The Lost Girls

I absently lay my head against the head of the guitar while the guitar's neck rests on my left shoulder. During this time I cease playing for a moment as I feel a wave of . . . I can almost describe it like dizziness, but it's more accurate to say intense apathy. I just feel too depressed to care about doing anything, yet something tugs at my heartstrings and compels me to move forward, at least inwardly. It feels like a long shot, but if I mentally go over each phase of my downfall, maybe I can more accurately pinpoint what went wrong? Better yet, if there is something I can do to make things better?

I release a long, painful sigh then lift my head up again, though I still keep my eyes closed. I resume playing the guitar. As I do so, I dwell on what happened to me next.

Well . . . I guess the next phase of my life is obvious. After receiving the letter about my younger sister's degenerating condition, I went home.

The only positive thing I can say about my experience of returning home was largely two things. One, nostalgia, and two, seeing my young sister again, although the latter was quite a bittersweet experience.

In fact, that basically summed up my entire emotional experience upon returning home; bittersweet. It was nice to see my old stomping grounds, but it also made me recall why I felt so bitter about it. We were one of those pegasi who lived on the ground. I always resented that fact ever since we moved there. I actually remember growing up during the early part of my youth secretly resenting my younger sister because I blamed her for us living on the ground because of her physical disabilities.

The farmhouse was in some disarray and disrepair when I got back. It didn't exactly feel welcoming, but I understood why it was that way. Cleaning up the whole place was something my little sister hardly could ever do. Now that our folks passed away and Sweet got even worse, this only made sense.

As I trotted into the farm and looked around, all I could feel was the fact that all of this was a reminder of my failure. I was once proud to fly away from this place and strike it out on my own, and I did a very good job of that too. Sure, I drifted from job to job for quite some time but I still made it on my own. I was out there . . . flying. I was especially proud of myself when I landed in a position of the Wonderbolt recruits. I never doubted that I'd get there before that point. It was only a question as to when it would happen. When I was kicked out, I had no back up plan except this; returning here, to this farm, was my absolute last resort. I knew that safety net was always there, but considering how liberating it felt when I first left this place, I simply knew I'd feel like a failure if I was ever forced to return home.

But there I was, right back where I started and pulled there under circumstances I hadn't even considered before. I returned there not for the sake of my own failures, but somepony else's. My rational side told me there was no pony to blame here. There were only victims here, not aggressors, but my emotions insisted there needed to be a target for all of my frustration and rage. It was just too strong to disappear on its own.

Sweet Charity didn't change too much. Not beyond the point of recognition. She still was that same small yellow pony with brown, unkept mane and tail because my sister never saw a point in trying to make herself look good. She figured no pony would romantically want her anyway. On the other hoof, she was a bit more chubby since the last time I saw her, especially in the cheek area.

Beyond all of that, though, the wheelchair she was in and the large, round, nerdy-looking glasses that visibly magnified her eyes were all new, but I expected all of this because of the letters I received over the years. The wheelchair was the newest addition, and as for the glasses? She got that several years ago because she read and wrote a great deal. Sweet Charity was a fiction romance author and poet.

I really didn't want to lash out at her for causing all of this, so I mostly didn't. Instead, I was more distant, cold, and silent, but not totally. I tried to not make it obvious. For example, I responded to her and answered her questions, but my responses were short and I refused to look her in the eyes, at least for a while. I acknowledged her. That was pretty much it at first.

I recall that, once I got inside the farmhouse, I flew up to this high perch I often took when I used to live there. It was a sideways oval window with iron bars over it that kind of looked like an eye. This was one of two windows that looked like this. So, from the outside of the house, it looked like the house gazed out at anypony on the forward end of it. Once, in my foal's eyes, I used to be convinced that the house's gaze would always follow me wherever I went.

As I sat up there at that windowsill, I rested with my back and wings against one side of the oval curve as best I could, but I distinctly remember being a better fit up there in my youth. I gazed out the window, too. I liked the higher perspective I had up here. Here and on the roof of the house too. Those were my favorite spots in this house.

Down below, my sister took up what was our mother's office. It still had some bookshelves full of books in there, but now they were my sister's. More power to her. Sis always followed closer to our mother's hoof steps anyway.

Not to say I was closer to our father instead. Honestly, no pony in our family followed the path that I did, but that was not a unique situation in various families in Equestria. Cutie mark destinies could be all over the place.

“I heard about your career among The Washouts,” I recall my sister bringing up in the hopes to bring some conversation between us which was precisely what I didn't want. She sat in her wheelchair in the office as she gazed up at me while I sat by that windowsill near the roof.

“Mmm-hmm,” I absently agreed while I continued to gaze out the window. As I did, I had one hoof in the coat pocket of my black leather jacket which had one inch steel spikes over the shoulders of the jacket.

“That sounds so exciting!” my sister went on. “I collected a lot of your various posters and logos as well as newspaper clippings. You looked so good in that outfit, Sis. It was very sharp.”

“Glad you approve,” I told her absently.

“I heard it was a very dangerous sport, though,” my sister added.

I grind my teeth and pressed the hoof that was in my coat pocket harder which caused the leather to creak. I told her as calmly as I could, “That's the point of the sport.”

“I, ah . . . guess that's why it was so exciting, huh?” my sister asked me in a reserved way. “I remember how much you liked to be daring. That kind of sport seems right up your alley.”

I said nothing to that comment.

“You must have really enjoyed it, huh?” my sister figured aloud.

Again, I said nothing. I just continued to stare out the window.

However, what happened next I did not ignore. In fact, I finally whipped my head to look at her when I heard her start whimpering.

“I'm so sorry to be a burden to you!” my little sister wailed as she wiped her hooves under her giant, nerdy glasses.

After what she said and the way she said it, I immediately glided down to her from the upper windowsill then embraced her in a hug with both my forelegs and wings. As I did so, I downright lied to her when I said, “No! You're not a burden to me.”

“Then why can't you look me in the eyes?” my sister continued to wail.

I was taken aback by that comment. I soon realized that she was too smart to fall for my tricks. Family tends to know a pony the best anyway. The truth was I didn't want to look her in the eyes because I didn't want her to see that she spoke the absolute, or rather mostly, truth. She was a burden to me. She was holding me back!

But not purposely, and I knew none of this was her fault. My emotions wanted to blame her for this because of its sheer intensity but my rational side reigned in that impulse.

Since she caught me, I thought fast to explain the situation to her in a way that's both honest and comforting. Eventually I said, “Okay, you caught me. I absolutely am disappointed with these turn of events, but I'll tell you something else that is the truth.

“Charity, look at me,” I insisted before I continued. I waited for her to respond. For the first time in years, we locked eyes onto each other. At that point I went on to say, “It is true that I am bummed out by how things turned out, but I would be even more disappointed with myself if I did nothing in your time of need. I need you to know, Charity, that whatever we have to face together . . . you're worth it. How many sisters do I have anyway in this world?”

Charity sniffed before she answered, “Just one.”

“Right,” I told her. “So that means I have only one target for all of my affection. One pony with whom I need to tend. One pony who helps me to feel fulfilled.

“I did give up a lot. I'll admit that, but look. I'm still here. Guess what that means when it comes to my priorities?”

For that comment, my sister smiled at me happily before leaning forward to hug me again. I gladly returned that affection.