And Maybe You'll Feel Bad
From the second her eyes snapped open, Pinkie knew today was going to be a bad day.
She stared up at the bare ceiling of the half-finished loft she called a bedroom, and sighed. She missed the farm. She missed her sisters. She missed everything. Rocky Bottoms was a small town, to be sure, but it had been the place she called home for every one of her fifteen years. Ponyville, on the other hoof, was no metropolis, but it sure felt like one. She’d been here nearly six months and she still barely knew anypony, except the Cakes. But they didn’t count—they were distant cousins, and therefore technically family, but they were also her landlords. And you don’t become friends with your landlords.
(Pinkie found herself wishing that she was back in Rocky Bottoms right now, working the rocks with her sisters. But the Cakes had needed help around the store, and asked their Pie cousins if they could spare an extra hoof. Since Pinkie was the only one in the extended family who knew which end of a cupcake tin was right-side up, it had been a foregone conclusion that she would be the one to go. And yet... it would have been so nice if one of their other cousins could have gone...)
Well, Pinkie had one friend. Or… perhaps she was an enemy. It was hard to tell, sometimes. Most of the time, she seemed to be both. Either way, Pinkie knew she was going to drop in today. Just like Granny Pie knew a storm was coming whenever her knees started to hurt, Pinkie knew that Shewas on the way whenever she woke up like this.
It didn’t have anything to do with her Pinkie Sense, unfortunately—if it had, then there would be at least a half-rational explanation for it. No, that wasn’t it. Somedays—like today—the world pressed down on her, dragging on her, body and soul. The alarm clock was louder, the sun was dimmer, and everything just seemed a little less lively, a little less joyful. It made Pinkie feel that she had done something wrong, something that she needed feel guilty of—despite the fact that she hadn’t even been conscious for more than a few seconds. For some reason, today, the universe had decided to punish her, a punishment that she didn’t deserve and couldn’t escape, and that would grind her into powder when it found her.
Yeah. Heavy stuff.
Most of it usually went away after Pinkie got herself up and moving, but still, the feeling tended to linger, like the scent of burned cupcakes, throughout the day. She’d had enough Bad Days in recent months that she had given the sensation a name. If somepony happened to ask what was wrong, she simply told them that she had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Truth be told, she didn’t quite understand the metaphor—there were only so many sides to a mattress, after all, and you could only really wake up on one of them—but that explanation seemed to work well. It was the only way she had found to express the feeling that something she didn’t entirely understand had gone off the rails for reasons beyond her control.
Besides, after that response, most ponies nodded sagely and stopped asking questions.
Pinkie briefly considered just closing her eyes again and trying to sleep it off. But the Cakes would want her help after breakfast. And she had that party later on. Couldn’t disappoint either of them—then she’d have someone else thinking she was a failure.
Besides, sleeping in never worked. She knew herself better than that. Her brain always needed to be moving. She needed to get up and start her day, get her mind occupied with something, anything, before too much longer.
Because, Pinkie had learned, if she wasn’t doing her best to keep her brain busy, it had a nasty habit of wandering off on its own.
* * *
Pinkie had at least a full decade’s worth of practice at putting on a good face, and thus, had gotten pretty good at it. That was how she was managing a smile for Mrs. Cake, despite the cloud of gloom steadily growing darker in the back of her mind.
“Okay, now,” Mrs. Cake was saying in her bright, motherly voice, “just turn on the mixer on—only to two or three—and make sure your hooves are clear of the bowl…”
Pinkie very nearly scowled. She had been making cakes since she was eight. She knew how to make a cake. She wasn’t a child.
And the cloud in her mind grew darker.
It was still early in the morning, but the day began early for bakers. Mr. Cake, across the kitchen, was frying up some breakfast pancakes on a portable griddle. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cake had insisted on teaching Pinkie how to make Sugarcube Corner’s signature treat, the Strawberry Surprise cake. Pinkie had dutifully measured out the flour and the sugar, then washed and sliced the strawberries, all while listening with half-an-ear as Mrs. Cake set up the enormous stand mixer that sat on the floor.
Strawberries…
Pinkie glanced over at Mrs. Cake, who was gathering the three circular pans she’d greased up a half-hour ago.
“Mrs. Cake?” she asked, forcing the gloominess to part for her. “Uh, I think we forgot something…”
Mrs. Cake cocked her head. “No, we didn’t,” she said, a twinge of uncertainty on her face.
“Yeah, we did,” insisted Pinkie, as she gestured at the strawberries she’d worked so hard on, sitting forgotten and alone at the edge of the worktable.
Mrs. Cake stared at them for a half-second, then her face split into a smile.
“No, we didn’t,” she repeated, as she set the pans down. “That’s the next step, actually. Here,” she added, “help me with this.”
Together, Mrs. Cake and Pinkie managed to lift the giant mixing bowl between them, then carry it unsteadily to the cake pans. One by one, under Mrs. Cake’s direction, they tipped the bowl over and filled each of the three pans with pale batter. Finally, the two of them walked the bowl back to the mixer and set it down. Then, and only then, did Mrs. Cake reach for the strawberries.
Mrs. Cake, with a big wooden spoon held in her teeth, took a scoop of the strawberries and, carefully, began to sprinkle them over the pans.
“You see,” she said through clenched teeth, “this is the surprise in the Strawberry Surprise. Real strawberries, mixed in with the cake. But…”
She put the spoon back in the bowl, then found a rubber spatula. Carefully, she began to fold the berries into the batter.
“...you have to be careful,” she continued. “If you mix them in too much, then they all sink to the bottom. You have to make sure they’re spread evenly, because…” she put the spatula down, nodded in satisfaction, then turned to Pinkie. “Because the best part of the cake are all the strawberries that get baked right into it, so you want to spread them out. If they all clump together, it’s not as fun.” She pushed away the pan with the berries mixed in, and pulled a fresh one towards her.
“Now,” she said, “why don’t you do this one, and I’ll watch to make sure you do it right.”
Pinkie hesitated, then reached for the berries.
* * *
Pinkie was midway through the party when, all at once, the wheels came off.
