Speakeasyby ScienzaChaptersFrom Behind Violet SunglassesFameBrilliantFrom Behind Violet SunglassesWhen you live your life behind tinted sunglasses, you remain unattached. Those thin lenses, that centimeter of tinted glass and metal, shields you from the squalid world around you. You become distant, vital to success in the crime-ridden world of Canterlot’s night life. You have to be distant, in case the stallion you sang Appleoosan drinking songs with last night turns up dead, or a “friend” goes at you with a knife. The crime lords that run the underground nightclubs are ruthless, and if you ever show weakness, reveal one small chink in your armor, they’ll exploit it. That’s why I’m here. I never thought that I’d end up here, working in the Canterlot undercity, drinking my sorrows away. I used to be a model student, perfect grades and all that shit. I never did anything bad beyond the occasional drink or vandalism, you know, normal teenage behavior. I had a passion for music. I would just play my songs on street corners, just to see the other ponies smile. It was great. One day, a night-club owner heard me play. He gave me an offer, work for him, play a few songs, and get rich. It was exciting, those first few days. Just playing my songs, getting a few ponies to dance. Maybe a few drinks now and then, but I never got too drunk. I still kept up with my school work. I was on top of the world, living a double life. During the day, I was Vinyl Scratch, life of the high school social scene. At night, I was DJ P0N-3, queen of the club. I was only seventeen when I got hooked on salt. I’m not sure who introduced me, probably one of the bartenders. It was intoxicating, the swirling colors and wonderful tingling feeling throughout your whole body. It was like entering another world. After my first time, I just spent all my time and cash at the club. Another day was just another dose, another opportunity to enter that wonderful world. Soon, I stopped going to school. Eventually, my parents kicked me out. I guess they just couldn’t handle that their “perfect” daughter had dropped out of high school. I just came home one day, and they had my shit packed by the door. I didn’t really care, all that was important was the next time I’d get some salt. My best friend was this beautiful pegasus filly named Culture Shock. She was funny, smart, drop dead gorgeous, you know, the kind of pony that you can’t help but fall in love with. She’d been my best friend in high school, and introduced me to techno and rock and all the good shit that makes the fucking world go round. She was smart, like really fucking smart. She’d probably’ve gone to university after graduation, if I hadn’t ruined her life. I guess she thought it was her job to save me, but when I quit school, she dropped out, and when my parents showed me the door, she moved into my new apartment. She was destined for so much better. She should have been in Celestia’s court, or exploring the remote parts of the world, or just making other ponies happy. Not living in a tiny apartment in a crime-ridden neighborhood with a salt-addict. I never really appreciated her. She had to put up with so much shit from me. Like when I got really drunk or high, I’d just… change. Like some fucking monster was let out. One night, I smashed a hoof through one of the walls of our apartment. Another time… I put her in the ER. I just lost it one night, after a hard day. I remember waking up on the floor, the haze of salt fading, and Shock was just lying on the floor in a pool of blood. She was so small, fragile, the little feathers on her wings staining crimson from her own blood. It was both heart-breaking and beautiful. Culture Shock still stuck with me after she got out of the hospital. I don’t know why, I surely didn’t deserve it. She was the most loyal friend, the kind that would die for you, and I loved her for it. She even got me off of salt. She just got me to quit. I still drank like a demon, but I wasn’t going to the other world any more. I quit my job at the club and tried to go legit. I released a few albums, made some money. It was the happiest time of my life. I let myself get attached to Shock, and… hell, you don’t spend years in close proximity with a pony without falling in love with them slightly. We started going out, spending time together in public… and in doing so, I tore off my breastplate and exposed my flank to the mob. I had always been so careful, making sure that no one drew the connection between me and her. But then I got careless, I thought we were safe. Boy, was I fucking wrong. We were both about twenty-one. It was a beautiful night, and I proposed to her. It was straight from a movie, the perfect background, the perfect moment… the perfect couple. I don’t know what kind of crappy wedding I would have been