Melting Diamonds
By Unidentified20XD6
You rouse yourself from your slumber. The patio chair you were in creaks as you stand up and feel the warmth of the sun on your face. Outside, you can't hear the incessant moaning that started about a week ago. Outside, the air is clean and untainted with the smell of decay. Outside, less flies bother you while you sleep. You stretch your arms and feel your sunburned skin pull thin over your chest. You hold the pose for a moment before allowing your arms to fall back to your sides. Flakes of skin the size of quarters fall as you scratch yourself. You stare at the sun and determine that it's about four hours until sunset. Time to begin.
The glass door slides open, shrieking in protest. The noise alerts your guest in the basement, who promptly begins the never ending tirade of moans. Your first stop is the bathroom, where you bend over to pick up a blood-caked shirt. It takes effort, but eventually you manage to peel the bloody rag from the cheap linoleum. The shirt crunches as you put it on. The smell of death and rot clings to the shirt, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. You step out of the bathroom and give the flat a once-over. The sofa is covered in stains and pizza boxes have become the dominant floor covering. The muted tv in the corner flickers with static. You ignore it and spot what you're looking for, buried hilt-deep into the wall behind the couch. Pulling the serrated knife from the wall proves to be easier than picking up your shirt, but not by much. With light steps, you walk to the kitchen.
Your cooking area stands in direct contrast to the rest of your domicile. While garbage has been allowed to pile up everywhere else, the cooking area is clean. The floors are swept and mopped, the counters glisten from the glow of the freon bulbs above. The cutlery is spotless, on a magnetic rack above the stove. The only sign of filth is a slab of drying white fur with three diamonds on the bottom tacked to the wall. You wash the knife in your hand, feeling the water run off your hands. With the knife clean, you reach into your jeans pocket and pull out a tarnished key. You walk to the back of your home, where a door stands locked. Muffled groaning is heard through it. Without breaking your stride, you insert the key into the lock, give it a quarter turn, and let yourself in.
The earthy smell of the dirt hole fights against the smell of old blood, urine, and vomit. You walk carefully down the wooden steps, stopping once you hit the cool, compacted dirt below. The sound of flies drones out all other noise. One of them flies up your nostril, but you refuse to react. Your guest wouldn't appreciate it a bit. The lone light in the roof illuminates the prone figure of your only friend. The white unicorn's once brilliantly styled purple mane and expertly quiffed tail are now flat and lackluster, but you can't deny she has an air of regality. The time spent away from the sun had caused her once snow white coat to lose its sheen. The filth and mess of the basement has settled on her coat, turning it a light gray. She hasn't noticed you yet, so you allow your eyes to continue.
Her chest is rippling and twitching with cramps. Being tied spread-eagle and unable to move them has caused them to deteriorate. You doubt she even has the strength anymore. A glance at her lower half shows her condition has worsened. One leg is still tied to the metal gurney, while the other leg is gone altogether. A belt is wrapped around the stump of her missing leg, about two inches above the lost flesh. Because the tourniquet had cut off the blood flow, the area below was black and wiggling with maggots. The sickly sweet smell of rotting meat emanates from the stump. You ignore the maggots, knowing they only eat the dead tissue and help stop infection from spreading. You look once more at her face, noticing the streaks that tears left. You clear your throat.
In a singsong voice, you awake your guest. “Rarity, Rarity. Are you ready to play?”
The mare wets herself at the sound of your voice and winces, but doesn't respond.
“Now, now. No need to be so dramatic. We're friends, after all. Aren't we?”
The whimpering becomes louder. A single tear leaks out of her shut eye.
You smile. It's better when she's like this. Much less fighting.
“Now, Rarity. I'm going to take your other hind leg today. It'll be quick and as painless as I can make it, I swear. “
At this, Rarity begins to weep openly. No words exit her mouth, but you can tell nothing but despair and fear are left in the equine. Her eyes are still closed, yet a constant stream of moisture leaks out and runs down her cheeks. She is completely broken, and she knows that you know it. The power of this knowledge makes you feel invincible.
“Are you ready?”
Her tears are interrupted by an abrupt hiccup, but continue unabated as soon as it finishes. You carefully take the belt off the stump leg, and wrap it around the unblemished one, making sure the cutie mark is well below the belt, ready to be cut off. You tighten the belt until you feel the blood stop. You sidestep to Rarity's head and begin to wipe tears of her cheeks. You notice she no longer flinches away from your touch. Good thing, too. Her fighting was getting annoying. After enough time has passed, you walk over to your new target. The skin has cooled to the touch. You wipe Rarity's tears onto the seat of your pants and then grab your knife. The blade sinks deep into the flesh with almost no resistance. You cut around the center bone, watching as chocolate syrup drips from the wounds. Using your bare hands, you snap the Graham Cracker bone and pull the leg from the table. You place the leg into a garbage bag and lick the chocolate from your hands as you climb back up the stairs.
Once more in the kitchen, the first thing you do is clean your knife and place it back on the magnetic rack. With that task complete, you remove the leg from the plastic bag and hang it over the sink to bleed out. Once the chocolate is mostly drained, you take the garbage bag and place it in the freezer to harden the chocolate that remains inside. You skin the leg quickly and drop the skin into a saltwater bucket. Using the cleaver, you remove the marshmallow meat from the Graham Cracker bone and place it on the counter to dry. Once more, you head to the bathroom and drop your dirty clothes to the floor, covering up the bloody stains from before. The water in the shower is cool and refreshing.
You scrub the marshmallow stickiness from your body and then step out of the shower. Naked and dripping, you walk into your kitchen. You turn on the gas burner of your stove to high and look at the dancing blue flames. Drawing your attention from the fire takes effort, but you manage to do it. With a cheese cutter, you dice the leg meat into squares, and then do the same to the frozen chocolate. You take the bone, and with a knife, cut off two thin slices. Sticking a marshmallow square on the knife, you hold it over the flames, cooking it until it reaches a golden brown on both sides. You place the chilled chocolate over the cracker, add the marshmallow, and sandwich it all together with another cracker. The taste is amazing, better than any smore you've had before. You make yourself another. And then another. By the time the sun comes up the next day, you've already eaten the entire leg. With satisfaction, you walk to your dirty sofa, lie down, and vomit everything you just ate.
It was another great day.