Throwing parties was one of her greatest joys in life—most of the time. She could spend hours sinking her teeth into a good party plan, making sure everything was just right. And after the party, seeing everyone smile and hearing the joyful cries and smelling all the cake and candy everywhere—she couldn’t think of anything better.
That was one of the things she loved best about living with the Cakes, actually. Before, party planning had been just an occasional hobby. But now, she could party-plan for real. It was, at least in principle, a dream come true.
But in the moment—
Sometimes, it was wonderful—the dancing, the singing, the hugging—but sometimes, it was different. Sometimes, Pinkie didn’t just plan the parties—sometimes, she had to be the party planner, the Master of Ceremonies, and the main event all at once. Oh, sure, she’d rather be helping with a party than nearly anything else, but when the success or failure of the party was solely up to her, it took a lot of the fun out of it. Most of the time, it was a burden she was able, even happy, to bear.
But sometimes…
When it happened, she was halfway through folding up a balloon pony. It was a good thing that the half-inch of clown makeup she was wearing had a smile already painted on, because she sure didn’t feel like smiling on her own. And something was wrong with the balloons, too—they seemed stiffer, somehow. Maybe a little more slippery, too, so that she kept losing her grip on them at just the wrong moment. Or maybe it was the fact that her hooves, for some reason, just weren’t as flexible as they had been when she’d been practicing.
Pinkie’s brow furrowed as she put the last little twist in her balloon pony, then handed it to the filly standing in front of her, waiting eagerly for her balloon. She squeezed it happily to her chest, but didn’t even have time to say thank you before a different filly pushed her out of the way.
“Make mine a giraffe!” the new filly cried impatiently.
And then, Pinkie realized she wasn’t having fun anymore. Making balloon animals for ungrateful foals in the hot noonday sun was simply a bridge too far today. To say nothing about cutting the cake, then coordinating the singing, and running the party games—
And the cloud in her mind grew even darker.
She sighed to herself, then pulled a fresh balloon from her bag. Pushy McSelfish here was getting a snake. So were the next twenty foals in line. Pinkie Pie couldn’t come to the phone right now, leave a message at the beep.
She snuck a surreptitious look at the sun up above the trees. By her estimation, she had another hour before she could duck out. Sixty minutes, give or take. Unless she could convince someone to slip Celestia a ten-bit piece to speed up the pace.
Either way, she knew that, as soon as she got off, She was going to drop by for a visit. She could feel it in her bones. And that frightened her more than anything.
* * *
Pinkie lay on her favorite spot on the grass, on a hill overlooking Ponyville. Up here, it was peaceful. Someplace where the rest of the world could just… fall away.
But not today. Pinkie had too much on her mind for it all to simply blow away up here.
Beside her lay a small stack of cookbooks, magazines, and notepapers. She had thought that a little last-minute party planning—maybe for her hypothetical, damn-the-expenses dream birthday-party-afterparty—might earn her a few minutes’ reprieve. Distract Her with something pleasant. She’d tried, she really had—but everything in her stack seemed just so… so flat. Her mind just… slipped right off the surface of her reading like an ice-skating accident waiting to happen.
And then, a cloud drifted across the sun. Not a real cloud, no—it was far too dark and black for that.
She felt, more than heard, the hoofsteps coming up behind her. At the sound, she trembled.
The hoofsteps drew closer—closer—and then, they stopped.
“You look stupid, lying there like that,” said a dark, flat voice.
Pinkie’s insides twisted painfully. She felt like she was going to be sick. She looked down at the grass before her, her face flushing with anger and shame and loathing.
“Hello, Pinkamena,” she said to the grass.
And Pinkamena Amygdala Hysteria Pie, standing behind her, gave a snort of disdain.
Pinkie didn’t even have to turn around to know what she looked like. After all, they were, in a very real sense, the exact same pony. They were the same height, had the same color of mane and coat, and even the same cutie mark. The only real difference between them was that Pinkiamena’s mane hung down around her face like a pair of curtains, with none of the fun little curls that Pinkie loved so much. And yet, despite that, there was something subtly wrong with her, like she hadn’t been put together right. That some part of her soul, something that made her real and warm and equine, wasn’t quite there.
Of course, Pinkamena wasn’t actually real. Oh no. Pinkie had figured that out a long time ago. But that didn’t make her any less dangerous. She’d had plenty of time to learn that the hard way. She reminded Pinkie of nothing more than one of those creepy funhouse paintings that follows you with its eyes. You knew it wasn’t really alive, but that didn’t change the fact that it was silently watching you, judging you. And somehow, you knew that if you looked too hard at it, something was gonna go snap in your brain.
“Afternoon, Sis,” Pinkamena sneered.
Pinkie looked away.
“So,” Pinkamena said nastily. “What’s eating at you now, huh? Did a schoolfilly call you silly again?”
Pinkie knew that Pinkamena was a figment of her imagination. That, realistically, she could just ignore her. But that was the trouble with figments—they came from inside your brain. And your brain has a direct-line connection to your heart.
A door swung open in Pinkie’s mind, and peals of hateful laughter spilled out. And Pinkie’s heart, which was already sitting pretty low in the water, sank another couple inches.
“But I am silly,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “That’s… like my whole thing, being silly.”
“Oh, grow up,” Pinkamena snapped. “You know that’s not what she meant. She only called you silly because she hadn’t figured out how to swear yet.” She leaned down. “What word do you think she wanted to use?” she said, a twisted grin spreading across her face. “Shithead? Bitch? Psycho?”
Pinkie stood up. “I do not have to take this from you,” she said. “I am not a shithead, or a bitch, or the P-Word.“
“Uh-huh,” Pinkamena said flatly. “Then why are you out here in the middle of nowhere, getting weepy over somepony you can barely remember?”
Pinkie’s lower lip quivered. She stood, picked up her things, then turned and marched into the trees.
“You know that’s not going to work,” Pinkamena called after her.
Pinkie bit her lip. She was not going to cry. She was not.
Not in front of Pinkamena, at any rate.
* * *
“Surprise, surprise,” Pinkamena said sarcastically, “Little Miss Lard-Ass is eating her feelings again.”
