Trigger Happy Equines

I remember the day so clearly, I think, because for once in a blue moon the maddening monotony of my life was irreparably altered. My life before that was seemingly unremarkable, at least in my eyes. Heck, I thought it was just about normal, that I was one of millions living out each day as if our last was an eternity away, a speck glinting on a hopeless horizon. It seemed, however, that I was more remarkable than I realized, but perhaps not for the right reasons.

For the past six years I’d been working as a janitor for a law firm. Before that I’d finished my time at school with middling grades and a grand total of zero friends. I’d made friends before, of course, but over time we’d simply drifted apart. Or, more accurately, I slowly drifted away from them. They seemed fine about it though. I wasn’t really one to get interested in other ponies’ lives. It was all too much work, and I was never sure if I was saying the right thing or giving the right impression. It’d make sense to assume that I was bullied heavily, but that wasn’t the case. Outside of a few rare occurrences, I was generally left alone.

My parents had died when I was young. First my mother, then my father in the space of about three years. I don’t really remember much about them, and any photographs I’d owned of them must have been slowly misplaced over the years. Or at least, something like that. After my Dad died I went to live with my aunt who adopted a very “hooves off” approach to parenting. I was just another mouth to feed, someone to take care of just enough so as not to be harassed by foal protection services or the police. She was single with no children of her own, so I grew up without siblings. I consider that maybe this was what made me into who I would eventually become, but when I think about it, I was probably just made this way. I was, in effect, a lead weight. An animal that breathed oxygen, ate food, and did normal pony things just enough to be quantified as equine.

Once I finished school and received my mediocre exam results my aunt told me I was on my own, and that was that. I’d seen it coming, as she’d mentioned numerous times that her debt to her brother had almost been repaid. Rather than beg or cry to not be thrown out into the harsh wide world as some might do, (I wasn’t all that scared or even fazed by this change) I just did as I was told and ended up in an apartment in lower Canterlot in one of the so-called “shanty towns.” (Though it was never really that bad, but compared with the surrounding monolithic buildings and palaces that peered from over the hills and dotted the skyline, these urban areas were decidedly poorer.)

My apartment was a cramped, zero-bedroom accommodation with a living room slash kitchen that made up almost my entire living space, plus a small bathroom and a built-in double wardrobe. I had a futon and some cushions to relax on and a stash of books from the library that I would cycle through on occasion. Reading was as close as I got to having a real passion for something, partly because I could sample the lives of those infinitely more interesting than my own without any real effort. They went on adventures, they fell in love, they changed the world, they learned life lessons and experienced utopias, dystopias, and everything in between. They had exciting jobs. They were government officials, teachers, soldiers and explorers. They were spies, living on edge and experiencing fantastic things that I could only dream of. What wasn’t to love?

I’d consider myself reasonably well read, though I had no idea whether the books I was reading were acclaimed masterpieces, best sellers or simply a forgotten book by a forgotten author who’d hashed out a collection of words in a desperate attempt for either money, fame, or soul searching. I wish I could use that as a comment on critical reception and the “brainless masses” who gobbled up cliché, trite, poorly written disasters that appeal to the lowest denominator. At least then I’d have something to talk about, something remotely equine about myself, even if I would appear to be a snob or an elitist. The reality though, was that I just didn’t know, or indeed try to discover these things outside of reading the odd quote from The Canterlot Times printed on the back of a novel. Perhaps if I’d had friends or media exposure beyond the odd newspaper purchase I could’ve learned all this, but it just wasn’t going to happen.

I worked for six hours a day, seven days a week, from five in the afternoon until eleven. As janitor of Sylvester-Gough Lawyers I was tasked with cleaning a relatively large building complex (Who knew lawyers could take up this much space?) after everyone had gone home. Occasionally there would be the odd employee staying on late to type up an important document or sigh heavily into their stack of photocopied wills, bills, spreadsheets and court rulings, but never anyone to actually talk to. Any attempt I’d made in the past was ended with a quip of “Mm-hmm? Oh, sorry, I really just need to get this done.” As such, most evenings were a case of plodding through dimly lit corridors with either a vacuum or a mop, scrubbing coffee stains from desks and pouring bleach into toilets. In many ways my time at work felt like a little bit of freedom from myself. Look at me now, Ma and Pa! I’m a grown up with a real job making real money and living all by myself! Aren’t you proud of your little colt? At least then I could pretend the memories of them meant that much to me, or that I could truly remember what each of them looked like. Plus, the occasional blocked toilet meant I could test my skills against a challenge of some sort. A job was a job.

But then it happened. I was discreetly informed through a letter that my position was no longer required. More accurately, though the letter failed to point this out, my post was instead being taken by a unicorn who had demonstrated their ability to complete the work in half the time I was able to, which fit in well with their other job at a local launderette. This was someone who, to most, would be considered to have “not made it” and “be in a rut,” taking away the crutch that kept me from starvation, while also having another job. I had trouble believing it.