able to afford from the meager record sales my music was receiving, but damn, it would’ve been ours. We were heading back to our apartment. I was on cloud nine, in a happy daze I hadn’t felt for years. Then, two stallions grabbed us from the alleyway. Turns out that they were from my old boss, who wasn’t happy that I stopped working for him. I’d made the mistake of being seen with Culture Shock, and well, they wanted to teach me a lesson. They killed her, right in front of me. I still see it whenever I close my eye… the way her eyes widened when the knife penetrated her chest… the way she slumped over. She coughed up blood on the pavement, and I held her as she died in my arms. The last thing she did was look at me with those beautiful violet eyes of hers, and smile. In her eyes, I could see all my hopes, all my dreams of a life shared with her, die along with her. Her head lolled back, and I carefully closed her eyes. I stood up and glared at the stallions. The sick fucks had just watched, as she died right in front of them. I through the haze of tears over my eyes, I could see the world go red as I was consumed by the rage I hadn’t felt for so many years. I beat the stallions up pretty bad. One went into a coma for two years, and is still on a respirator. The other… well he never woke up. I was never prosecuted because it was an obvious case of self defense, and besides, as the judge argued, I had just rid Canterlot of two more scum. I wish they had locked me up. It would have given me time to repent, think about my life. But instead, I was given a pat on the back and turned loose. I started taking salt again. The only way to escape my sorrows, to escape that night, was to enter the fantastic world of drugs. I also started wearing the sunglasses again. All my life, I’d worn these sunglasses. Sure, they gave me one hell of a trademark, but they also shielded me from the dark things of the world. I’d stopped wearing them when I tried to become legitimate. Culture Shock always hated these things, the way they wouldn’t let her see my eyes. I guess I started wearing them again as a reminder to never become attached to another pony again, and always remember the beautiful pegasus. And so I became detached. Every day was just another job, another gig, another dose of salt. It was a cold, mechanical rhythm. I guess it was my way of grieving. Instead of becoming lost in emotion, I stopped feeling. It’s a terrible thing to fear yourself. To know that beneath your ruby eyes, and bright smile lives a monster waiting to be unleashed. But yet I was in constant fear of myself. I know that deep inside me was a beast, normally released through alcohol or salt, but if I ever got angry, I would be consumed by it. I live in fear that one day, I’ll snap the way that Culture Shock’s murder drove me insane, and I’ll hurt a large number of ponies. One day I’ll get pushed too far and massacre an entire club, or set off a bomb in the streets of Canterlot. I don’t know my limits, only that the demon is getting easier and easier to release every day. So I don’t know my fate. Will I end by noose, or salt overdose, or worst of all, die by public execution for mass murder. All my life, these sunglasses have shielded me from the world, but now I wonder, have these lenses protected me from the world… or everypony from me? FameFame. Millions hunger for it. Thousands will kill for but one second of glorious celebrity. It’s intoxicating, as smooth and powerful as the finest liquor and as unpredictable as a hand of cards. Still, for all the countless ponies who want nothing more than to experience the money and power of fame, few ever see its darker side. What nopony ever counts on is the fact that for every adoring fan, there are at least two ponies that want to watch you fail, so that they may make their bid for prestige. They say that classical music is not as vicious as the drug and murder filled realm of rock and hip-hop. The ponies that say that are wrong. Unlike these techno kingpins that have had ruled for decades at most, the musical dynasties of classical have had hundreds, and even thousands, of years to cement their place in high society. And most importantly, unlike the pop lords, the musical barons have built such a connection with Canterlot’s court that they are rarely, if ever, punished for their crimes. A murder among the rock stars might grant a life in prison, or even execution, while among the upper class it would warrant only a small fine or, more often than not, no punishment at all. These corrupt families have built their connections so tightly that any upset to the balance, say, a popular twenty-year old cellist from a poor family in Manehattan, has to be eliminated. It started out innocently enough, petty little attacks that didn’t faze me. I’d open my