Pinkie looked up guiltily from her sundae. It was her favorite, an unholy amalgamation of ice cream, bananas, hot fudge, carmel, and a hoof-full of about every sprinkle they had in the shop. Excessive, maybe, but it nearly always made her feel better after a long day.
Pinkie swallowed hard. “I am not eating my feelings,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the mare in the next booth look up at her, then scooch a few inches away.
“Are too,” Pinkamena, who had taken the seat across from her, replied. The mare in the next booth stayed where she was.
Pinkie sighed, then looked down at her sundae. Can’t she just give me a break? she thought to herself. I’ve had a hard day today...
“You know what’s never had a hard day in its life?” Pinkamena shot back, in reply to her unspoken question. “Your butt. You’re packin’ enough junk in your trunk to make an elephant comfortable…”
The spoon trembled in Pinkie’s grip.
“Maybe what you should do instead is go for a run,” Pinkamena continued. “Get some of that mythical Runner’s High that everyone’s talking about. At the very least, you’ll get a little closer to scoring a stallion, Tubby.”
Pinkie took another spoonful of her sundae. She squeezed her eyes shut to try and keep the tears inside.
“That’s why you’ve never had a real coltfriend,” Pinkamena added. “No one wants to get stuck at home taking care of a fat pig like you.”
And suddenly, the ice cream turned to ash in her mouth.
Pinkie dropped her spoon to the table. She finished her coin purse from her mane, hurriedly dug out some coins, then dropped them on the table without counting. She stood and walked quickly from the store, trying to wipe at her eyes.
“You know I’m right,” Pinkamena said as she trotted after her.
Pinkie pushed the door open and walked out into the sunlight. The pimple-faced colt who was sweeping the front porch smiled at her.
“Have a good day!” he said brightly.
Pinkie’s only response was a bitter laugh.
* * *
Pinkie paced down the block again, shooting a guilty look at the building as she passed it. At the end of the block she turned around, made her way back, and glanced at the building again.
“Oh, come on,” Pinkamena groaned, from where she sat perched on a nearby fire hydrant. “We’re not getting any younger here. Besides, we both know it’s not going to do you any good.”
Pinkie shot her a dirty look, then walked past the building one more time. She gulped, hard, then walked up and put her hoof on the gate.
The building looked, for all the world, like a small cottage, just like a dozen others right here in Ponyville. It would have barely registered on Pinkie’s mind, were it not for the picket fence with matching wooden arch, overgrown with roses, that separated it from the road. On the gate hung a hoof-crafted wooden sign that read, in beautiful carved calligraphy:
Dr. Winter Rose, MD-Ph.D, LCPC
Counselor, Psychiatrist, Therapist, & Shoulder To Cry On
Walk-Ins Accepted
Pinkie shivered. She’d heard of ponies like this. Back on the farm, Daddy had talked about Psychiatrists in the same sort of tone he used for Rockworms and Marblemoths—all of them dangerous pests that should be driven off without hesitation. Thy mind is thy greatest treasure, he always said. If thou permittest anypony to alter and shape it how they please, then thou deservest what thou gettest.
But—Pinkie shot a nervous glance over her shoulder at Pinkamena—she was running out of choices, here. And weren’t psychologists supposed to help with ponies who were seeing things?
She steeled herself, pushed the gate open, walked up to the front door, and pushed it open.
She stepped into the cool dimness of a waiting room, with dignified rows of plush seating arranged artfully under the windows. At one end of the room stood a reception desk, behind which sat a teenaged receptionist, currently midway through the book she was reading.
Pinkie gulped, then walked shakily over to the receptionist. At her approach, she looked up from her book, then snapped her gum disdainfully.
“U-um… is, uh, Doctor Rose available today?” Pinkie swallowed. “I’d like to see her. R-right away, please.”
The receptionist rolled her eyes, closed her book, then pulled a blue-leather dayplanner from a drawer of the desk. She laid it on the desk, then dramatically flipped it open to the current date. With agonizing slowness, ran her hoof down the columns, turning the page every few moments. Pinkie glanced nervously around the room and saw, to her faint surprise, Pinkamena sitting in one of the peach-and-gold chairs, reading a copy of Misère magazine. Pinkamena looked up, shot her a cynical grin, then turned back to her magazine, chuckling darkly.
Finally, after what felt like an ice age, the receptionist looked up again.
“Doctor Rose is booked solid today,” she said, with an edge of snideness in her voice. “Booked for the next two weeks, in fact.” The receptionist gave a humorless grin. “She’s a very busy doctor.”
Pinkie went a little weak at the knees. Two weeks…
She nervously pointed out the window, at the sign hanging on the gate. “B-but the sign says Walk-Ins Accepted.”
“Accepted,” the receptionist said. “Not guaranteed. Dr. Rose likes to help, but she has her regular clients to deal with...” The receptionist picked up a pen expectantly. “So,” she said, with exaggerated sour-sweetness, “shall I put you down for a week from Tuesday?”
Pinkie gulped. “Are you sure there’s no, um... cancellations, or anything, today?” She hesitated. “It’s, uh, kinda important.”
The receptionist made a face.
“She’s a very busy doctor,” she repeated.
“O-o-okay,” Pinkie said slowly. “Can you send me a note or something if, uh... if something opens up?”
The receptionist just chuckled to herself, then closed the schedule and put it away.
Pinkie bit her lip, trying to fight back the tears, and walked out of the clinic. She knew, without having to look, that Pinkamena was bouncing along after her, humming a grim little nonsense tune to herself.
* * *
The bell over the door of Sugarcube Corner dingled as Pinkie Pie walked in. She made a beeline for the stairs that led to her loft—and would have made it, too, if Mr. Cake hadn’t chosen that moment to step out of the kitchen with a fresh batch of cookies.
“Oh! Pinkie!” he said, hurriedly setting down the tray. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you around since the party...”
“Afternoon, Mr. Cake,” Pinkie repeated glumly. “I went on a walk.” Not entirely a lie, after all.
Mr. Cake frowned, then peered into Pinkie’s face.
“Pinkie,” he said carefully, “are you alright?”
“Of course you’re not alright,” Pinkamena interrupted, from where she sat at one of the nearby tables. “But you’re not going to tell him that, are you? Don’t want to ruin his day just because you can’t keep a lid on things, do you?”
