I couldn’t read.
I couldn’t read, but I thought nothing of it.
It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t read. It was more like the words were far away, were floating along the page. Like my eyes couldn’t catch hold of them as they passed me by. Like they were fuzzy little caterpillars, squirming against the parchment.
If I could see them, I’d be able to read.
I was sure.
I’d had migraines before. The sort where your head feels like it’s swelling up, bigger and bigger, filled with hot air and broken glass and wasps. It was a wonder I could hold my head up in such a condition, let alone read. Let alone understand.
This wasn’t quite a migraine, I told myself. When you have a migraine, you can’t even get up. You can’t even talk. This wasn’t so bad.
So I thought nothing of it.
I climbed out of bed, my head three blinks behind my body. My brain, my eyes, my throbbing ears, my itching teeth-- all of them swam through molasses, while my hooves made wary and shivering steps across the hardwood floor.
“Twilight?”
I blinked. It felt like sandpaper dragging over concrete.
Spike was… somewhere. That was his muffled little voice, wasn’t it?
“Twilight, are you alright?”
So far away. Like he was down a well, underwater. Or perhaps it was my own ears stuffed with cotton.
His tiny claw reached out and brushed my leg. I winced at his touch, and he yanked his claw back, as if from a hot stove.
“I’m alright,” I said, and my tongue was twice as large as it had ever been. “Just a… you know, a…”
Spike’s form pulsed.
I smacked my lips. So dry. “A headache.”
Spike laced his claws together. There seemed to be far too many. “You mean a headache?”
“That’s what I said.”
Spike pulsed again. “Well, alright. Maybe you should go to bed. I can get you some medicine.”
I shook my head. My brain sloshed like gelatin in a punch bowl. “No, no. I have things to do. Reading to do.”
“Twilight, stop.”
Spike came to stand in front of me.
And I could see, now, that it wasn’t Spike.
It was almost Spike. It had almost his face, with almost his scales and almost his little dragon snout. He even had almost two arms.
I should have been scared, I suppose. But I thought nothing of it.
Migraines can twist up your mind, after all.
I pushed the almost-Spike out of the way. He did not protest, just sort of slid over like a doll. Like a cardboard cutout. Like a cardboard box. Like nothing at all.
I started to walk again. The feeling was becoming familiar; it was like toting a blimp around by a kite string, even though each tug of the twine sent an electric shock up my spine. I could do it, but it took all the focus I had. Each tiny, plodding step was planned and calculated, guiding my boiling, maggot-ridden mind one inch more.
One inch more.
One inch--
“Twilight, look out!”
My hoof skimmed over the top step and came down on nothing.
I tumbled through the air.
My head swelled, my cheeks puffed, tears squeezed out of the corners of my eyes. My stomach was falling much faster than I was, and my skull was still three blinks, three clicks, three frames behind. I could feel the enormous pressure of my brain pushing against the inside of my skull, trying to squeeze out the cracks and leak down my face and--
I startled.
Birds.
Loud. Loud birds.
And light. So much light. So much bright and blinding light. Yellow and hot and blazing.
I put my hooves over my face, and the brightness did not dull.
“It’s a migraine, darling,” Rarity was saying. “You shouldn’t be outside. It’ll do you no good, sitting in the sun like this.”
I pressed my hooves deeper into my eyes. “It’s just a headache.”
“Migraines are not the same as headaches.” Rarity was stirring her tea, and the sound of the spoon on ceramic was enough to make me bite down on my cheek until it bled.
The blood tasted like cherries.
“You should be laying down until it passes.” Rarity set her spoon down on the tablecloth and lifted her teacup to her lips. “Whatever you have to do, it can wait.”
“No, no.” I put my head down on the table and buried my face in my forelegs. “It’s just a headache.”
“It’s a migraine, darling.”
Her diction was perfect. So perfect, she sounded like a skipped record.
But I thought nothing of it.
“I have things to do,” I reminded her. “I can’t stay inside.”
“It’s a migraine, darling.”
I stayed silent.
The birds chirped again. The same three perfect notes. So loud and so close that they may as well have been sitting on my shoulder. Pecking my ear.
“It’s a migraine, darling.”
Slowly, carefully, I pulled my hooves away from my eyes. My brain expanded slothfully into its newfound space, and the pressure swelled like a rolling wave.
Rarity.
She looked almost exactly like her, I thought. She had an almost purple mane, and an almost white coat. She had an almost beautiful face and an almost sympathetic look. She even had almost two eyes.
It wasn’t Rarity. I knew that, and I was okay with it, I suppose. She stirred her tea the same. She talked to me the same. She had taken me to the same restaurant.
It wasn’t Rarity, and I thought nothing of it.
Because there was a Rarity there, too. At the next table. Not her mane, not her coat, and not her cutie mark-- but her all the same. I knew it with the certainty I knew my own name.
And Rarity across from her.
And Rarity serving them drinks.
Rarity walking by, with her little sister Rarity.
Rarity flying overhead.
I thought nothing of it.
“It’s a migraine, darling,” the almost-Rarity repeated. All the other Raritys mouthed along, and it sounded like a hot desert wind.
She pulsed.
My eyes pulsed with her.
I felt sick.
The fire ants in the folds of my brain burrowed a little deeper, and I closed my eyes against the harsh morning sunlight. The birds shouted along, the same three notes, again and again and again. It made me want to bite off my own tongue.
But I thought nothing of it.
It was a migraine.
