Miserable Pink

by Bro Dash

Rating: everyone
Tags: Sad
Length: 2202

Pinkamena is bad pony...but does not mean Bad Pony.

Every day is the same, fighting for control over my own body, just to try and put forth my own efforts of improving this small town.

I am Pinkamena Diane Pie, past rock harvester, current party pony…No, that's Pinkie's job.

So why say this? Well, I'm on my bedroom floor, and after months of trying, have taken conscious control from that insane mare Pinkie Pie. It's not so easy being me, just because of a split personality.

I've got more things on my mind now than Pinkie Pie does when rambling about what she knows about parties. and every one of them heavier in my heart than the last.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-09-25 03:54:01 UTC

The True Mare

I picked myself up off the floor, taking a few experimental steps, getting used to having such an older body. A full grown mare, a lot of extra weight, which can better be explained by a simple glance at the crib in the corner of the room.

Motherhood, middle age, taste of sugar without even knowledge of the substance as of late, all acceptable. Doesn't matter.

Not my life.

I strode over to the desk on one side of the room, dust having covered it from years of neglect. The wood was warped, bending at an odd angle outwards, but the top was still flat.

I remember this desk, from long ago. I had my last argument, and last struggle trying to keep consciousness over this exact body to finish writing an apology to an old stallion that I had hospitalized. No doubt Pinkie Pie was forgiven, but not me.

Doesn't matter now. All I want is to make a final message, and wait until death takes us both, let her live her life that she stole from me...

I pulled several sheets of paper from the stack left there, throwing the top out. Faded, no lines anymore, only a blank white paper, and the one under it was not much better, but still useful. I wiped the desk off, and laid them there, pulling a fountain pin from the drawer, and then chose my favorite color. Red. Cherry red. Rose red. All shades of red, most of which had dried up, until I came to an unnamed red. A very bloody looking red, but between scarlet and blood. It had a number, but it was scratched off.

I dismissed it, and set the pen to the paper, ready to write, and began.

Dear, Pot Luck.

I don't know if you will even get this message, but it's me. The pink mare that lives at Sugarcube Corner in Ponyville. You should be seventy two today, if I can calculate correctly, and a good stallion.

I am not the hyper active mare you saw while you were in the hospital here in Ponyville. I am the first you saw. Mellow, smooth, and with a look of hatred and sadness.

While, half is true, I am always sad, I am still a good mare. I never got to appologize. That...mare took over before I could even speak. I felt her bubbles fill my head just as you were loaded into the stretcher. Then from then, unconsciousness.

I am a very mental mare. Split personality. I've had problems for years, and this is the first time I have been able to take control. I don't say this as a way to get it past me, to tell somepony, I just wanted you to know why this message came so late.

I am sorry for everything. The bill, the break...the worry for me.

I signed my name in the beautiful equestrian handwriting which nobles used daily, and set the paper aside.

My hoof instinctively went to the lamp that I had to the right of the desk, and flipped the switch, turning it on. The evening light was not enough anymore.

I began to write, again.

Dear Mother, Father, and Inkie,

It's me, Pinkamena. No, not Pinkie Pie. I am not trying to make you happy, like she does, but more or less to be accepted.

I wish to apologize for everything. Though, it's been a while since I have actually been able to take conscious control, I have, and I still remember everything as if it were yesterday. I am sorry for the mistakes I have made.

Inkie. I am especially sorry. For the years that Pinkie Pie took from me. The years when I could not be your true sister to look up to, but instead for being a mental party pony that tries to make everypony smile, even when it isn't needed.

Smiling can also make things worse. I've seen it happen countless times in Pinkie Pie's eyes...

If you could see me now, you may be proud, but it wouldn't be me. No, this is Pinkie Pie's life, and...you can sitll learn from her.

Her own foal, friends with everypony, and a stallion that I distinctly remember being as grey as you, but a mane and tail as white as snow. Heh. Even now it slightly cheers me up to even think of him. But...he isn't mine.

Regrets for not being there,

I signed my name again, the beautiful equestrian rolling from the pen.

Swallowing a small lump in my throat, I readied another paper, and began again.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cake,

Pinkie Pie, the hyper mare will have given this to you happily.

However, she did not write this, and I would really appreciate it if you would take this seriously.

There is nothing wrong with her, as it is not her who wrote this, but Pinkamena. I am Pinkamena Diane Pie.

Having suffered from split personality syndrome for nearly my entire life, Pinkie Pie seems to be the better conscience in the matter, having taken over my life completely. I once spoke to her, and found that she wanted to make me into a mare that was seen as happy, and loved to spread joy. All because I was so sad. I never once smiled, never could. I never earned my cutie mark, she did. I never got married, she did. I never had a foal...She did.

While this really hurts to even admit, I still must say it.

I am sorry.

Sorry for everything. Sorry for her, for not being able to show my true colors, to not be able to tell you.

I'm sorry for making you worry about Pinkie Pie watching your foals. She may not be very responsible at a moments notice, but she is responsible when truly needed to be, in the right situations, and in the right places.

Sorry for everything.

I signed my name again, biting my lip as a few tears tried to leak out. I'd not cry now. I'd not cry, because it will only wake the foal, alert the father in the next room, and that'd be another apology.

Swallowing hard, I drew another paper, one of the last. The second to last.

