The barn door squeals, long and loud, as the wooden door slowly swings open. It clacks against the wall, settling in place quickly. He trudges into the room, mud caking his hooves and fur, tracking across the hardened ground of the barn. A large purple bruise throbs under his left eye, pulsing in time with his hoofsteps as he trundles over to the haypile. He reaches in, shuffling the hay around aimlessly. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he carefully removes his spigot.

He trudges over to the haybales, shifting a few to reveal the lone, small cask he'd stashed. All that remains. She'd taken the rest. He grimaces, hefting the cask into the air and deftly spiking it on the spigot. In one swift motion, the 5 pound cask is ready to serve.

He slumps against the haybales and gives a long, low whistle. He pauses for a second, listening, and then smiles as he hears the rapid, rhythmic padding of Winnona's claws against the dirt. She rounds the corner, her eyes sparkling with unabashed joy and love, clutching his tankard in her mouth, and absolutely covering the handle in slobber. He pats the ground, a pained smile filling his cheeks as he watches his dog tawdle on over to him. He pats her on the head, tusseling her ears, and takes the tankard from her, before pouring himself a drink.

He closes his eyes, listening to the cider pour from the cask and feeling the warmth of Winnona's body curled up next to his flank. He flicks the spigot closed, and opens his eyes to take in the beautiful foam on the tankard. He's careful not to spill a drop. This might be the last he gets for quite some time.

He lifts it to his lips and pauses, taking in the aroma of the liquor, before gently taking a sip. He's going to enjoy this, while he still can. It bathes his tongue in the sugary-sweet bitterness, with that pleasant honey vapor aftertaste that drifts around in his mouth. She'd really knocked it out of the park with this one.

He forces her out of his mind, focusing on the drink. How it runs down his throat, both quenching and exasperating his thirst. How it pools in his stomach, filling his belly with that familiar, comfortable warm buzz. How his face flushes, dulling the pain in his cheek to a fuzzy reminder of the day's events.

He stares down into the tankard, drifting back. He should've expected it. Drinking buddies for years. Taught him how to brew it himself, creating a whole new product line for the Apples. She'd doubled the profits for the farm that year, and he'd moved the Sun and Moon to see that Granny got her the bonus she rightly deserved. One of his best friends. Only friends.

He takes another long swig, washing away any thoughts leading down that path. If there was a chance at anything more, it was all gone now. Wasn't like he'd been planning to ask her out come spring. He took a longer swing, desperately trying to force the thoughts back. But those eyes burned into his memory. Hurt, anger, betrayal, disgust, fear, and so many other emotions filling her gaze as she pushed her daughter behind her.

He pulled his knees into his chest, choking down a sob as he sets the tankard aside. He falls onto Winnona, stroking her fur as he lives through the day once more. How she yells at him, berating him for things he hadn't done, would never do. How she stormed into the barn, taking every barrel she could find, as Granny watched on with a cold, indifferent mask. How she strikes him across the face, sending him toppling to the ground, and warns him never to come near her or her daughter again.

He'd laid there on the ground as she stormed off, staring up into the sky, listening to her hoofsteps fade into the distance. Feeling Granny's cold, calm gaze burning into his skull. She didn't move off the porch to help him up. No ice packs for the growing welt on his cheek. Not even an insult or a lecture. Somehow that hurts worse.

He reaches over, scooping up the photo. Frayed, worn, and covered in dirt. He brushes off the grime and stares. Bloom was over the moon that day. AJ was hootin and hollerin. And Granny... Granny was somehow ten years younger and ten years older, all at the same time. The way she played with Bloom, cheering on her future. The way she sagged in her chair, watching Bloom grow up.

His mind wanders as his gaze drifts to the farmhouse once again. When they first got the news, it had happened again. Granny was both ten years younger, the prospect of a new foal brought out a light in her eyes that he hadn't seen in a decade. And yet she was so tired, at the thought of her youngest being the first.

And the hatred. The fury in her eyes. The low growl that had rumbled out of her throat when that damned kook had left her to her own conclusions. The banshee's scream for him to git out. The caterwauls that filled his wake as he backpedaled out the door. The ratty, moldy blanket tossed in his face as the door to his farmhouse slammed shut, leaving him slumped and dazed in the pouring rain.

He scoops up the cask, lifting the spigot to his lips, and suckles like a foal. He closes his eyes, letting the liqour coat his mouth, stick to his teeth, wash down his throat. He comes up for air, licking his lips, careful not to miss a drop. He runs his tongue across his teeth, searching for every last hint of flavor, until it's all gone.

He rolls over, resting his head on Winnona as she whines, and stares out at the full moon rising in the sky. He closes his eyes, hucking the empty cask across the barn. The spigot catches on the hook, the cask spins around the hook twice, before swaying and settling into place as the empty cask hangs on the wall.

He pictures the moon in his mind. The stars dappling the night sky like a silver blanket stretching ad infinatum. He lies there, imagining her domain, and he prays. He apologizes for cursing her night. For cursing her stars, her moon. He apologizes for cursing her. For calling her the Nightmare. He begs and he pleads, that this nightmare comes to an end soon.

He opens his eyes, the dusty darkness of the barn filling his vision once again. A warm tongue against his face, slobber running down his sore cheek. He shoves himself up, shooing Winnona off. She scampers out of the barn, he can hear her playing out in the yard, barking in the distance.

He stumbles over to the haypile, and digs into it. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he retrieves his only friend.

snicksnick-click

He trods back to the haybales, slumping down into the only warm spot in the building. Winter will be here soon. The ratty blanket won't be enough. He'll have to start sleeping in the haybales.

He hefts Winchester. Calling it by its name now. Can't tell if that's a good sign or a bad one. Doesn't know if he cares either.

Is it heavier now, knowing what he wants to do with it? Or is it lighter now, carrying the promise of taking all the pain away? Is it heavier now, knowing how his death will only hurt the farm? Or is it lighter now, promising that everyone will be happier if they don't have to worry he's around the corner, living in the barn?

He cocks the hammer back, lifting the barrel beneath his chin. It doesn't matter how light or heavy the barrel is. He's a farmer, he can get the job done.

Author's Note

I wonder if anyone's picked up on the theme yet...

There have been several, of course. But there's an underlying, subtle message I've been trying to convey.

Maybe it's too subtle. We'll see...