The Autobiography of Bon Bon
The Autobiography of Bon Bon
This is how I say goodbye. To Lyra, who I always saw as more than a roommate and a friend. To mother and father, though I will join them soon. To everyone else who knows me or knows of me. This is my life, though abridged.
My life began as a pegasus in a shack on the outskirts of Ponyville. I grew up with very few friends, poor education, and little to no money. Dad left when I was just five, and mom died shortly thereafter. I grew up on the streets, living on the charity and goodwill of the townsfolk.
Now, many have seen me around, and most people will be wondering how I was born a pegasus, but am now an earth pony. Nopony but Lyra and Zecora know that tale. I used to cry when I thought about my wings, the wind in my mane, but now I hardly even remember that, since I was only ten when I lost them.
Mom’s death still hung heavy on my heart, and I was barely scraping by on what the townponies could provide. Of course, many had recommended that I put myself in an orphanage, but whenever I tried, they said they were too full. As such, I lived in the back alleys, the forgotten corners, hiding from stray dogs and tomcats. One night, however, I didn’t set up my tin can alarm properly, and I woke up in the mouth of some bull dog.
The pain in my wings was excruciating, and I knew that if I didn’t get medical treatment, I would never fly again. Of course, I had expected to keep my wings. The dogs I was brought to were ravenous, and didn’t care one bit about my screams. The only way I escaped wasby leaving my wings behind, sating their hunger. They made short work of those, though, and soon wanted more of my young flesh.
I never ran so fast in my life, and never did again. I eventually ran into a black and white mare, who chased off the hounds and took me back to her place. She said there was nothing she could do for my wings, but she could at least stop the bleeding. I almost wish she hadn’t, since she decided cauterizing the wound was the way to go.
I passed out from the pain, and when I woke up, I saw that I was in a very strange place. It was nothing like any other house in Ponyville, what with the cauldron in the center and masks on the wall. The black and white mare, who is named Zecora, told me that she had stopped the bleeding, removed the scars, and had even fed me while I was asleep. I was going to ask her if I could stay, but she reluctantly informed me that she could not have small children wreaking havoc in her house. She did escort me back to Ponyville, where I made sure to be safer, not wanting to lose something more valuable next time.
I continued living on the streets, happy until the other ponies’ charity ran out. That was when I was sixteen, and when I realized I needed a job. However, with such a poor education, I could not afford both a house and food. Sometime in October, on that fateful day fifteen years ago, I met Lyra. She was the most beautiful mare I had ever seen, and I desperately wanted to befriend her. I did, and over time we grew close. I told her of my monetary situation, and she proposed that we live together, as roommates.
I could never have turned down such an offer, and I readily accepted, hoping that she, like me, was a lesbian. However, I found out she was not some time later. That’s a story for later, though.
Lyra lived in a small apartment, one bedroom, one bath. She said she, too, was having a hard time scraping by, and that I was free to crash on the couch if I chipped in on rent and utilities. I thanked her, but had to leave almost immediately, since my shift at Sugarcube Corner was starting shortly. I was a cashier then, making a measly one bit for every three hours. I worked from noon until six, finishing the day with only two bits. Lyra wasn’t doing very much better, making five every eight hours on a eight hour shift.
When we pooled our money at the end of the week, chipping off the ten for rent, ten for water, and twenty for food, we were still strapped for cash at only a nine bit profit. Of course, since Lyra had the bigger paycheck, she was entitled to most of that money, and spent almost all of it on romance, leaving me to pursue more frugal entertainment options.
The most frugal, of course, is free. And the most free is the public library. At the time, Twilight wasn’t there, and there really wasn’t a librarian, though those that came to the library tended to it. That was where I found my passion for reading, and more often than not I was at the library. My life settled into a strictly scheduled routine.
I’d wake up, usually before Lyra, fix breakfast, leaving some for her, and head for the library. When there, I was devouring books, learning the way of the word, and gained a pseudo education. Of course, it wasn’t enough to earn a raise, but my slowly refining speech turned heads. Whenever it did, I knew the question on their mind: “How did that pony, who has such a hardscrabble life, learn to speak like that?”. Of course, no one who voiced that question ever believed the answer. After the library, it was to Sugarcube Corner with me, earning barely minimum wage.
I was not happy, but I was not malcontent. I had a roof over my head, a full stomach, and I was living with the mare of my dreams, though I knew she’d never love me, having heard the result of one riotous date through the bedroom wall. No, malcontent was not the word. Pessimistic would probably fit better. I had seen the dark side of Ponyville, in those forgotten corners, and in that impenetrable dark I had forgotten the light side of life.
Now, many ponies will mistake pessimism for depression. This is not the case. Though depressed people are usually pessimistic, and pessimists are usually depressed, those conditions are not always true. People who are depressed are sad and broken. I was broken, yes, but I was not sad. I, however, did always imagine the worst possible situation at any given time. Whenever I woke up and Lyra wasn’t home, I figured she was lying in a ditch somewhere, having been raped and left for dead. This, thankfully, was never the case. I usually found her at her coltfriend’s house, drenched in sweat and other fluids.
It was always my job to pull her from bed and make her get ready. Of course, sometimes she was so out of it I had to bathe her myself. Of course, this was never displeasurable, since she was my lust, but it still hampered my mornings, having to look after a perfectly capable mare or risk losing the apartment.
But, I digress. I wrote this letter for a reason. I wrote this because I won’t be able to tell those ponies personally after tonight. Because tonight, I’m going to fly again, like when I was young. Don’t cry for me, I’ve given this plenty of thought. I’m sorry, Lyra.
There are dried tears on the page, and new ones join them as they roll off my mint green cheeks. Why hadn’t she waited? My coltfriend just broke up with me, and told me I’d never find a stallion as good as him. Maybe I could’ve found a better mare instead.