken I was."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing. Life went on. I didn't get better. I don't think you ever really come back from something like that, you know? The past haunts the present. You just learn to manage. Some days you manage worse than others. But you do whatever you have to in order to get by, even if it hurts like hell."

She stares at the ground in front of her. It's obvious she's choosing her next words very carefully.

"What do you do when you feel like you can't manage?"

It was a feeling you knew all too well. "I guess... you distract yourself with whatever you can. No matter how trivial. I showed you yesterday, I have music, and sometimes I write—"

"You write?" she inquires, perking up a bit.

"Yeah. Stupid stuff. Stories, poems. But it distracts me long enough. Because, before I know it, I've made it to the one thing that matters."

"What's that?"

You lean back in your chair. "The future."

Now deep in thought, she doesn't respond. But that's okay. You're fine just sitting in silence for as long as she wanted. Quiet company beats the usual none.

After a few minutes, she gets off the couch. "Thanks for talking to me tonight."

"Of course." You open the door for her to leave. Before she goes, she parts you with one last gift.

A hug.

You're taken by surprise. She wraps her hooves around your legs and squeezes them. You debate whether you should kneel down to reciprocate, but with her locking your legs in place, it's not like you have the option.

So you stand there awkwardly for a few seconds until she releases and whispers a quiet goodbye. As she leaves, you return to your desk and start writing.

You hope she comes back.

Walking home, you think about the things he said. Those familiar thoughts, that well-known pain, the struggle to manage.

Should I have said something?

Of course not. I never say anything good. All I do is make things worse.

He wanted to talk about the song. He was going to ask what I thought of it, and I just shut him down to get out of telling the truth.

Like the cold-hearted bitch that you are.

No. Please. Not tonight.

You push it from your mind. There's one more thing you want to do.

When you get home, you pull out the crumpled paper from under your bed, unfold it, and scribble out the title. In its place, you write a single word.

Future.

You don't know why, but the poem looks better now.

You...

You actually like it.