case before a concert only to find that someone had cut my cello strings, or find graffiti spray painted on my apartment door. I thought that the other musicians were just jealous, trying to discourage me from succeeding. I should have recognized the attacks for what they were: a warning, to get out before ponies started getting hurt. Soon, I started getting the death threats. Members of my ensemble started disappearing, first Harpo, then Beauty Brass. They found Harpo’s body in the river. They never found Beauty Brass. A few days after they found Harpo… Frederic got stabbed outside a café in Canterlot. He died shortly afterward. I tried to report it to the Canterlot police, only they wouldn’t do anything about it. The nobles had bribed the police chief, and now the forces of the law wouldn’t go anywhere near my case, even when the classical musicians decided to take it into their own hands. They started going at me with knives, cornering me after performances or on the walk back to my apartment. I grew up on the streets of Manehattan, so I could hold my own, but it was tiring. The fans were another thing. Some of them honestly enjoyed my music, and to them I am eternally grateful. They prevented me from ending myself whenever things got really bad. Disturbingly some seemed… obsessive. I started getting stalked. I would just turn around, and there he was, this stallion in dark clothes following me wherever I went. Then one day… one day I opened the door to my apartment, and there was a stallion waiting for me. He had a knife, and he… he violated me. It hurt so much… thank Celestia that I didn’t get pregnant. Oh how my parents would be disappointed in me, my virginity taken away from me before I was even twenty-one. We were poor, but they always wanted their little girl to succeed, to prosper. They never wanted their little Octavia to shrink away from the world, abused and broken by months of never-ending attack. But I did hide. They never caught the stallion who did this to me, and to this day, I am not sure whether he was an obsessive fan, a rapist hired by the bastards who killed my ensemble, or just a random monster who needed to satisfy his cravings. Who was doesn’t matter. It had the desired effect. I stopped playing concerts… to be honest, I stopped playing music altogether for a long time. I got a job waiting tables at a local diner. And I started drinking. Hearty Appleoosan ciders, strong griffon whiskey, and even Clopka imported from Stalliongrad. I drank it all, to anesthetize the pain. I started spending more time in these bars… the ponies here don’t know who I am… they don’t care who I was. I’m just another mare drinking her sorrows away. At one point, I made the decision to end it all. I had traveled so far from the streets of Manehattan only to fail. Instead of achieving my dreams, I was serving hay fries. One day, I left work early and walked to my apartment. I went to the roof, and stood on the edge, watching as the crowd gathered below. So ironic, that the hermit failure should die before a crowd. “Don’t worry,” I told myself. “Where you’re going, no pony will ever be able to hurt you again.” I jumped . I fell. I could see every failure flash before my eyes, every second of shame. I would be at peace soon. I felt something heavy smash into me. I woke up in a hospital. Apparently some pegasus had “saved” me. He damned me to more of this miserable existence. The café fired me, my landlord evicted me. I live on the streets, using what little money I have for food and alcohol. It’s poetic. I went from a Manehattan slum to the apex of Canterlot high society… and then right back to the streets. I hope my parents can’t see me now. BrilliantI'm not exaggerating when I say that I'm brilliant. I can tell you the exact height and humidity where different varieties of clouds form, or the precise temperature at which snow starts turning into hailstones. I'm smart… but nopony will ever give me a job. Nopony will ever love me. They never see the real me, the real Sara Bubbles. All they see are the eyes, those damn eyes that have plagued me my entire life. The kids at school never let me forget my peculiarities. All those little nicknames they came up for me, "Ditzy Doo", "Retard Bubbles", and of course, "Derpy Hooves". I can't escape that name. Everywhere I went, ponies would call me "Derpy". I'd always tell them that my name is Sara. Nopony ever listened to me. Along with the names, there were the beatings. Every week, these two colts would corner me in the hallways, or near the edge of a cloud, and try to beat the retard out of me. I couldn't really fight back, I just had to take it. After they left, I'd pick myself out of the blood and crap on the floor, and stumble away. Other times… I didn't quite walk away. Throughout all of grade school, I