Tragedy. That's what everypony called it.
Tragedy. He hated that word. It implied an accident. There was no accident.
Everypony called it tragedy. He wouldn't call it tragedy. He would call it murder.
But he didn't know who killed her. He didn't know. He saw the knife. He saw the eyes. He saw the murderer. But he didn't know who it was.
A shape was in the room with him. Watching him. Whispering to him. Telling him over and over that he knew who killed her. But he didn't know who killed her. He couldn't know, he could only know that it wanted him to think he knew.
The door opened. It wasn't a door before it opened, just a door shaped piece of wall. Doors had knobs on both sides. The door shaped wall didn't. In walked a unicorn mare with a orange coat and a yellow mane. He didn't like the color yellow.
"Mr. Hive, how are you doing this morning?" asked the smiling mare. Mr. Hive stared at her. He stared at her mane. He didn't like the color yellow. The mare eventually gave up on an answer from him, so she asked a new question.
"Can I help you with anything, dear?" She was very uneasy, but she knew how to not show it. "Anything at all?"
To this, He answered, but his answer didn't seem to match the question. "I don't know who did it. It tells me I know. It tells me I know. I don't know who did it. I can't know, I only saw the murder, not the murderer, I don't—" At this, he was interrupted by the mare.
"Don't worry about the accident, you did everything that you could."
He hated that word. Accident. He hated that word. Everypony called it an accident, but it wasn't an accident. He knew it was a murder. He knew that somepony had killed her. He knew. He knew. The shape told him he knew. It kept telling him that he knew, but he didn't know. He couldn't possibly know. The night had been too dark, the day had been too bright, he couldn't have seen the murderer.
"Are you alright?" The mare asked, still worried after Mr. Hive's stammering. "Would you like to be alone for a bit?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her, with those eyes that don't blink as often as they should. She didn't see the shape that was right behind her. She didn't hear it telling him to ask to be alone. He didn't want to listen to it. He hated listening to it. But he hated yellow. She had been yellow. He had seen her die. The murderer had killed her right in front of him, taking his yellow away. He didn't know what was worse. Seeing yellow or being alone with the shape.
"Stay." He did not demand, he did not request. He pleaded. He pleaded to not be left to the shape's devices. As soon as he said so, the shape seemed to explode in size. It was all he could see. The room was gone. The mare in front of him was gone. There was nothing but the shape. It spoke. There was nothing but its words, words powerful enough to rip the atoms from the air and rip the color from his coat. He started to choke.
"You are alone. You know who killed her. You—"
An orange hoof existed. The void was punctured. His eyes, which he hadn't closed in the first place, opened.
"Are you ok? Do I need to call a medical nurse in? If you don't answer me, I will." She sounded like a wet nurse when the baby stopped breathing.
He decided he hated yellow a little less. He imitated speaking, and she imitated understanding. She couldn't really understand. She understood that he needed help She didn't know what help he needed, though.
He needed to accept the truth. He needed to listen to the shape, but he couldn't stomach what it told him. Every iota of his being went against it. He needed to be rebuilt, piece by painful piece.
"Do you want to talk about... That night?" Asked the mare, choosing her words very carefully. She thought he needed to talk about it. This was her job, after all.
Mr. Hive deliberated over his words. Mostly he thought about the shape's words, for those were the words he typically said. He didn't speak for himself often, but that had changed today. He liked this change. Every recount of the murder was from hours after, when all that could be seen was Ponyville's beekeeper crying over his daughter's body. He was never known to cry before. When his wife passed he shed one tear, and then moved on. It's what she would have wanted, he said. But this was different. He saw his daughter murdered, when his wife had passed in bed. That broke Mr. Hive. He wailed for his daughter until the next day, when the authorities were called. His daughter got a funeral, but he couldn't even give the eulogy. He ended up at the hospital because he wouldn't eat. He just sat on his porch and stared. He stared at the gap between his left eye and his right eye. He didn't stare at the wall, he stared past it. At the shape.
"It was a sunny day. It was a good day."
"What happened, Mr. Hive?"
"I saw a shape. The shape came toward me, and then disappeared. I kept working, but the shape kept staring at me. It—"
He clammed up. The shape, as he spoke of it, stole his vision from him. Stole his air from him. Stole the water from his eyes, and the nerves from his hooves. The nurse tried to bring him back. She only knew he had fallen, but he didn't know he had fallen. He only knew the voice. The voice that drowned him, the voice that tore his eyes from his lids, without opening them. He knew who had killed his daughter. The shape had killed her. The shape had killed his yellow. The shape that was killing him now. He screamed, and the voice was erased. The void muted. He knew. He knew. The shape was gone. He was still crying, but he didn't know he had started.
"Mr. Hive, I'm bringing in another nurse."
"I'm free. I'm okay."
"Do you need another nurse?"
"No. I need to see my bees."
Author's Note
A thought become a thousand words. I don't like it, but who knows. Maybe you will. Advice on the paragraph spacing, as well as anything else, is appreciated.
I feel bad for the guy. First his wife, now his daughter. Sad days.