None Ever Ask

by Mitslits

Rating: teen
Tags: Pinkie Pie, Tragedy, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Sad
Length: 2428

Everyone just assumes she's evil. Nothing could be further from the truth

Everypony assumes Pinkamena Diane Pie is insane. There's nothing more to it than that. But how could everyone be so wrong?

Published 2012-12-09 02:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-12-13 21:56:28 UTC

Why

I know what they think about me as I bounce past them. They think 'here she comes. The crazy one. The happy one. The optimistic one.' Nopony ever thinks 'here she comes. The sad one. The broken one. The one that needs friends the most.'

Yet that is exactly what I am. I am the pony who only ever laughs and throws parties and is always, no matter what, optimistic. I throw myself into the middle of a wide social circle and try to encourage everyone. I don't want any of them to end up like me. Or, rather, like she makes me. I made the mistake of letting her out once. She showed herself. I have never forgiven myself. How can I? There is no more secret. I wish there was.

For I, Pinkie Pie, am not one but two. Behind my pretty pink optimism lurks a dangerous opponent. Pinkamena Diane Pie. Why is she so dangerous? She is just as much me as I am. Many have made up stories. I know. I have seen them. I'm not as sheltered as many ponies think. However, Pinkamena is no threat because she will kill others or bake them into pastries. In fact, she is only dangerous to me. I am the only one she ever injures, but I fear some day she will twist me to the point where I turn into what others imagine she already is.

She changes my mind, turning my every thought into something negative. She makes the happiest thoughts I can conjure drip with deadly poison. I can do nothing right while she is there. She rips on me for everything, calling me every name in the book and feeling glad. For she does not want to leave. But that is when I need to be positive. She makes it impossible, feeding off of my misery and depression. She loves to hurt me, to make me feel miserable for it makes her feel better, powerful even. It makes her seem as if she has gripped me and holds me like a puppet. And, in truth, she does. I am but a marionette, tangled up in as many strings as she sees fit to give me. I can do nothing to stop her. And she knows it. And she loves it.

But I did not start out this way. Of course not. How could an innocent filly see anything but goodness in the amazing world around her? Everything is a wonder at that age. Even on a gray, bland rock farm everything seems to sparkle with a shine from within. It is all so new and wonderful to young eyes. But I grew up quickly. I had no choice; I was forced to. If I had had some say in the matter I would have chosen to never grow up. As it is, I prefer to act like I never had, but that hides the deeply buried truth. The truth that would shock everypony had they known. They never will. Though they may have caught a glimpse of my self-doubt they will never see how deep I truly sink in one of these spells. And that is exactly the way I want it. But is it truly?

I'm getting off topic. You did not come to hear me ramble on about my feelings when she grips me. You came to hear why she even exists. I regret what has happened, but I know I cannot keep it to myself. For if I do, it may happen to somepony else and I cannot even bear the thought of that. If another was to be like me because of me I would probably make her stay permanently, just to be numb instead of grieved.

It started when I was young. My childhood was not one of joy or happiness. It was only gray and rocks and...and him. My father. Many people wonder why I left the rock farm, my sisters, my family. It wasn't the sonic rainboom like most ponies think. It wasn't my sisters torturing me, as they never truly did. Sure they picked on me and made fun of me, but what else are siblings for? It wasn't my mother. She was as dull as the rocks that surrounded her, day in day out. They got to you, eventually. They got to my father.

He snapped one day. Suddenly. None of us, not even my mother, could tell at first. He went on as always, collecting rocks and the like, rolling them one by one down to the rockpile. But he soon began staying there. Hours would pass and we would all wait, but the door wouldn't open and his face wouldn't poke in with that little half-smile that had captured my mom's heart.

Inkie, Blinkie, and I had to go to bed without seeing him, day after day, night after night. At first he was more subtle about it; he only spent a few minutes there. Then half an hour. Then two, three, four, until eventually he just stayed out there. All night. All day. Rocks, rocks, rocks.

Mother paced back and forth, glancing at the door as if she was frightened of it. She never went out to help us in the fields anymore; instead, she sat in her old rocking chair near the fireplace. She sat there rocking and mumbling until the three of us got so scared we spent all day in the rock field. But we all refused to go to the rockpile. What if something was there and had taken father? What if he had some secret thing for us hidden out there? What if, what if, what if...There were too many for us. We refused to go. We made our own rockpile.

When night fell, we'd sneak into the house, past mother, and into our rooms. We'd huddle together and whisper about anything, everything. Whatever we could to take our minds off of mother and father. It usually worked. We'd fall asleep all in one big pile, right there in the middle of our floor. Our beds stood unused. We didn't need them. We needed each other.

It might not seem so scary to you. But imagine it: you're young. Very young. You do nothing but push rocks back and forth all day, every day, surrounded by gray. Your mother, father, and sisters are all you've ever known. You can't see yourself, the one bright spot in all the gray. But they can. Everyone but you. You barely know you're bright you're so covered in dirt and dust. And one day, your father disappears. Except you know exactly where he's at. But why is he there? You're too scared to go find out. So you don't.

Instead, you sit at home for a few days with your mother. Until she goes crazy, staring at the wall and mumbling and rocking. What would you do? You'd be scared. And we were.