ended up in emergency room exactly eleven times. The bullies were punished a few times… but no one really has sympathy for the retard. Nopony honestly cares about whether the freak can breathe properly, or walk without limping. She's just a nuisance, a stain upon your household, or school, or town. I think that's what Dad thought of me. I… I know he loved me. Even when he got drunk… even when he hit me. Whenever I got a test back that was just short of being perfect, he'd wave it in my face as proof that I was defective, then burn it. When that moving truck hit him… isn't it terrible that I was happy when he died? I graduated valedictorian… nopony remembers that. After graduation, I couldn't get a job, not in Cloudsdale. Nopony wants to hire a mare that looks like she'd get lost inside her own bedroom. So, I had to leave. I went to Trottingham, Fillydelphia, hell, even to the streets of Manehattan. That's where I found her. She was this little homeless unicorn filly, getting beaten up by this gang of colts. She reminded me of myself so much. I drove away the bullies and asked her where her parents were. Turns out they'd died a few months ago. So I adopted her. Got the papers and everything. Her name is Lilia, and she became my daughter. It's funny… here I was, barely twenty, unemployed. I had never had a coltfriend, I mean, who would want to date the freak? But yet I have a daughter, a beautiful, beautiful daughter. A daughter who doesn't care what I look like, who doesn't care what people say about me, a daughter who loves me for who I am. I want to protect her from the world that made me what I am today. I want her to grow up happy and loved. I want her to have the life I never had. I got a job in a little town far from where I grew up. They needed a mailpony, and didn't care what she looked like. Sure, it wasn't exactly the mentally gratifying work I'd envisioned for myself in high school, but it was something. I was always polite, friendly, and willing to provide an open-mind and a shoulder to cry on if need be. Lilia started going to the local school, meeting some of the other girls. She got really good at baking homemade muffins. Life was good… until the doctor told me the news. It's common knowledge that your mental state is inexorably linked to your physical health. That's why when you get sick, or overwork yourself, you start to go slightly insane. However, it's less commonly known that the relationship also works in reverse. Your physical health relies on your mental well-being, which is why the life-expectancy of those really-messed up ponies, you know, the serial killers and rapists, is so low. Their bones and tissue just starts to deteriorate, until they finally die. When I learned about it in biology, it was all purely theoretical. I never thought that it would apply to- … well, considering my chronic depression and anger, coupled with a lifetime of physical abuse, it's a miracle that I haven't died yet. Given my current rate of decline, I probably only have a few more months to live. I told Lilia the truth. Since the day I first met her, I swore that I would never lie to her. I would always be honest, even when it hurts. She reacted the way you'd expect. I held her close as she cried. She's still so young, only fourteen. I arranged for her to live with a few of my coworkers, Lyra and Bon-Bon, until she graduates. They're nice ponies. I just hope Lilia is ready for the world out there. I did my best to prepare her. I won't be here when she grows up, when she starts a family of her own. I wish I could be there for her… I just want here to be a good pony. I know she will be when the time comes. I took some of money I've saved and took Lilia on a vacation. She always wanted to visit the Canterlot, city of magic. We toured the Royal Palace, marveled at the art of Andy Marehol, and just spent time exploring the city. I wanted us to share some happy memories before I die. Lilia's sleeping in our hotel room. Is it irresponsible parenting that I'm here, at this bar, while my daughter is sleeping not two block away? I'm not even sure why I'm here, after she fell asleep, I was just kind of drawn here. I just walked in through the door, and ordered a drink, nothing too strong. The memories of Dad's drunken rages are just too powerful for me to ever touch hard liqueur. I don't regret my life. I'm twenty-five, and I have a daughter that loves me. Still, I can't help but think of what I might've been. I had the talent. I could have been a scientist, or a scholar, or just a teacher. I think I would've liked that. A teacher, someone the colts and fillies under my care would look up to and respect. I could have gone to university… but with my… freakish appearance, I didn't interview well. I could have done so much more... I was smart, friendly, polite. Why couldn't anypony see that?