Pinkie gave her a resentful glare, then turned back to Mr. Cake.
“I’m doing fine,” she lied.
Mr. Cake gave her a pitying look. “If you’ll excuse me for saying so,” he said, “I really don’t think you are. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get us something.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned around and walked back towards the kitchen. “Coffee or chocolate?”
“Chocolate,” she mumbled, as she made her way to one of the tables—one as far away as she could get from Pinkamena without looking suspicious—and sat.
Of course, it didn’t take very long for Pinkamena to appear in a chair right next to Pinkie.
“You know you can’t talk to him, right?” Pinkamena asked. “He wouldn’t understand. Look at him,” she said, nodding towards the door into the kitchen. “He has a nice house, owns a successful business, and he’s married to the love of his life. He has it all. Probably never even heard of depression. If you tell him what’s going on, he’ll just think you’re weird and push you away, just like the rest of your family…”
“Yeah,” Pinkie said to the table. “But he’s nice. Maybe… maybe he could help, somehow...”
Pinkamena snorted. “You remember the rule, right? You don’t become friends with your landlords. Plain and simple, Besides,” she added, “I think it goes without saying that you shouldn’t tell them that you’re losing your mind. They’d throw you out on the street.”
Pinkie gave a despondent nod, then looked out the window. “Maybe... I should just go home,” she said thoughtfully.
“Home?” Pinkamena said disdainfully. “We are home. If, by home, you mean that converted attic that still smells like rats—”
“No,” Pinkie interrupted. “Home-home. The Farm. Things were… easier back then.”
“You didn’t have the same childhood I did, then,” Pinkamena added with a sniff.
Pinkie buried her head in her arms. “Can’t you just leave me alone?” she groaned.
“Nah,” Pinkamena said again. “We’re stuck, you and I—better get used to it.”
“Great,” Pinkie groaned again. “Something else to look forward to…”
“Uh… Pinkie?” Mr. Cake said suddenly. “Are… are you alright?”
Pinkie jerked straight up in her chair, then turned to look at Mr. Cake with wide, frightened eyes. He was carrying a small tray with two steaming mugs on it, his face a mask of confusion and concern.
“Uh-oh,” Pinkamena said with an evil grin, as she lifted up and began to drift away through the air. “How embarrassing… Now you really do look like a wierdo…”
Pinkie sat there, frozen in horror, while Mr. Cake set their plates down. He pushed the hot chocolate towards Pinkie, then sat down and took a sip of his own coffee.
“You wanna talk about it?” Mr. Cake asked.
Pinkie looked down at her chocolate, her stomach tying itself in knots. She looked up at Mr. Cake, already feeling like she was going to be sick.
“I’m not thirsty,” she lied. “I think I’m gonna go upstairs and lie down…”
Without waiting for a response, she stood.
“O-o-okay,” Mr. Cake called after her. “Just—we’re here for you anytime, okay?”
Pinkie very nearly made a face at him—but she found that she couldn’t muster the strength for it.
* * *
“Whose woods these are, I think I know,” Pinkamena recited loudly, from where she lay on top of the tall bookshelf.
Pinkie pulled her pillow over her head and groaned.
“His house is in the village, though,” Pinkamena continued, a little louder. “He will not see me stopping here—” Pinkie could hear the manic glee in her voice “—to botch my one attempt to doze.”
Pinkie pressed the pillow tighter over her ears.
It was only about six o’clock, but Pinkie just wanted to sleep. She’d pulled her curtains tight, then squirmed into bed. Pinkamena, however, hadn’t seemed to get the message.
“Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all week,” Pinkamena said grandly. “Want another one? I’ve got a thousand…”
Pinkie counted to ten, wishing—
Pinkamena cleared her throat, making Pinkie curse into the sheets.
“Once upon a midnight dreary,” Pinkamena sing-songed, “while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and foolish mem’ry from the day before—”
Pinkie hurled her pillow at Pinkamena, who dodged it without even looking.
“Why are you still here?” Pinkie moaned.
“Oh, you know me,” Pinkamena said. “I do my best work at night. Or, at least, when you’re trying to sleep.” She lolled her head over to look at Pinkie. “It’s easiest to perform on an empty stage, after all…”
Pinkie rolled over and covered her ears with her hooves. “What did I ever do to you, anyways?” she groaned desperately.
“That’s your problem,” Pinkamena said, idly examining a hoof. “You don’t know how to ask the right questions.” She looked over at Pinkie. “Try, What did I do to deserve this?”
Pinkie wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction, but Pinkamena continued anyway.
“To be honest,” she said, “that’s not a great question, either. You didn’t do anything. That’s what makes this so much fun. Let’s see…” Pinkamena rolled onto her stomach, put her chin in one of her hooves, then gestured broadly with the other. “Let’s count all the ways you’ve been wronged today, shall we?”
Pinkie tried to burrow deeper into her blanket, but somehow, Pinkamena’s voice pierced through the cloth like it wasn’t even there.
“First off,” she said, “Mrs. Cake made you get up early, and then she made you bake a cake for her just the way she wanted. She treated you like a little foal, remember? Made you feel tiny and small and helpless all over again, didn’t she?”
Pinkie squeezed her eyes shut.
“And then there was that stupid party,” Pinkamena continued. “It’s not your job to take that sort of abuse from ungrateful little foals. You were supposed to come and help, but, if that’s what they want your help with, then I’d say that you were better off back at the farm, with all of its many, many flaws.”
Pinkie gritted her teeth as her blood began to boil.
“Oh, and that bratty receptionist, too. The sign said Walk-Ins Accepted, but that was a lie. You probably needed help more than anypony in town, but that receptionist barely even looked at you. She should be fired. Fired, and dragged through the street because of what she did to you—”
Pinkie squirmed.
“And now to good ol’ Mr. Cake. You just wanted to be left alone, but no-o-o, he insisted on worming his way into things. Stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. That was why you got embarrassed. He put you in a bad situation, and you made a fool of yourself. If he doesn’t think you’re weird already, he absolutely does now. And there’s no way he’s gonna tolerate a psycho under his roof for much longer.”
