In a nondescript house, a pony lies in bed, largely numb to what’s going on around them; aware of it, but not really processing it. Or maybe they are processing it, but they’re just not being affected by it. It’s more likely the second thing, but they don’t really care right now.
The pony is a male; a bat pony, to be specific, age twenty-two. His fur is a light chocolate brown; his mane, tail, and wings, ebony black. His cutie mark is hidden under a blanket. His name is Night Rider.
His yellow eyes are conveying no emotion, and neither is his body language. He stares blankly at his television as it plays one of his favorite shows, but it isn’t making him feel anything. He knows enough about himself to know this means that he’s feeling particularly down. It makes him wish he could emote better. Let it out.
If one looks closely enough, they will see some of the fur beneath his eyes is matted down in thin trails.
Night knows that it’s okay to cry. So he wonders: why is it so hard for him to do it, no matter how badly he wants to? His eyes get watery, but then... something inside of him puts up an impenetrable wall and stops him from getting any farther.
It makes him physically ache. Recently, the closest he got to genuinely crying in literal years was when he was on the verge of a stress-induced breakdown during class in college... all because he couldn’t keep up with the work.
And yet, when he got home and tried to weep, to experience badly-needed catharsis... the tears still refused to truly come out.
What is wrong with me?
The question echoes through the young stallion’s mind as the show he’s watching continues to fly over his head. Due to, surprisingly, unrelated circumstances, he more or less dropped out of college not long after his near-breakdown. But it was definitely for the best.
Yet it’s hilariously, bitterly ironic.
Night is a car-loving creature, and yet when it comes to doing actual, physical work on any automobile, he crashes and burns before he even gets started, every single time.
It sure doesn’t help his self-image.
He’s the quiet one, keeping to himself, too shy to talk to anyone, with flashes of brilliance only occasionally becoming visible to others, no matter how close they are to him.
And that’s when he’s in a good mood. When he’s in a bad mood, it’s a very different story.
He’s a pathetic individual. Too much of a wimp to speak up, whether it’s face-to-face or just on a screen. Incapable of showing much emotion unless it’s almost overwhelming. Too much of a scaredy-cat to open up about his problems and get the help he knows he needs. So sensitive and fragile that he spirals at laughably minor occurrences. Too weak to face the real world and its problems, to actually follow the advice that he knows will can a real difference in one’s life; instead, he buries himself in fantasy and general entertainment.
Even if it makes me feel better, it’s all a lie.
Some would say that Night is being too hard on himself, that we are our own harshest critics. Right now, he can’t care less about that, regardless of whether or not it’s true. As far as he’s concerned, going easier on himself would do nothing but keep his perpetually sensitive self-esteem from plummeting to rock bottom for another five minutes.
The stallion blinks away the tears that start forming.
This is just a bad day, just a temporary low, that’s all this is. You’ve been through moments like this before, you can weather the storm. Night tries to assure himself.
So why does it sound so empty to him this time?
Maybe it’s because his self-image when he’s in a bad mood is who he truly is. Eager to learn about his greatest love in life, but too incompetent to actually make use of it where it mattered in the real world. Should he just give up on all of his hobbies? He thinks so, and at the same time, doesn’t. All Night is certain of is that his dream of making a job—or even just a hobby—out of working on cars is dead, stomped into dust and scattered into the wind by a harsh reality check.
There are other things he could do for a job, he knows; he’s not a literal one-trick pony. So how come none of them feel... right? Is he really so backward that he can’t even comprehend a career doing anything else?
So give the college courses another try; when you fail at something, it just means you have an opportunity to learn something. A part of him says.
You’re kidding, right? ... Oh, you’re serious? Let me even laugh harder. The rest of him replies, laughter completely devoid of happiness and instead filled to the brim with bitterness. Night spent hundreds of bits on going to college, and it ended up being nothing but a dead-ended money pit that shot his self-confidence to Tartarus and showed how bad he is at emoting, at speaking up when he needs help. He knew the ice would be thinner, but in the end, although he could keep his head above the water, he couldn’t actually swim forward.
And why was he even bringing this matter up? To vent, he tells himself. But is that really the only reason why? Is he also hoping to gain sympathy from others in an attempt to boost his fragile-as-an-eggshell ego?
... He doesn’t know. Just like ninety percent of everything.
But he knows that all of it’s part of a loop, a loop that he can’t seem to get out of. He’s going to get out of this rut. But inevitably, he’s going to end up right back here: stuck in thick mud, in the middle of nowhere, with a dead car, nothing to pull him out, and no bits of civilization in sight.
This time, Night doesn’t blink as his eyes start watering up again.
Author's Note
Story and chapter names inspired by:
Story content inspired by: myself.
Considered venting in a blog post, but ultimately decided to instead channel the feelings into something creative.
