Author's Note

This tale is dark. There's no light in this tunnel. This will not end happily.

But My Voice Is Dead

It was snowing the day they buried Wallflower Blush.

The service was short and the gathering was small. It was just me and the girls, and of course Pastor Hope from the Ponyville Commons Church of Grace, and my therapist, Bright Eyes.

Nine people.

I wanted to feel offended that her passing warranted such a tiny procession, but at that precise moment—along with every other moment since I got the news—I was having a lot of difficulties feeling anything at all. It was like the instant that I’d been told she was gone, I got jarred a step outside of my body, and since then I’d been moving in lockstep with myself.

It wasn’t even me who found her, even though it should have been. I deserve to have that image of her burned into my mind forever but I guess I don’t even warrant that much.

It was a wellness check, of all things. I hadn’t been able to get a hold of her for a day and a half and I panicked. For good reason, apparently. All I could think, though, as I stood over her grave after the service was ended and the rest of the girls failed to pull me away from the freshly turned sod, was that I should have made the call earlier.

Or gone over there myself.

Or done anything but just sit on my thumbs for thirty-six hours.

I was the only one in her contact information and she had no listed family, so I ended up finding out first. I also ended up being responsible for taking care of her burial. The others tried to take some of the work, but I wouldn’t let them. I think if I did…if I’d given up that responsibility…I think I might’ve actually gone crazy.

Assuming I hadn’t already.

Despite hearing about her death first, I didn’t ask how she died, but I ended up finding out all the same. I saw her body once, and only once, and the bruises around her neck along with the odd, boneless way her head was settled told me everything I never needed to know.

The three days after that passed in the blink of an eye. Almost literally. I can’t remember any specific event from those days, but I know they happened and I apparently did things during them. I organized a whole-ass funeral, in fact.

The pressure of a hand settling on my shoulder jarred me, even as I only distantly registered it and turned my head unsteadily to look back over my shoulder.

“Sunset?”

Bright Eyes was looking down at me. There was grief in his dark, brown eyes—deep and mesmerizing grief—and I had to blink and work my jaw a few times to remember how to talk and speak, and even then it was stilted. Some part of me wasn’t really here, and I was starting to wonder if it would ever come back.

“Yeah?” I answered numbly. “What?”

“I’m going to take you home now, okay?” He said gently.

I shook my head.

“No that’s okay.” I turned back to look over Wallflower’s grave again.”I’ll stay here a little longer.”

“Sunset, the cemetery is closing,” he replied, still speaking in that curiously soft tone. “The funeral ended almost four hours ago.”

Frowning, I looked up and around. The snow was still falling but the meager light of day had been swallowed by the early dark of the Canterlot winter. When had that happened? I could have sworn I’d just finished saying goodbye to the girls.

“Oh,” I shook my head again and turned back to Bright Eyes, “sorry, I…I guess I…”

“It’s okay,” Bright Eyes said with a faint smile, “I just want to make sure you get home safe, that’s all, you’ve been running yourself ragged for days.”

“I feel fine.”

That’s what I said as I turned back to look down at the dark earth that was disappearing under a dusting of snow. I said it, even though I didn’t feel fine, although, in my defense, I didn’t feel bad either.

My whole world was dull light and a distant, buzzing tinnitus as I read and reread and re-reread the same two lines etched onto the gray tombstone in front of me.

Here Rests Wallflower Blush

Forever At Peace

Forever at peace.

That didn’t sound so bad.

“Sunset?”

I looked back over at Bright Eyes. His expression had become strangely pinched in a way I couldn’t really put my finger on. Maybe he was getting cold? I was probably cold too but, at that exact moment, I don’t think I could have confirmed or denied it if someone put a gun to my head.

“What?”

“We need to go home,” he said slowly.

Oh, right. We had been talking about that, hadn’t we? I suppose whoever pulls night duty here would just kick me out anyway even if I said no, but the look on Bright Eyes’ face told me in no uncertain terms both that he wasn’t leaving here without me and that he was definitely leaving here.

You wouldn’t think a rail-thin guy with mousey auburn hair and cat-eye glasses could pull that look off, but I guess he probably learned it from his husband.

“Yeah,” I said finally, ”okay.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets and turned away from the grave. It felt like pulling teeth, but it was such a distant sensation that I almost didn’t notice the pain.

Almost.

And then, just like that, I was back home at the door to my apartment.

I don’t know how I got here, but I can hazard a guess from the vague impression of leather seats and the faint scent of classy cigarettes which I happen to know that Sticky Note smokes now and again, both of which are lodged in my mind. One moment I was at the cemetery, then…I was walking with Bright Eyes…a car happened somewhere in there, and then…

“Sunset, I still don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

If I’d actually be anchored to my body properly instead of floating some half-a-meter outside of it, I probably would’ve leapt straight out of my skin. As it was, every inch of me went weirdly cold for a moment as third-hand shock rolled through me and I turned to look up at Bright Eyes who was, apparently, standing at my door beside me and had probably been there the whole time.

Maybe he was right about having been running myself ragged.

“I’ll be fine,” I replied once I figured out how to reactivate my tongue while I stalled by fishing for my keys.

Oh. They were already in my hand.

Funny.

I fit the key to the lock and opened the door, and Bright Eyes stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Breakfast tomorrow, okay?” He said gently, and I frowned back at him.