Pinkie squeezed her eyes shut, trying to pretend the tears weren’t there.
“And then there’s your latest trick,” she said. “Brain broken? Turn it off and back on again. True,” she admitted, “sometimes it helps, but it never really solved your problems anyways—just covered them up with a bandaid. But, this time, I’ve got my teeth in you, Pinkie—you wake up, and I’ll be right at your side in minutes. Besides: in order to reach Dreamland, you have to pass the guardian of the gates. You’ll have to give me a half-hour of uninterrupted attention before you have a chance of drifting off. Quite the conundrum, there,” she said, very nearly giggling in triumph.
Pinkie bit the bedsheet to keep from screaming.
“So, to recap,” Pinkamena said grandly. “Ice cream doesn’t work. The doctor is too busy for you. Your landlord thinks you’re crazy. And even sleep won’t cut the mustard this time. So, sister o’ mine—”
Pinkie’s ears pricked up.
"—all we have to do is figure out what corner to curl up and die in," Pinkamena continued. "Don’t get me wrong, lying in bed is a classic, though I personally feel it’s lacking in drama. Perhaps lie in the mud of the town square? Show everyone how much of a martyr you’ve been, and how little they cared for you, in the end?” She sighed, almost happily. “What do you think, Pinkie?”
Pinkie stayed silent for a moment. Finally, she spoke.
“Sister...” she repeated.
“Well, not technically,” Pinkamena admitted. “But it’s easier to say ‘Sister’ than ‘Mind-Cloned Doppelganger, Brain From Whom I Was Birthed,’ all that stuff…” Suddenly, Pinkamena paused. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Pinkie had rolled off the bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and started digging through her things.
Pinkamena peered closer, then slowly levitated off the shelf and floated down until she was looking directly over Pinkie’s shoulder.
“You know I can read your mind, right?” she said. “If you’re trying to throw me off, it’s not working.” She leaned closer. “So,” she repeated, “what are you doing?”
Pinkie shot her a dirty look over her shoulder. “You said you could read my mind,” she replied. “What are you asking me for?”
“It’s more fun to make you say it,”Pinkamena replied with a malicious little whine, as she rolled onto her back in the air.
Pinkie opened and closed another few cupboards, then peeked under her bed. With a little cry of triumph, she pulled out a frilly pink suitcase. She dropped it on her bed, flipped it open, and started stuffing things inside it.
“I’m going home,” she said. “That’s where my sisters are. And my Mom and Dad. My Family. They always make me feel better.”
“Very funny,” Pinkamena said, nonplussed. “Now, tell me what you’re really—” Suddenly, she stopped, then cocked her head. “Oh, you’re not—you’re serious, aren’t you?You really think—?”
Pinkie stopped packing, then turned to face her. “What are you implying?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
“I’m saying,” she said. “That you going back home would be like throwing a nice, tasty cupcake to the hogs.”
Pinkie snarled. “You take that back,” she hissed.
“No,” Pinkamena snapped. “You know it’s true. You have no home anymore. Let me remind you: no matter what you’ve convinced yourself, you didn’t leave home because the Cakes needed an extra hoof. Your family had no idea how to handle you, Pinkie. You were thrown out, and the Cakes only caught you by pure chance.”
Pinkie roared, then leapt at Pinkamena. Pinkamena, however, neatly sidestepped the lunge, letting Pinkie crash into her bookshelves..
As Pinky lay there, head spinning, books raining down around her, Pinkamena floated through the air towards her, a snarl of rage and triumph on her face.
“Okay, Sweetheart,” Pinkamena hissed, “I’ve been dropping hints all day, so I’m running out of patience. I don’t have the time or crayons to explain this to you properly, so I need you to sit down, shut up, and listen good. That way, we might be able to get this through your pink, fuzzy skull before we die of old age.”
Pinkie picked up her head.
“I’m not—”
“Shut up,” Pinkamena snapped. “You’ve been in charge all day. I’m talking now!” she roared.
Pinkie flinched, but remained quiet.
“That’s better,” Pinkamena said mildly, producing a piece of chalk from nowhere. “Now, let’s start at the beginning,” she said, as she began to draw in the air like she had an invisible chalkboard, leaving behind trails of shimmering white dust.
“When a Mommy Pony—” Pinkamena said, drawing a stick-pony with her mane in fussy bun “—and a Daddy pony—” she scribbled a second figure, this one wearing a hat “—love each other very much—" the two figures began to move, trotting towards each other "—they fuck each other’s brains out.”
Pinkie yelped and covered her eyes, but could guess what they were doing to each other with all the boing-ing sound effects Pinkamena had helpfully added.
“But there’s moreto making a pony than filthy, filthy sex,” Pinkamena interjected. Pinkie risked a glance to see that Pinkamena was drawing a lumpy oval under the two stick-ponies, who now stood chastely side-by-side with a little pink scribble between them. “Y’see, it’s not just your body they have to make—it’s your mind, too. Sure, you come with most everything already wired up, but everything your parents do for you, or with you, or to you, leaves an indelible scar in this lump of chewing gum we call a brain.” For emphasis, the two stick-ponies bent down and began to massage the chalk brain, squeezing it into a different shape. “So, you see,” Pinkamena continued, removing the glasses she hadn’t been wearing a moment ago and polishing them on her coat, “it’s neither nature or nurture that determines what kind of pony you’re gonna be—it’s both. Which,” she added, putting her glasses back on, “presents quite a problem if your brain isn’t firing on all cylinders to start with. Especially when the parents in question are dead-set on squeezing you into a mold you don’t fit. ” She tapped her chalk on the two stick-ponies again, who were trying, it seemed, to squeeze the brain into a square-shape, regardless of the fact it kept on building out at awkward angles. “So, if it’s anyone’s fault you’re so broken,” Pinkamena finished, “it’s your parents’.”
Pinkie’s eyes widened, then she drew in an angry, trembling breath through her nose.
“My parents are good ponies,” she bit out.
Pinkamena held her nose in the air and sniffed. “It’s charming to hear your enthusiasm, but I believe you’re missing the point,” she said. “Yes, they were good ponies. Yes, they took care of you and your sisters. And yes, they were trying their best. But that doesn’t change the fact that they broke you.”
