Timken Bearing does the dishes.
I was in my train shed, my horn glowing gold as I held a large steel wheel in my magical grip. I looked all around it, making sure there weren’t any imperfections before putting it on the floor. The warm shed smelled of burning coal and steel.
“Let’s get this out of the way,” I thought, flexing my wings as I trotted through a door and out of the shed.
It was just a five minute walk from the train shed to my house. It wasn’t that big, being just a two-story of, oh… 2200 square feet. The wind was crisp, and the air felt dry. I walked up the steps, feeling the fresh wood creak under my hooves as I stopped before the door. Raising a hoof, I turned the knob to the right, pushing the door open and closing it when I was through.
With no words, I walked upstairs into the open-plan living room-dining room-kitchen. I noticed my father, a black earth pony, sitting on his fancy leather chair, watching a show via some magic-powered lightbox I forget the name of.
“Hm,” I barely thought as I entered the kitchen, seeing the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and the other junk sitting on the counter. On the coal-burning stove, I saw a pan, filled with god-knows-what with the glass cover fogged from condensation.
I silently grabbed a plate and started running it under the faucet, scrubbing hard as I used a bit too much soap. Once done with the plate, I put it in the drying rack under the counter next to me.
For the next three minutes, I did dishes, skipping the utensils entirely.
When those three minutes passed, my dad realized I wasn’t just cleaning some plate for myself.
“What are you doing?” he asked, pausing his show.
“Dishes,” I replied, blowing my golden mane out of my eyes.
“Well stop. I’m watching a show.”
“Mom said to do the dishes at one. It’s one twe-”
He turned around and looked at me. “I don’t give a shit what mom said. Go away.”
“Mom said to the dishes at one. I’m doing the dishes at one,” I say in a monotone voice, staring at the sink. I wasn’t thinking. I was just doing dishes.
“I’m the goddamn parent,” dad says in his “loud” voice. “Get the fuck out.”
“Mom said to do the dishes at one. Take it up with her,” I say, adding a hint of anger to my 17-year-old voice.
“Mom is fucking sleeping. Get out.”
“No. I’m doing the dishes.”
“GET THE FUCK OUT!”
Out of nowhere, he threw something at me. I don’t know what it was, nor did I see him grab it, but this something was either big enough or fast enough to shoot by me and basically explode the wooden cabinet behind me, destroying whatever was inside.
Continuing to barely think and not knowing what had happened behind me, I continued doing the dishes. I don’t actually remember what I said next, but I kept my cool as I calmly tried washing a bowl.
Whatever I said, it caused him to continue escalating the situation all by himself. With loud mumbles and stammers, he got up and trotted towards me. I remained immobile as he grabbed the faucet and ripped it out of the counter.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, letting the volume of my voice rise.
Since the water had been running at full force, on full heat, almost steaming hot water began flying all over the kitchen floor.
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIVING ROOM!” my dad yelled as he passed behind me, making his way to the cabinet he broke.
Finally letting myself move, I leave the kitchen.
“What the actual fuck are you doing?” I ask again, barely spying my mom - a unicorn - sitting upright in her bed through the master bedroom’s door. My little brother, who was nothing more than an earth colt, was laying next to her, paralyzed with what I wish I could say was fear. In reality, it was probably just curiosity.
“Get the fuck out of my living room,” he reiterates as he tries cleaning up the destroyed cabinet.
“It’s not your living room,” I reply as I start making my way back downstairs.
“I pay the bills,”
“You said the upstairs isn’t yours since you spend time in the ga-”
“Shut the fuck up you stupid idiot!”
“Mother of god are you a retarded psycho.”
I trotted through the front door, letting it swing shut behind me as I walked away from the house. The air felt colder now, the wind even more so as snow crunched beneath my hooves.
When I finally made it back to my train shed, I couldn’t do anything but stare into space for a moment as I closed the door behind me.
Using my magic, I grabbed a 7 ounce claw hammer. I tucked it under my starboard wing before beginning to pace the shop. I paced back and forth next to the massive steam locomotive that lay present on the track, soon spotting the steel wheel I had finished just ten minutes before.
Instead of merely grabbing it, I simply duplicated it. A perfect copy created from the very fabric of time. I slowed my pace as the thirty-six inch tall wheel lay in my grip.
I finally stopped, lifting my forest-green hoof up and staring at it.
It was at that moment I realized my body was shaking. Only slightly, but still shaking.
I could very faintly hear yelling coming from the house.
The shock quickly wore away after that, giving way to fury as my magic intensified.
The 36-inch titanium wheel, despite being made to withstand loads of a few dozen thousand pounds, began to bend in my grip. The metal creaked and screamed as it bent like tinfoil, cracking and snapping apart before suddenly being twisted into unnatural ways. I twisted it into a spiral that quickly shrunk like a steel cable. I twisted it tighter, and tighter, and tighter…
…until there was nothing.
“I need to fucking leave this place.
Images of the hammer under my wing went through my mind as I sat down at a table. Images of me using the hammer to destroy my dad's precious lightbox. Images of me slamming it into the side of his head, paralyzing half his body as he screams and tries to fight back.
I grabbed a pencil and paper and tried my best to strike the thoughts out of my mind. I took in a deep, livid breath, before finally beginning to write.
Dear Grandma Hazelnut,
Your son is an actual psycho.