Until the day I put my hoof down. I would not do this anymore, could not do this anymore. I was going to see what had become of father. If it was a vicious beast the end it brought could not possibly be more horrific than the slow death me and my sisters were enduring. Without telling anyone, not even Inkie and Blinkie, I visited the rockpile. My knees shook as I approached; despite all my bravado, I was scared stiff. I could barely force my hooves to take one more step and yet I kept going, kept moving, much too quickly it seemed to me. And soon where was I but at the foot of the rockpile? I had only to climb it and peer down to see what my father had come to.

So I did. One hoof in front of another, as quietly as possible, I crept up the pile of rocks until I reached the very top. My teeth were chattering so hard and my heart beating so loud I was surprised nopony seemed able to hear it. The blood rushed in my ears as I slowly, ever so slowly, peered over the edge of that fateful rockpile. And I screamed. And I fell. And I hurt.

Inkie and Blinkie must have noticed I was missing soon after for they soon came running up, fear in their eyes. When I saw them, I whimpered and covered my eyes. They were too afraid to look and I was glad for their sake. If they had seen...I didn't even want to consider the possibility. I tried to stand, but the pain was too much. My sisters rushed to my side and supported me. The three of us made it back to the house and back to our room before I collapsed to the ground. Tears rushed out of my eyes and made a small puddle on the floor.

They asked me what I had seen. I could not bring myself to tell them. But I could not forget. The sight has haunted me to this day, and I don't believe it will ever go away. Every time my eyes close, I see it and I usually succeed in pushing it away. But there are times when I cannot and that is when she appears.

Nopony ever asks why she exists. But I know it is because of that day, the rockpile, my father. She was made to protect me from it, from the picture that is forever burned into my mind. If you ask, I may tell you. But none ever do. None ever ask.

The Answer

You have asked. And however little she wants me to, I do intend to keep my word. I promised I would tell you, and so I suppose I must.

If I hesitate or if I begin to cry, please do not feel as if the fault is yours. It is only my heart, bleeding. Yearning. Crying.

First, I must thank you. Every single one who has asked. You. You did what nopony else would. Even my own friends avoid the topic, wishing to keep her away. But you cannot do that by staying silent. No, she will come when she wants, uncontrolled by anypony else. Even me. Her other half cannot, or will not, control her. All I can do is beg her to leave. Cry for her to leave. Threaten her. But she knows my true thoughts. That as soon as she leaves I shall be weak and emotional once more. Too weak. I hate it. My hooves are tied. I am a prisoner in my own body. I hate it.

I’m sorry to interrupt, my weak, pathetic half, but they grow tired of your whining. All you do is complain. I am as sick of it as they are and if you do not stop soon everypony will desert you. You will be alone. Mostly. I have to stay here of course. I’ve got no choice. Believe me, if the choice were mine, I’d have been gone long ago. Unfortunately, half of a pony can’t leave. It can become dormant, but it cannot leave.

Now, can you stop rambling about useless ‘feelings’ for a picosecond and just finish the story?!

I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I’ve kept you waiting. Pinkamena was right. You asked; I should answer. And now I shall. Prepare yourselves. You, those who asked, are the first to hear this tale. Even my own sisters, my own mother, know nothing of the sights I have seen. But now you shall know. And I shall hate every second of it.

Sorry to have to interrupt yet again, but they know all this. Hurry it up. Everypony has things to do. It’s not all about you. And thank Celestia it isn’t. You couldn’t possibly stand all those eyes on you, everypony thinking about how much they hate you…hate you…hate you. None of them like you, you know. Even your friends don’t ask about me. Heh. Some friends. Look, now you’ve got me doing it! Rambling on while there’s pain to be relived. So much pain. How I love it. Tell it. Tell the story. NOW.

Very well. I shall proceed.

When I looked down into the little dip near the rockpile, I saw my father. He did not see me. He couldn’t have. How could he? He was lying in a pool of his own blood. Not dead, no. I could tell by the faint movement of his chest, the slight fluttering of his half-closed eyelids. He lived.

The blood was a small puddle, slowly oozing, trickling, seeping out from his forelegs.

Oh. Celestia.

His forelegs.

They were cut up, lacerated so that I could see right down to the stark white bone. It was such a contrast to the yellow of my father’s coat. The red of the blood. They gray of the rocks. It was only in a few places that he was cut so badly, but they were enough. In other spots he simply had scars, raised inches off his skin. In still other places he had several cuts that were still sluggishly bleeding.

Even now we have not come to the worst. There were spatters of blood everywhere. All over father, all over the rocks. Everywhere. And then I noticed a few of the rocks in particular.

They grabbed my attention because they were sharp. They were pointed. And they were covered in blood. It was then that I understood. My father had done this to himself. He was bathing in his own blood because he wanted to be.

Still, there is more to be said. The scars told me this had been happening for a while. So did the words. My father had taken the time to write words on the stones with other rocks. The pointed, bloody rocks. He wrote them with his own hoof. In his own blood.

And the words were awful. Dear Celestia, were they awful. Some of them I will not repeat. Some were lies, others were traitor.

The worst one, by far, was pink. While the others had been written only once or twice that one was repeated. Scrawled in huge letters, written all tiny and cramped. Filling every available surface.

Then I saw the last and final terror. My father groaned and rolled over. And the blood poured. But then it cleared. And I saw. I saw, I saw, I saw.

The word. The worst word, pink. It was written. It was carved. Into his side.