Pinkie roared in impotent rage, then leapt up at Pinkamena, hooves flailing, but she simply glided out of the way. “Blame the culture,” she continued, as the stick-ponies and the brain trailed after her. “Farmers, especially rock farmers, aren’t known for their senses of humor. Wake up before dawn, water and polish and weed the rocks, go to bed with the sun, rinse, lather, repeat. There’s no time for silliness. Parties are just a waste of resources. And joy is reserved for very specific holidays, and only when there isn’t anything more pressing to do around the place.”
By this time, Pinkie had thrown the spare books off of her, grabbed the half-discarded broom that stood in the corner, and was trying to whack Pinkamena out of the air. Pinkamena simply twisted around the flailing broom.
“They did their best to make you a good farmer,” she continued mildly. “Unfortunately, we both know you’re not cut out for farming. That doesn’t change the fact, though, that you’ve spent your entire life being told that everything you are is wrong.”
Pinkie froze, broom halfway through its arc, and began to tremble.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Pinkamena said, as she glided down to the floor, landing on her hooves. “It worked for most of their kids. Limestone should probably see a shrink on her own, given all that misplaced anger, but that’s a can o’ worms for another time.” She shook her head sadly, as the two stick-ponies drifted up beside her. “But we both know that you were never one for molds, Pinkie Pie. There is a part of you that simply cannot be repressed. A kind, generous part of you, one that only wants to make everypony happy. That was what your parents tried to stamp out of you,” she said, poking her in the chest for emphasis.
Pinkie dropped to her haunches, the broom clattering uselessly to the floor. She sniffled, and tears began to run down her face.
Cease thy smiling, said the stick-pony with the hat. Only foolish fillies smile so.
No, you may not use our flour for a cake, the stick-pony with the bun said. We need it to eat, not to waste upon frivolities.
Streamers? What need have we for streamers? Go and do thy chores, and think upon thy wastefulness.
No, thy friends must not come over to play. They will trample all over our crop! Besides, thou hast thy sisters to play with. What need have ye of friends?
Pinkamena shook her head sadly. “Yeah, your brain is busted. I should know, I spend enough time in there. But that’s not why you’re so unhappy. You’ve been taught all your life that everything you want, everything you love, everything that makes you feel alive—is wrong.”
Pinkie let out a sob. Pinkamena sat down beside her, and her chalk wraiths gathered around her.
“So, that’s it, then,” Pinkamena said. “It gives me no great pleasure to say this, Pinkie, but this is how you are. Your brain came out a little different, and your parents were hard on you growing up. No shame in that. But you can’t deny that’s a deadly combination. It means that, no matter what you do, no matter where you go, I’m going to be right beside you. Every time you laugh, I’ll be whispering in your ear. Every cake you bake, I’ll twist my knife a little deeper. This is what you are: a pony who will always feel sad, even when she’s happy. A pony who takes joy in only those things she feels guilty about. A pony who is only ever holding on by the very tips of her hooves. For better or worse,” she finished, “the two of us are in for the long haul.”
Pinkie bit her lip, and, shaking, tried to wipe at her eyes.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, by the way,” Pinkamena added. “You have nothing to feel guilty about. All your broken-ness is part of who you are. It’s…” she screwed up her face, thinking hard. “It’s… baked in, you might say. No changing that.”
Pinkie pricked up one ear.
Baked in.
And, like a key turning in her mind, her thoughts began to slide into place. For the first time, in what seemed like a long, long time, the doors of her memory opened--opened up, and let out the words of Mrs. Cake...
“But that’s the best part,” Pinkie breathed.
Pinkamena cocked her head. “Pardon?” she asked.
Pinkie stood. “Mrs. Cake said that’s the best part,” she repeated, louder. “The bake-ins. That’s what makes me different.”
Pinkamena stared at her as if she had lost her mind—which was somewhat ironic, if you think about it.
“You’re not telling me you enjoy this sort of thing, are you?” Pinkamena said slowly.
“Not at all!” Pinkie replied, with a note of cheerfulness in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “But it makes me me.”
“And… you want to be you, right now? With me right here and everything?”
“Of course not, silly,” she replied. “Granny Pie always taught me that if you can’t say anything nice, you better not say anything at all.” She made a face. “Still, I gotta say—you’re a pretty big downer.”
Pinkamena bowed graciously. “Thank you for the compliment,” she said. “And, if I may, I find your normal exuberance simply insufferable.”
“But y’know what?” Pinkie asked, ignoring her comment. “I don’t have to be who you tell me to, Pinkamena. I might be sad a lot, but I won’t always be sad, and I don’t have to be sad about the sadness. That’s just part of who I am! It’s what’s baked in!”
“Very nice,” she said flatly. “But that doesn’t change anything. You’re still all alone in a town you barely know, living in a hole that you hate, working a job that pays diddly-squat.”
Pinkie deflated the slightest bit—but only for a moment.
“Yeah,” she agreed, “but not forever!” She grinned a little, as something occurred to her. “Mr. and Mrs. Cake love me! Maybe I could open up to them a little, ask them what to do! A-and maybe I could ask them to show me around town! Get to know this place better! And you know what?” she asked, turning to Pinkamena. “The job doesn’t pay well, but I don’t need much, after all! I mean, I don’t have to pay rent, and I can always join the Cakes for meals! So I can spend what I do make on anything I want!”
Pinkamena scowled. “That’s not fair,” she muttered. “Now you’re just lying to yourself.”
“Nuh-uh,” Pinkie insisted. “Silver linings, and all that! I can find something good in pretty much anything, if I try! And, if I do it often enough, then maybe it’ll come true!” Pinkie threw open the pair of curtains that covered the room’s one small window, letting in a shaft of the warm, red-gold light of the sunset. “Someday, things will brighten up! Someday soon, if Pinkie has her say. And when they do, then I’ll throw the biggest party ever! There’ll be cake, and ice cream, and dancing, and—”
And Pinkie whirled around in—well, not in joy, not yet. There were too many lead weights left on her soul for that, still. Perhaps it would be best to say she whirled around in optimism, which is enough of a light in the darkness to spark its own kind of joy.