Migraines can be quite bad.
I leaned back in my chair. Back, back, back, further than it should have gone, until I was falling again.
My mane engulfed my face as I fell backwards. I braced to hit the ground, but the ground was much further away than I had expected.
The Raritys kept whispering to me, and the sound was so close I could feel their lips graze my cheek. I could feel the weight of their breath as if it were water clinging to my fur. I could hear the soft sound of their teeth grinding.
The ground came up to meet me at last, and it was warm and hard.
“You’re not gonna get a thing done in this state, Twilight,” Applejack said, nudging me with her hoof. “C’mon, get up. I’ll walk you home.”
“I’m fine,” I told her, and my teeth wobbled in my gums. “It’s just a headache.”
“Just a migraine is what it is.” Applejack nudged me again. “C’mon now.”
I stood up, but my head stayed on the ground.
The orchard smelled like perfume. It was very strong, and it made me want to throw up, but it also smelled so sweet and nice. And not a thing like apples and dirt. But I thought nothing of it.
“I’m fine,” I said again. “I can walk myself home.”
“Not ‘til you get up,” Applejack reminded me.
I stood up, but my chest stayed in the dirt.
“It’s okay, really,” I pleaded. “I can get home by myself.”
“You still ain’t even off the ground.” Applejack nudged me again.
I stood up.
“There.” Applejack spit to her left, and a glob of something black and sharp came out of her mouth. “That wasn't so hard, now, was it?”
“No,” I agreed.
My brain was baking in the sun. I could feel it bubble and hiss and eat away at my skull. It smelled like tar and roadkill. It almost ruined the nice perfume of the orchard.
“Alright, let’s get goin’,” Applejack said.
She took a step, and was suddenly very far away. She waved to me from the orchard gates. “You comin?” She called after me.
And, from this great distance, I could see that it was not Applejack.
It was almost Applejack. It had almost her stance, and almost her hat. It had almost her accent. It even almost had four legs.
I took a step, and I was beside her, though my mind lagged behind in the orchard.
We walked like this through Ponyville, one step for every block, my brain always a great distance behind us. I could feel the evening breeze whistle through my empty skull. The chill of it on my slick, wet insides was stinging.
We made it to the library. It took moments and it took hours. The almost-Applejack waited politely for my brain to catch up.
“Get to bed now, y’here?” She advised with a tip of her almost-hat.
She did not wait for an answer. She took one step and flickered away, back into the almost-town.
I watched them for a moment. The townsponies, that is.
They didn’t have migraines.
But they didn’t have anything else, now, did they?
They were mechanical in their fakeness. The way they marched through the streets, every step in sync, every voice the same volume, every pony the same pony.
They didn’t look the same.
But I knew they were.
I opened the door and fell right into bed.
The fall was long. Longer than you would think was possible, but I thought nothing of it. Everything feels longer and further and harder and hotter when you have a migraine.
Migraines can be quite bad.
My skin was tacky with sweat. My sheets were all tangled up around my legs. They smelled of old laundry and ginger ale and snot. My head was the size of a wagon wheel, but at the same time small as the head of a pin.
The room throbbed.
I throbbed back at it.
My neck was starting to hurt terribly. It ached from the weight of my skull and my swollen brain.
My throat was tight and cold and wet and thick.
My bedroom heaved along with my chest.
And I thought something of it.
I thought this was how I was going to die. Laying in bed, my head full of pins and needles and beetles and steam. I was going to die in this almost-world of almost-ponies.
I thought how funny it is that having a migraine is quite like dreaming while you’re awake.
I rolled my head slowly, earnestly to the side and stared at my bookshelf. From this angle, it looked quite real, although I knew it was merely a block of wood with a sticker on it.
The whole place was doing quite a good job of pretending to be real, although I could see that each angle was a little off. Each detail was scrubbed and faded. Each color was dull and grey. I was proud of myself for noticing that, especially with a migraine like this.
The cockroaches inside of my brain were starting to settle, now. They must have known it was time to sleep.
I wouldn’t wake from this slumber.
But I thought nothing of it.
In the morning, it all seems so strange and silly.
When the migraine is gone, and the dreams are forgotten, and the words on the page are still once again, you often wonder how you thought such things. You try to put yourself back in that world of heat and slowness and pain, but you can’t. It is a realm entirely separate from ours.
When the migraine is gone, and you wake in a sticky tomb of yellowed sheets and stale sweat.
When the migraine is gone, but its ghost still haunts you.
I sat up slowly, hoof to my temple, bracing for the wave of not-quite-pain to hit me. To my relief, none did. Only that strange, empty feeling in my forehead and horn.
I let out a long sigh. My hoof slipped down to my chest to feel its gentle rise and fall.
“Spike?” I called.
No reply.
Perhaps it was too early.
But, no-- the sun was up. Bright, white-yellow light fell in bars across my bed, cut into slivers by the blinds.
I furrowed my brows. “Spike!” I called again.
Still nothing.
I tore away the blankets and got to my hooves, sure as ever. The hardwood met me, firm and true, as I crossed the room and opened the bedroom door.
There stood Spike.
Almost Spike.
A little doll with almost his face, almost his scales, and almost his little dragon snout. It even had almost two arms.
I grit my teeth. My hollow horn seemed to resonate with the silent totem before me, almost as if claiming a mischievous responsibility.
Almost.
As bad as migraines were--and they could be quite bad--the worst part, by far, was this:
Cleaning up afterwards.