From Behind Violet SunglassesWhen you live your life behind tinted sunglasses, you remain unattached. Those thin lenses, that centimeter of tinted glass and metal, shields you from the squalid world around you. You become distant, vital to success in the crime-ridden world of Canterlot’s night life. You have to be distant, in case the stallion you sang Appleoosan drinking songs with last night turns up dead, or a “friend” goes at you with a knife. The crime lords that run the underground nightclubs are ruthless, and if you ever show weakness, reveal one small chink in your armor, they’ll exploit it. That’s why I’m here. I never thought that I’d end up here, working in the Canterlot undercity, drinking my sorrows away. I used to be a model student, perfect grades and all that shit. I never did anything bad beyond the occasional drink or vandalism, you know, normal teenage behavior. I had a passion for music. I would just play my songs on street corners, just to see the other ponies smile. It was great. One day, a night-club owner heard me play. He gave me an offer, work for him, play a few songs, and get rich. It was exciting, those first few days. Just playing my songs, getting a few ponies to dance. Maybe a few drinks now and then, but I never got too drunk. I still kept up with my school work. I was on top of the world, living a double life. During the day, I was Vinyl Scratch, life of the high school social scene. At night, I was DJ P0N-3, queen of the club. I was only seventeen when I got hooked on salt. I’m not sure who introduced me, probably one of the bartenders. It was intoxicating, the swirling colors and wonderful tingling feeling throughout your whole body. It was like entering another world. After my first time, I just spent all my time and cash at the club. Another day was just another dose, another opportunity to enter that wonderful world. Soon, I stopped going to school. Eventually, my parents kicked me out. I guess they just couldn’t handle that their “perfect” daughter had dropped out of high school. I just came home one day, and they had my shit packed by the door. I didn’t really care, all that was important was the next time I’d get some salt. My best friend was this beautiful pegasus filly named Culture Shock. She was funny, smart, drop dead gorgeous, you know, the kind of pony that you can’t help but fall in love with. She’d been my best friend in high school, and introduced me to techno and rock and all the good shit that makes the fucking world go round. She was smart, like really fucking smart. She’d probably’ve gone to university after graduation, if I hadn’t ruined her life. I guess she thought it was her job to save me, but when I quit school, she dropped out, and when my parents showed me the door, she moved into my new apartment. She was destined for so much better. She should have been in Celestia’s court, or exploring the remote parts of the world, or just making other ponies happy. Not living in a tiny apartment in a crime-ridden neighborhood with a salt-addict. I never really appreciated her. She had to put up with so much shit from me. Like when I got really drunk or high, I’d just… change. Like some fucking monster was let out. One night, I smashed a hoof through one of the walls of our apartment. Another time… I put her in the ER. I just lost it one night, after a hard day. I remember waking up on the floor, the haze of salt fading, and Shock was just lying on the floor in a pool of blood. She was so small, fragile, the little feathers on her wings staining crimson from her own blood. It was both heart-breaking and beautiful. Culture Shock still stuck with me after she got out of the hospital. I don’t know why, I surely didn’t deserve it. She was the most loyal friend, the kind that would die for you, and I loved her for it. She even got me off of salt. She just got me to quit. I still drank like a demon, but I wasn’t going to the other world any more. I quit my job at the club and tried to go legit. I released a few albums, made some money. It was the happiest time of my life. I let myself get attached to Shock, and… hell, you don’t spend years in close proximity with a pony without falling in love with them slightly. We started going out, spending time together in public… and in doing so, I tore off my breastplate and exposed my flank to the mob. I had always been so careful, making sure that no one drew the connection between me and her. But then I got careless, I thought we were safe. Boy, was I fucking wrong. We were both about twenty-one. It was a beautiful night, and I proposed to her. It was straight from a movie, the perfect background, the perfect moment… the perfect couple. I don’t know what kind of crappy wedding I would have been able to afford from the meager