At any rate, she whirled around to face the room. She wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted to do next, but as long as it was fun, and joyous, and hers, that was all she cared about. But what she saw in the room before her stopped her cold in her tracks.
In the middle of the floor, in the center of the beam of sunlight, was Pinkamena. She sat on the floor, hunched over, her chalk companions nothing more than scattered, half-formed drawing on the boards beside her. In the light, she looked like an entirely different pony: she was smaller, skinnier, with the shadows of her ribs and hips visible through her skin. Her mane hung about her face, unwashed and unhealthy, her eyes sunken and half-hooded.
Pinkie stared blankly at her. Was this really the same pony that had been terrorizing her all day?
Pinkamena sniffled, just once. It was a sad, pathetic sound, misery herself admitting that she, too, wasn’t having a great day.
And then, like the sun breaking through clouds, Pinkie realized what she had to do.
She walked slowly towards Pinkamena, concepts resolving into words, words into sentences as she moved. When she was close enough to reach out and touch her, Pinkie sat, facing her.
“I also know,” Pinkie said slowly, “what it’s like to be scared and alone. How it feels to be abandoned. And how to find the light in the darkness.”
Pinkamena wiped one of her eyes, then scowled up at her.
“So, now what?” she sneered. “You’re saying you feel sorry for me?”
Pinkie shook her head. “Nope,” she replied. “You’re still a monster. If I could make you go away forever, I’d do it in a second.”
Pinkamena laughed bitterly. “Good to know what you really think of me,” she said sarcastically.
“But that doesn’t mean you’re worthless,” Pinkie continued. “After all, you’ve taught me compassion.”
Pinkamena looked back up at her, dumbfounded. Pinkie just gave a little smile.
“You’ve taught me what it feels like to be at rock bottom,” she explained. “So now, when someone else is there, I can teach them to smile.” She sighed. “It’s just a shame that I had to learn it from you,” she said. “I never want to see you again, but still—you’re not entirely worthless.”
Pinkamena sniffled. “You will see me again,” she said. “I’m part of you.”
“I know.”
“And you won’t always be able to find your silver lining.”
“I know that, too.”
“On those days… I’ll be back.”
Pinkie smiled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she replied. “But maybe, next time we meet, it’ll be on better terms.”
Pinkamena shot her a resentful look.
“You’re gonna go talk to that quack doctor, then?”
Pinkie nodded. “And the Cakes,” she said. “Yeah, they’re landlords—but they’re also family.”
Pinkamena rolled her eyes, with something very nearly like a smile on her lips.
“You’re a menace, Pinkie Pie,” she said.
“Right back at ya,” she replied.
They sat there in silence for another moment.
“I’m scared,” admitted Pinkamena.
Pinkie nodded. “Me too, a little. But we’ll be there for each other, no matter what.”
Pinkamena looked into her eyes. Tears freely ran down her cheeks, now.
“Promise?” she asked.
Pinkie nodded. “Pinkie promise,” she said with a smirk.
Pinkamena groaned. “I knew you were going to say that…”
Pinkie smiled, then spread her arms, wrapped them around Pinkamena, and pulled her in for a hug.
Everything went white—
And Pinkamena Diane Pie opened her eyes.
* * *
“Good morning, Dr. Rose!” Pinkie said brightly between clenched teeth. “I brought you some scones!”
Pinkie put the basket on the little table between them, and Dr. Rose chuckled. “Pinkie,” she said kindly, “you know I can’t accept gifts…”
And yet, she reached over, flipped back the gingham cloth draped over the basket, and picked out a particularly scrumptious scone. “But,” she continued, “you do certainly have a way with baking...”
Pinkie smiled, dug in the basket, and pulled out a jar of strawberry jam and a knife. She popped the jar open, slathered a scone with the jam, then passed the jar to Dr. Rose, who took it with a nod.
Dr. Winter Rose was a young mare—much younger than Pinkie had expected. Her mane was a rich, wavy reddish-brown, and her coat a deep, navy blue. She wore a thin pair of red-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, the type that made her look smart and academic and really quite trendy all at once Her cutie mark was a pale blue-white rose, laid in front of a large snowflake, but they hadn’t ever gotten around to talking about its significance. That was okay, though—there were a lot more important things to talk about.
Dr. Rose swallowed a bite of scone, then stared down at it, a happy smile on her face. She set it down on a little side-table, next to a yellow pad filled with notes, then turned back to Pinkie.
“So,” she said, “I assume you’ve been trying to spend time with the Cakes, like I suggested?
Pinkie nodded eagerly. “Mrs. Cake and I made these special this morning,” she said. “And next week, we’re gonna start on doughnuts!”
Dr. Rose clutched at her stomach. “Pinkie,” she said, “you can’t keep doing this to me!”
Pinkie just giggled again—a surprisingly bright, happy giggle, one that would have sounded alien, even to her own ears, a scant six months ago.
“How are you doing, otherwise?” Dr. Rose asked. “Keeping up with your medication?”
She nodded. “Uh-huh. Two pills, one of each, with breakfast.”
Dr. Rose nodded, then turned to the side-table and flipped through her pad. “That’s excellent,” she said, still searching. “Now, I know this might seem redundant, but we still need to do this—ah! Here it is.” She pulled a printed sheet free from the pad, then held it out to Pinkie.
Pinkie took it and scanned it once. It was the same form she’d been filling out for nearly every visit since she’d started coming. There were ten or twelve questions, each asking about her mood, with three faces printed next to each in red, green, and yellow. Pinkie grabbed a ballpoint pen, laid the form next to the scones, and drew a long oval circling every one of the green faces. She handed it back to Dr. Rose with a smile, who accepted it with one eyebrow raised.
“I’m really happy with the meds, Doc,” Pinkie volunteered. “No complaints. I think we got it right, finally.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dr. Rose said with a smile—a smile that quickly shifted into a hesitant grin. “I assume that means you haven’t, uh… had any more problems with her, have you?”