“What?”

“Promise me,” he said. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning with Sticky, and we’ll go to breakfast.”

“Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t be alone, Sunset,” he said firmly. “So promise me.”

There was no getting out of it without the promise, and even if I shut the door in his face I had the feeling he would be here tomorrow morning anyway.

“Fine,” I said after a moment. “I promise.”

He spends a long moment looking into my eyes. What he’s looking for, I’m not sure. Signs of life, maybe? He’ll probably be disappointed. Maybe he’s just trying to determine whether or not I’m lying. If I am, I’m not trying to. I don’t think I have the capacity to lie right now, but I guess by that same standard I don’t really have the capacity to tell the truth either.

I guess we’ll see where the coin falls tomorrow.

Truth or lies.

Whether he finds what he’s looking for or not, Bright Eyes eventually nods, gives my shoulder a last squeeze that I barely register, and says, “goodnight, Sunset, and I’m so sorry.”

What was I supposed to say to that? There isn’t anything to say, so instead I just gave a nod and retreated back to my apartment.

It was late and dark, but I didn't bother turning on the lights. I knew my way around, and right then I was pretty sure the light would hurt my eyes. Somewhere in the back of my head, I was sure that I was exhausted, but I couldn't register that any more than I could register anything else going on in my head or body. So instead, I went through the motions of making myself tea.

One mug of oolong. One mug of matcha.

I set both mugs down at the little table to the left of my kitchenette, then sat myself down and stared at the steam as it rose from both.

Matcha was her favorite. I used to joke that it was because it was green, and she would say ‘well at least I have something in common with it’ and that would kind of puncture the mood. Then she’d feel bad about making things awkward, and I’d laugh it off, and we’d keep talking. The funny thing is, we’d keep making the joke, even though it always ended weird and awkward. It was like the reverse of an inside joke. An inside cringe, if you will.

That’s strangely suitable for Wallflower, I think.

Was…Was strangely suitable.

Once—and only once—I made the matcha joke, and she made hers, and I almost said ‘because you’re both hot?’ because I can’t flirt worth beans so I rely on 'refuge in audacity' and my completely unwarranted reputation for self-confidence to carry me through.

I didn’t say it, because, like I said, my reputation was completely unwarranted.

Now I wondered if I should have. Where would it have lead?

Sometimes I would go over to Wally’s place, and she would make us both matcha tea. I never had the heart to tell her that I don’t like matcha. I only had it in my tea drawer the one time because it was in a grab bag that Rarity got me as a housewarming gift and I’d never used. I never told Wally that I kept buying it after that because I knew that she liked it.

Slowly, I set down the mug of oolong and reached out to pick up the mug of matcha. The earthy scent filtered up and across my nose. I never liked matcha because it smelled like I was about to drink broccoli and it was always a little too bitter, which was funny because I took my coffee black. But I guess it was the wrong kind of bitter, if that makes any sense. Either way, it smelled like compost and tasted like leaves—not tea leaves, just regular leaves—and so I never really understood the appeal.

I drank it anyway. It was bitter going down, but I could taste it, at least. It tasted like something and that’s not nothing, because for the past three days I don’t think remembered tasting anything at all.

Lowering the mug, I turned the still-warm ceramic over in my hands. This was Wally’s mug. Not that she bought it or anything. It was just the first mug I made her tea in and I guess I made a little tradition of using it for her after that. I always made sure it was clean when she came over, and eventually I stopped using it for myself entirely because in my head it became ‘Wally’s Mug’. It was old and off-white, with decorative vines twining up around it, and I knew that Wally liked it.

She used it every time she came over.

Every…time…

The mug clinked on the table when I set it down as a thought occurred to me. It wasn’t a good thought, but one could argue that very few of my thoughts fit that description, so at least it wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was certainly ‘a thought’, though.

Standing up sharply, I snatched up Wally’s mug and moved with more speed and purpose than I’d felt since the day I learned that Wallflower died. I raced up the steps to my bed and practically dove beneath it, scrabbling for the shoebox that I’d secreted away under the mattress.

I pulled it free and held it up in shaky hands as I swallowed convulsively. This was a bad idea. I could feel it in my bones with as much surety as I could feel that I was still going to do it.

Dropping down onto my bed, I set the mug beside me and pried the top off the shoebox, and pulled out the amber geode from within. I licked my suddenly dry lips as I tossed the box away and stared into the glinting necklace as it spun lazily in front of me.

There was almost no possible way this wasn’t a terrible idea and given that it was one of my ideas, I’d say the odds were even worse than usual.

So naturally, I was going to do it anyway.

Slipping the cord around my neck, I put one hand over the gem and picked up the mug in the other, and as I did, I laid down on my bed, pulled both close to my chest and I closed my eyes as amber fire ignited under my fingers, and my senses flooded with her.

The taste of matcha was sweet on my tongue instead of bitter, because she liked it. The smell of gardens and growing things filled my nose, and I could feel fresh sod under my fingers, and I could hear echoes of her voice and flickers of beautiful, morning-glory colored hair.

I chased those sensations far and deep. Further and deeper than I’ve ever gone. Maybe it’s because I was already so far outside of myself. Maybe it’s because I was just that desperate, but when darkness and sleep finally claimed me, I couldn’t have even told you where it claimed me from.