record sales my music was receiving, but damn, it would’ve been ours. We were heading back to our apartment. I was on cloud nine, in a happy daze I hadn’t felt for years. Then, two stallions grabbed us from the alleyway. Turns out that they were from my old boss, who wasn’t happy that I stopped working for him. I’d made the mistake of being seen with Culture Shock, and well, they wanted to teach me a lesson. They killed her, right in front of me. I still see it whenever I close my eye… the way her eyes widened when the knife penetrated her chest… the way she slumped over. She coughed up blood on the pavement, and I held her as she died in my arms. The last thing she did was look at me with those beautiful violet eyes of hers, and smile. In her eyes, I could see all my hopes, all my dreams of a life shared with her, die along with her. Her head lolled back, and I carefully closed her eyes. I stood up and glared at the stallions. The sick fucks had just watched, as she died right in front of them. I through the haze of tears over my eyes, I could see the world go red as I was consumed by the rage I hadn’t felt for so many years. I beat the stallions up pretty bad. One went into a coma for two years, and is still on a respirator. The other… well he never woke up. I was never prosecuted because it was an obvious case of self defense, and besides, as the judge argued, I had just rid Canterlot of two more scum. I wish they had locked me up. It would have given me time to repent, think about my life. But instead, I was given a pat on the back and turned loose. I started taking salt again. The only way to escape my sorrows, to escape that night, was to enter the fantastic world of drugs. I also started wearing the sunglasses again. All my life, I’d worn these sunglasses. Sure, they gave me one hell of a trademark, but they also shielded me from the dark things of the world. I’d stopped wearing them when I tried to become legitimate. Culture Shock always hated these things, the way they wouldn’t let her see my eyes. I guess I started wearing them again as a reminder to never become attached to another pony again, and always remember the beautiful pegasus. And so I became detached. Every day was just another job, another gig, another dose of salt. It was a cold, mechanical rhythm. I guess it was my way of grieving. Instead of becoming lost in emotion, I stopped feeling. It’s a terrible thing to fear yourself. To know that beneath your ruby eyes, and bright smile lives a monster waiting to be unleashed. But yet I was in constant fear of myself. I know that deep inside me was a beast, normally released through alcohol or salt, but if I ever got angry, I would be consumed by it. I live in fear that one day, I’ll snap the way that Culture Shock’s murder drove me insane, and I’ll hurt a large number of ponies. One day I’ll get pushed too far and massacre an entire club, or set off a bomb in the streets of Canterlot. I don’t know my limits, only that the demon is getting easier and easier to release every day. So I don’t know my fate. Will I end by noose, or salt overdose, or worst of all, die by public execution for mass murder. All my life, these sunglasses have shielded me from the world, but now I wonder, have these lenses protected me from the world… or everypony from me?
FameFame. Millions hunger for it. Thousands will kill for but one second of glorious celebrity. It’s intoxicating, as smooth and powerful as the finest liquor and as unpredictable as a hand of cards. Still, for all the countless ponies who want nothing more than to experience the money and power of fame, few ever see its darker side. What nopony ever counts on is the fact that for every adoring fan, there are at least two ponies that want to watch you fail, so that they may make their bid for prestige. They say that classical music is not as vicious as the drug and murder filled realm of rock and hip-hop. The ponies that say that are wrong. Unlike these techno kingpins that have had ruled for decades at most, the musical dynasties of classical have had hundreds, and even thousands, of years to cement their place in high society. And most importantly, unlike the pop lords, the musical barons have built such a connection with Canterlot’s court that they are rarely, if ever, punished for their crimes. A murder among the rock stars might grant a life in prison, or even execution, while among the upper class it would warrant only a small fine or, more often than not, no punishment at all. These corrupt families have built their connections so tightly that any upset to the balance, say, a popular twenty-year old cellist from a poor family in Manehattan, has to be eliminated. It started out innocently enough, petty little attacks that didn’t faze me. I’d open my case before a concert only to find