Pinkie shook her head. “Nope,” she replied. “Haven’t seen Pinkamena in a long time. She, uh…” She tapped her forehooves together nervously. “Sometimes, she talks to me… but just in my head,” she added quickly.
Dr. Rose nodded sagely. “But you’ve been talking back to her, right?
Pinkie nodded. “Yep. Just like you said. She doesn’t like it, but that’s kinda the point, after all.”
Dr. Rose smiled. “Good,” she said. “But, you know… if you wanted help keeping her locked inside...”
Dr. Rose turned to the side table and began searching through her pad again, but Pinkie stopped her.
“I’m fine,” she reassured her. “I don’t need it. Really.”
Dr. Rose hesitated, then slipped the pamphlet she’d been looking for back into her pad. Pinkie had seen it enough to know what it was: an ad for a pill she could barely pronounce. It was some sort of pill that was supposed to help with hallucinations—Dr. Rose called it an “anti-psychotic,” though that name always scared Pinkie a little—but Pinkie wasn’t sure she needed it. After all, she wasn’t entirely sure that Pinkamena actually was a hallucination. Dr. Rose was still concerned, of course—she had a right to be, no doubt about that—but seemed to respect Pinkie’s refusal, at least.
“Anyways,” Dr. Rose said, “I wanted to see how you’re doing with those things I asked you to do. We already talked about the Cakes,” she said, nodding to the basket of scones. “But how are you doing otherwise? Still writing your family?”
Pinkie nodded. “Once a week,” she said. “It’s getting easier—and it’s always fun to get mail from home,” she said with a smile.
“And?” Dr. Rose prompted.
Pinkie’s smile slackened the slightest bit, moving into something a little less joyous, a little more thoughtful.
“I asked Dad,” she said. “And he said that, no, they didn’t want to run me off. He and Mom knew I wasn’t happy at the Farm, and they thought that, maybe, a change of scenery might do me good.” She shrugged. “I needed a place to stay, and Mr. and Mrs. Cake needed help, so…”
Dr. Rose nodded. “I’m glad,” she said. “I thought it was something like that. See?” she asked. “Pinkamena is very good at lying to you.”
Pinkie sighed. “I know,” she said. “But she’s so convincing…”
“Yes, she is,” Dr. Rose replied, looking down at her notes again. “Now: I assume you’re still getting out and meeting new ponies, right?”
Pinkie’s smile brightened again. “Yep! Starting to make friends, too. Rarity’s always fun to hang out with.”
“Good,” Dr. Rose replied. “Friends are really important in helping you adjust to a new place.” She picked up her notepad, then began to flip through it again. “Speaking of getting adjusted,” she said, “I think there’s another pony who needs your help with that...”
Dr. Rose tore off a sheet of yellow paper and handed it to Pinkie. Pinkie read it over, then frowned.
“Who’s this?” she asked.
“She,” Dr. Rose replied, “is a visitor that’s coming to town. No one knows how long she’ll be here, but she could definitely use a friend for as long as she stays.” She smiled a little. “And I can think of no one better to make her feel comfortable in a new town.”
Pinkie looked down, blushing just the slightest bit.
“At any rate,” Dr. Rose said, “I think our time is just about up. This was only supposed to be a quick check-in, anyway—but if you’d like,” she added, shooting her a sidelong glance, “maybe we could set up a slightly longer appointment for next week?”
Pinkie immediately brightened. “That would be super-duper-iffic!” she cried, jumping out of her chair. She leaned in and gave Dr. Rose a hug, then let go. Dr. Rose smiled, then picked up the jar of jam, a question in her eyes and a half-smile on her face.
“Keep it,” Pinkie said, as she turned to the door. “Keep it all. We have another four dozen scones back at the shop.”
Dr. Rose laughed, and Pinkie returned a smile. She stepped out of the office, then closed the door behind her.
The second she was back on the street, a dark little voice sounded in the back of her head.
She’s lying to you, the voice said. You’re still broken inside. You’re so broken, you don’t even know how broken you are.
No I’m not, Pinkie thought. And even if I am, Dr. Rose will help me through it. Dr. Rose, and my new friends.
Pinkamena, inside Pinkie’s skull, gave a little growl of defeat.
Fine,she grumbled. But who’s this... Twilight Sparkle that she wants you to babysit? she said nastily.Probably some downer dork who doesn’t like parties. And where does The Good Doctor get off making you the town’s welcoming committee, with everything else you have to do?
Pinkie shrugged. Everyone needs friends, she said. And I like welcoming new ponies.
But it’s so much work…
But it’s fun work, Pinkie replied. Someone has to do it, and it might as well be me. Good opportunity to throw a party, at any rate.
Pinkamena stayed silent for a little while.
I’m not gone, you know, she said finally.I’ll be back someday. All those pills, all those smarty-pants answers you have—doesn’t matter. I’ll be back, just you wait.
Maybe, Pinkie admitted. But now I know how to fight back. Yeah, maybe there will be a next time… she smiled. But next time is going to be different.
And she looked up at the shining sun overhead, and smiled.
Author's Note
I have a lot I'd like to say here, but, for your sake and mine, I'll try to keep it short.
I wish I had more time to work on this, as there's a lot going on in this story. I will point out that, despite the all-pony production of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, this story attempts to deal with some very serious, very real, problems. Say what you want about the story, but please don't joke around with this stuff IRL.
Is this autobiographical? Let's just say that I have my own personal Pinkamena(s), and, though I've found some ways to make her go away, she can be a bitch to deal with.
If you find yourself struggling as well, please go see your own Dr. Rose. It's quite liberating and validating to hear someone tell you "That's not normal"—and those little white pills have helped me more than I could have imagined. There's no shame in either of those, despite what people may say.
A good way that your Dr. Rose can help is to help you discover your "coping strategies." Pinkie practices several—self-care, talking back to your Pinkamena, and being with ponies who love you—though determining which strategies work best for you requires time and experimentation. A doctor can help you with that, as will some websites, though you probably know yourself best.
Unfortunately, I can't help as a counselor or anything myself, so I can't help you much more than I can. However, if you'd like to share about your own Pinkamenas and/or your own strategies that have helped fight her off, I would welcome your comments.
Thanks for reading!
brokenimage321