My boss, Mr. Truncheon, had been somewhat sympathetic during our meeting, and promised me a worthy recommendation for my next job, as well as two weeks’ pay. Sounds nice, but he also dropped the ball about my replacement, rendering me speechless. Then something about proving myself, that I was capable of more, that he believed in me, blah blah. I’d only spoken to him five times in the entire time I’d worked there.

I tried getting a new job and failed. At around the same time my water system had issues, and suddenly I had limited water flow and had to make do with a paltry dribble for a shower. I couldn’t afford the plumbing parts or the service, and I was already living almost entirely on kilo bags of brown rice and pasta. I could just about afford another month’s rent, but after that, I was living on borrowed time. And because of my personal situation, there was only so much money I could earn from the state. Then the next month came and I missed my payment. The letter I received seemed to assume that I’d just forgotten, or just needed a little while longer to pay in full. That made me chuckle a bit. I re-read it so many times I could chant it like a mantra.

I spent some days walking through the streets of Canterlot, wondering who I could possibly turn to. Unless I wanted to declare myself homeless and drop by a shelter (which for a while seemed like a good choice; free food and others who cared might be a welcome change) there was no-one, no family, no friends, not even ex-colleagues who I could turn to. As for the ponies I’d known at school, I doubted that any of them would suddenly take me in out of the kindness of their hearts. All in all, I wasn’t as worried as I should have been. I considered someone normal might contemplate suicide, but that seemed like too big a decision for me to handle. I needed a miracle.

And then it happened. I’d been for a walk in the local park around midday, part of my meaningless attempt to attain a structured routine for what felt like my last dwindling days on Equus. I clambered up to the third floor of the apartment block and opened my door. Immediately, something felt amiss. Nothing had changed since I’d left, at least nothing obvious, but I could feel some kind of presence in the room. The bathroom door was shut, but I couldn’t remember if I’d shut it or not. I usually didn’t. I thought perhaps the apartment had been broken into, and the burglar had regrettably discovered that I owned nothing of value and had fled the scene. But that didn’t explain how my door had then been locked behind them. I looked again at the bathroom door. I could feel my heartrate accelerate and my nerves twitch as I considered something far more troubling. What if someone had broken in and locked themselves in the bathroom? What if they were to force me out of my own home? What if they were some crazed junkie who was liable to stab me as soon as I let my guard down? Alternatively, maybe it was a scared foal who had fled their terrible life and found my apartment door unlocked? Not likely, I thought. But the truth, as I would eventually learn, was more far-fetched than I could possibly imagine.

I grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and steeled myself. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I also didn’t want to risk death from an intruder. This is ridiculous, I told myself as I slowly crept towards the door. You’re getting scared over nothing. This is all in your head because things haven’t been going well. You’re losing it. All valid points, but I had to know for sure. I took a deep breath, raised my knife-wielding hoof over the handle, pushed down and threw open the door in one swift movement. In the dim light from the living room ceiling-lamp I could see my bath towel, the shower, the sink, everything in its place. Letting out a sigh of relief I dropped the knife to the floor and chuckled to myself. I flicked on the bathroom light and stepped inside, ensuring that there was indeed no intruder tucked away somewhere. Of course, nothing. Then I was grabbed from behind.

I tried to scream, but before I could react some plastic breathing apparatus was forced onto my snout as my forelegs were wrenched behind me with unprecedented strength. I tried to wriggle free but only felt my attacker’s force upon me grow stronger. Or was it two of them? Three? I couldn’t make sense of it. Then suddenly I was pinned to the floor, my jaw throbbing with pain as it made impact with the ceramic tiles. Tears began streaming down my eyes as I considered that this was it, this was how I was going to die. I’d accomplished nothing in life, and now my chances were well and truly lost, and I wouldn’t even know who did it, or why. I’d be resorted to a brief paragraph in some no-name tabloid with fifty pages to fill and nothing to report. ‘Stallion found dead in apartment block, but don’t worry, none of you knew him and he wasn’t important. No big loss.’

My vision was fading. My limbs went numb. I could just barely move my eyeballs, not that it mattered. Whatever was being pumped through the plastic face mask was extraordinarily effective. Then I felt something drop down to my left ear and heard a long, deep inhalation. Then, a whisper: “You’ve been chosen.” The voice seemed oddly familiar, but my mind wasn’t clear enough to place it. As blackness took over and I lost consciousness, I heard what I thought was my apartment door being opened and a set of heavy hoof-steps. For some reason I knew, whoever it was, they weren’t here to save me. I had one last thought as I waited for death: They hid in my wardrobe. I should’ve realis-

Then my brain switched off.