that someone had cut my cello strings, or find graffiti spray painted on my apartment door. I thought that the other musicians were just jealous, trying to discourage me from succeeding. I should have recognized the attacks for what they were: a warning, to get out before ponies started getting hurt. Soon, I started getting the death threats. Members of my ensemble started disappearing, first Harpo, then Beauty Brass. They found Harpo’s body in the river. They never found Beauty Brass. A few days after they found Harpo… Frederic got stabbed outside a café in Canterlot. He died shortly afterward. I tried to report it to the Canterlot police, only they wouldn’t do anything about it. The nobles had bribed the police chief, and now the forces of the law wouldn’t go anywhere near my case, even when the classical musicians decided to take it into their own hands. They started going at me with knives, cornering me after performances or on the walk back to my apartment. I grew up on the streets of Manehattan, so I could hold my own, but it was tiring. The fans were another thing. Some of them honestly enjoyed my music, and to them I am eternally grateful. They prevented me from ending myself whenever things got really bad. Disturbingly some seemed… obsessive. I started getting stalked. I would just turn around, and there he was, this stallion in dark clothes following me wherever I went. Then one day… one day I opened the door to my apartment, and there was a stallion waiting for me. He had a knife, and he… he violated me. It hurt so much… thank Celestia that I didn’t get pregnant. Oh how my parents would be disappointed in me, my virginity taken away from me before I was even twenty-one. We were poor, but they always wanted their little girl to succeed, to prosper. They never wanted their little Octavia to shrink away from the world, abused and broken by months of never-ending attack. But I did hide. They never caught the stallion who did this to me, and to this day, I am not sure whether he was an obsessive fan, a rapist hired by the bastards who killed my ensemble, or just a random monster who needed to satisfy his cravings. Who was doesn’t matter. It had the desired effect. I stopped playing concerts… to be honest, I stopped playing music altogether for a long time. I got a job waiting tables at a local diner. And I started drinking. Hearty Appleoosan ciders, strong griffon whiskey, and even Clopka imported from Stalliongrad. I drank it all, to anesthetize the pain. I started spending more time in these bars… the ponies here don’t know who I am… they don’t care who I was. I’m just another mare drinking her sorrows away. At one point, I made the decision to end it all. I had traveled so far from the streets of Manehattan only to fail. Instead of achieving my dreams, I was serving hay fries. One day, I left work early and walked to my apartment. I went to the roof, and stood on the edge, watching as the crowd gathered below. So ironic, that the hermit failure should die before a crowd. “Don’t worry,” I told myself. “Where you’re going, no pony will ever be able to hurt you again.” I jumped . I fell. I could see every failure flash before my eyes, every second of shame. I would be at peace soon. I felt something heavy smash into me. I woke up in a hospital. Apparently some pegasus had “saved” me. He damned me to more of this miserable existence. The café fired me, my landlord evicted me. I live on the streets, using what little money I have for food and alcohol. It’s poetic. I went from a Manehattan slum to the apex of Canterlot high society… and then right back to the streets. I hope my parents can’t see me now.
BrilliantI'm not exaggerating when I say that I'm brilliant. I can tell you the exact height and humidity where different varieties of clouds form, or the precise temperature at which snow starts turning into hailstones. I'm smart… but nopony will ever give me a job. Nopony will ever love me. They never see the real me, the real Sara Bubbles. All they see are the eyes, those damn eyes that have plagued me my entire life. The kids at school never let me forget my peculiarities. All those little nicknames they came up for me, "Ditzy Doo", "Retard Bubbles", and of course, "Derpy Hooves". I can't escape that name. Everywhere I went, ponies would call me "Derpy". I'd always tell them that my name is Sara. Nopony ever listened to me. Along with the names, there were the beatings. Every week, these two colts would corner me in the hallways, or near the edge of a cloud, and try to beat the retard out of me. I couldn't really fight back, I just had to take it. After they left, I'd pick myself out of the blood and crap on the floor, and stumble away. Other times… I didn't quite walk away. Throughout all of grade school, I ended up in emergency room exactly