Dear Twilight and friends,

Just like the Cakes, you may think of this as a playful letter, or invitation to Something.

Please don't. I ask hat you understand this more as a true letter from somepony else than Pinkie Pie.

I am Pinkamena. The second personality held in Pinkie Pie's head. You, Twilight could immediately see this as split personality syndrome. You are right.

Ever since my her cutie mark appeared.

I am the side of her that dreads everything, always sad, never able to be happy. I can't be. Not now, not ever, knowing how much of my life has passed.

The past was my life. Now, everything that I have is not mine. It is Pinkie Pie's. Her stallion, her foal, her house, her life, not mine.

I write this nearly in tears, as this will be one of the last things I will ever do. Once I finish this letter, I have one left, and then I give my body and mind to Pinkie Pie until death takes us both.

Here, I make an apology, for not showing my true colors.

You have seen Pinkie Pie sad, and caring, but never Pinkamena.

I am sorry for not even making an introduction.

I signed this one quickly, setting it to the side as the tear fell right where it had been a second before.

It's not easy writing like this, telling those who matter the most your sorry, to repent just before you give up the rest of everything. And to even do that, the terms must be terrible. And they are. It was not my life anymore. Can't be, never will be. I will forever be known as Pinkie Pie's second personality, my body as Pinkie Pie, my life as Pinkie Pie's life. Except to those who were closest.

And that still meant I had to a letter to one more pony. A pink mare named...Pinkie Pie...

I wiped my eyes, sniffing as I pulled another paper in front of me.

I can't remember the last time I even shed tears but now...it feels so good. But as I put my hoof and pen to the paper, I can feel myself slowly slipping out of control. She's taking it back...

Dear Pinkie Pie,

It's me, Pinkamena. Your...Your second mind?

I don't know. But, I must make this quick.

I'm sorry.

I should have never neglected laughter, happiness, glee. Everything. I should have been happier. But I can't.

I want to blame it on you, say it's your fault

I could feel the words begin to write smoother, more strongly. She was allowing this. Maybe she knew.

But...I can't. I just can't. You are a very loveable pony. And I love you. I thank you for everything. Giving me friends, giving me life, a lover, a *family*...

But I can't accept that. It's your life, not mine.

I, from here here on, give you everything. Of split minds we are no longer. You, Pinkie Pie, are now one mind in one body.

Please don't see this as hate, as me trying to purposefully make you sad.

I just can't take a life that isn't mine, and I can't go back and have my own.

It's just not right, not possible.

I'm sorry Pinkie.

Good bye forever...

Upon righting the last of my own name, I could feel myself weakening, and, instead of fighting it, embraced it, to accept my eternal slumber.

I closed my eyes, two more tears falling as I drifted off...

I'm...crying?

I looked at my current surroundings. My room, yes, my house, but...not my desk. This is Pinkamena's desk! I smiled.

Then I noticed the papers. A stack of about twenty on one side, one crumpled up, a foutnain pen in my right hoof, and five written papers over the desk. All in bloody ink.

I gasped, thinking this a sign of pony-satanic signs of worship that I didn't even know I was doing yet, then...something caught my eye.

I picked up the one in front, reading the royal equestrian at the bottom in the red ink, my calligraphic memory kicking into overdrive as I read it out.

"Pinkamena..."

I could feel my heart lurch as I realized what I had written was not what I wrote, but what somepony else wrote.

Looking at the top, it was addressed to me. Quickly reading over it, slightly rough writing covered the first section, then smoothed out. All of which I took in, reading word for word an apology, and sad letter, of word and soul.

setting down the letter, I put my head into my hooves, shaking my head left and right.

I felt horrible, as if I were...a murderer. I murdered myself in cold blood, or brain matter. It seemed to fit more, but the joke was sour, horrible. It made me feel...Disrespectful.

The door opened and I quickly turned around, a gasp escaping my lips as my stallion strode in quietly.

"Hey.", he said quietly.

I gave him a kiss, and wrapped my arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"I take it you missed me?"

"Yeah.", I parted, gathering the rest of the papers, "But I have to go. Sorry, love, but I have something very important to deliver to some ponies personally."

The grey stallion smiled, and nodded, "I'll watch the foal, you go ahead and go."

"Thanks, love."

It felt like...he knew...

Not bothering to look at the time, or grab a coat, the chill of the autumn night gripped my coat hard, chilling me instantly into a shiver.

Fifteen seconds later, I had a coat, and was once again on my way, the papers in my maw trying to fly away in the fall breeze.

Post office. No time for cross country travel. I knew that stallion well. We kept writing letters in the past years, but he seems to be writing them less and less often.

The post office was nearly closed, and the only thing left open, was a late night working stallion.

"May I help you?"

"Can you please mail this letter to my usual address?", I handed the letter over, no envelope, not folded, nothing.

"In a hurry?"

I nodded quickly.

"Don't worry, I'll have it out by tomorrow. I know how you and Pot Luck are with your mailings."

I nodded, and he smiled back happily, taking the paper.

The trip to Twilight's house was quick, not far from the postal office.

Though, her lights were off. Huffing, I dropped the one letter, and slid it under the door, then ran off, following the path to the train station, and stopped at a street intersection. I ran to the large gingerbread house in the center of Ponyville market, and slid the letter to the Cakes under the door, continuing my sprint to the train station.

By the time Pinkie would be back, a funeral will be held...