eleven times. The bullies were punished a few times… but no one really has sympathy for the retard. Nopony honestly cares about whether the freak can breathe properly, or walk without limping. She's just a nuisance, a stain upon your household, or school, or town. I think that's what Dad thought of me. I… I know he loved me. Even when he got drunk… even when he hit me. Whenever I got a test back that was just short of being perfect, he'd wave it in my face as proof that I was defective, then burn it. When that moving truck hit him… isn't it terrible that I was happy when he died? I graduated valedictorian… nopony remembers that. After graduation, I couldn't get a job, not in Cloudsdale. Nopony wants to hire a mare that looks like she'd get lost inside her own bedroom. So, I had to leave. I went to Trottingham, Fillydelphia, hell, even to the streets of Manehattan. That's where I found her. She was this little homeless unicorn filly, getting beaten up by this gang of colts. She reminded me of myself so much. I drove away the bullies and asked her where her parents were. Turns out they'd died a few months ago. So I adopted her. Got the papers and everything. Her name is Lilia, and she became my daughter. It's funny… here I was, barely twenty, unemployed. I had never had a coltfriend, I mean, who would want to date the freak? But yet I have a daughter, a beautiful, beautiful daughter. A daughter who doesn't care what I look like, who doesn't care what people say about me, a daughter who loves me for who I am. I want to protect her from the world that made me what I am today. I want her to grow up happy and loved. I want her to have the life I never had. I got a job in a little town far from where I grew up. They needed a mailpony, and didn't care what she looked like. Sure, it wasn't exactly the mentally gratifying work I'd envisioned for myself in high school, but it was something. I was always polite, friendly, and willing to provide an open-mind and a shoulder to cry on if need be. Lilia started going to the local school, meeting some of the other girls. She got really good at baking homemade muffins. Life was good… until the doctor told me the news. It's common knowledge that your mental state is inexorably linked to your physical health. That's why when you get sick, or overwork yourself, you start to go slightly insane. However, it's less commonly known that the relationship also works in reverse. Your physical health relies on your mental well-being, which is why the life-expectancy of those really-messed up ponies, you know, the serial killers and rapists, is so low. Their bones and tissue just starts to deteriorate, until they finally die. When I learned about it in biology, it was all purely theoretical. I never thought that it would apply to- … well, considering my chronic depression and anger, coupled with a lifetime of physical abuse, it's a miracle that I haven't died yet. Given my current rate of decline, I probably only have a few more months to live. I told Lilia the truth. Since the day I first met her, I swore that I would never lie to her. I would always be honest, even when it hurts. She reacted the way you'd expect. I held her close as she cried. She's still so young, only fourteen. I arranged for her to live with a few of my coworkers, Lyra and Bon-Bon, until she graduates. They're nice ponies. I just hope Lilia is ready for the world out there. I did my best to prepare her. I won't be here when she grows up, when she starts a family of her own. I wish I could be there for her… I just want here to be a good pony. I know she will be when the time comes. I took some of money I've saved and took Lilia on a vacation. She always wanted to visit the Canterlot, city of magic. We toured the Royal Palace, marveled at the art of Andy Marehol, and just spent time exploring the city. I wanted us to share some happy memories before I die. Lilia's sleeping in our hotel room. Is it irresponsible parenting that I'm here, at this bar, while my daughter is sleeping not two block away? I'm not even sure why I'm here, after she fell asleep, I was just kind of drawn here. I just walked in through the door, and ordered a drink, nothing too strong. The memories of Dad's drunken rages are just too powerful for me to ever touch hard liqueur. I don't regret my life. I'm twenty-five, and I have a daughter that loves me. Still, I can't help but think of what I might've been. I had the talent. I could have been a scientist, or a scholar, or just a teacher. I think I would've liked that. A teacher, someone the colts and fillies under my care would look up to and respect. I could have gone to university… but with my… freakish appearance, I didn't interview well. I could have done so much more... I was smart, friendly, polite. Why couldn't anypony see that?
