Chapters The barn door swung open with force, the hinges squealing from the lack of oil as the old wooden door cracked against the frame. He strode through the opening, hardly caring for the noise. His matted mane clung to his cheeks, the downpour outside only souring his mood further. His hooves thundered against the hardened ground, quaking the earth even through the thin layer of hay and sawdust that coated the barn floor.
He threw himself onto the haybale with a huff, and it sagged beneath his weight. The roof was leaking again, and he could already smell the mold growing in his new bed. He wrinkled his nose, and huffed, digging into the nearby hay pile for his stash. Glass bottles clinked, metal clattered, until he retrieved what he was searching for. He pulled out the spigot with a grimace, giving it a quick spit-shine as he stood. He made his way over to the old oak barrels. He'd hauled them up from the cellar, back before his sister had taken his key.
He grimaced, forcing the thoughts out of his mind, and focusing on the task at hand. He knows he's gotta make these last, but right now he can't bring himself to care. He slams the spigot into the barrel with all the force he can muster. It teeters, see-sawing as it rolls back and forth. He doesn't care. For all his strength, he still has fine control, and he closes his eyes as he hears the barrel settle back down exactly where he knew it would. The imact shudders the spigot, and a rich, frothy brew pours forth, straight into his tankard. His ears twitch, lost in beautiful blindness, drowning out the whole world with naught but the pitterpatter of rain, and the gentle sloshing of ale.
He deftly flicks the spigot, shutting it off without a glance, and trods his way back to the haybale. He slumps against the rough, itchy cube, careful not to spill a drop. He's still gotta make this last. Carefully, he sets it down, and feels around in the haypile once more. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he retrieves a dusty old photo. The edges are worn and frayed, the picutre yellowing with the mold it's been buried under. But there they are. His family. His farmhouse. His orchard. His home. Bloom is fussing with her bow. Applejack had cleaned her hat all special-like for the occasion. Ms Rarity had even made Granny a brand new neckerchief. That was nice of her. He wishes he'd thanked her at the time.
Too late now. He takes a swig of his cider, careful not to let any leak. It's smooth down his throat, but that spicy aftertaste is what everyone's always after. He brews a damn-good cider, and he knows it.
His eyes settle onto the photograph once more. There he is, in his Sunday best. Not much, admittedly, but he's never needed that much anyways. He had everything he'd've ever needed.
The pastor had come by. The whole family went down to the creek. Dash brought in a gentle cloud cover, Ms Octavia gave a lovely ambiance. The pastor and Bloom had gone into the water. Lotta words. Promises. Commitments. Bloom looked proud. The pastor took her head and laid her down into the water, as his wife pushed the cloud away. Bloom came up gasping in the sunbeam, shivering and beaming with joy. The pastor guided her out of the water, and she tackled him, giggling as she soaked her big brother. He'd chuckled back, pulling her into a bear hug and swinging her around to dry her off.
She'd gotten into the beautiful dress Ms Rarity had made for the occasion, and off they went to church. A beautiful potluck celebration. Ms Pie had outdone herself. Streamers, Piñatas, Pastas, and Pies. It seemed like everyone in town was there for her. A perfect cute-ceañera for all three of them. The Crusaders had finally done it, and he couldn't have been prouder of his little sis.
He sniffs. Damn allergies.
He glanced around the dusty barn. Winnona's inside tonight, and he wishes that Applejack had let her out, but he knows she won't. Not now. He pushes himself to his hooves to gaze out the window, trying to peer into the farmhouse. He thinks he can hear AJ ranting in the distance. No luck. Granny's bolted up the shutters.
He releases a shaky sigh, and looks higher, to the dark and stormy night sky. He prays anyways, despite the stormclouds, for any pinprick of light in the darkness.
He stands there, staring at the storm as it only intensifies. He sighs, closing the window and trodding back to the haybales. He slumps, laying on his side as he scoops up the photo once more. She was so young, so happy, so carefree.
How did this happen? Celestia, why her? He curses the night. He curses the dark. He curses the moon and the stars. He curses Luna herself. Might as well be the Nightmare for all the good she was.
He sets the photo down, fumbling in the haypile once more as he takes another swig. Glass bottle clink, metal clatters, and warm cider fills his belly. Thunder cracks as the rain pours harder. Tonight would be good. The storm would mask the noise.
He fiddles with the shells. Pa always taught him ta be careful with em. One wrong twitch an they'll go off. Wham-blam-theregoesMa'am. He takes another swig. The cider loosens him up. Maybe that'll be enough.
snicksnick-click
It's done.
He flicks the hammer back, feels the smooth, oiled joint cock back and lock into place.
He hefts the barrel. Pretty light all things considered. Heavier than it looks, but lighter than you'd think.
He's done thinking. He sets the photo where he can see, and leans back. He takes a nice, long swig, draining the tankard of every. Last. Drop.
And he sticks the barrel under his chin. It's better this way.
Author's Note
I'm aware this is gonna look pretty sickening. That's kinda the intention. Things aren't supposed to be immediately cut-and-dry here.
Give Mac what no one else will right now. Just give him a chance.
The barn door slams open, the hinges squealing as it smacks loudly against the wall. He storms in, his hooves thundering against the hardened ground as his rage boils. He shoves the haybale aside, not even watching as it skids across the ground, neatly sliding into it's hole amongst the tens of other haybales within the barn. His hoof dives into the haypile. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he retrieves his spigot. He storms over to the oak barrel, deftly spiking it once again and closing his eyes, as he lets out a deep and weary sigh. The cider begins to pour, the rich foam quickly flowing over the brim. It's been one hell of a day.
He rests against the pile of haybales, the sunbeam shining through the window both lighting up the room and darkening his mood. He stares at the photo, his mind drifting as he sips at his second cider, the first already warming his belly. Celestia, he's not sure how the family is gonna survive to Hearth's Warming. Hell, there might not be a Hearth's Warming this year.
He lets out a long, shaky breath, and takes another sip. Pa was one hell of a negotiator, landing that deal with the Riches all those years ago. He takes a long draw off the tankard. Just like everything else. It's all going up in smoke. Ephemeral, slipping through his hooves, and bringing him ever closer to the fire.
He understands. He does. He's not stupid. Filthy is... was a good friend. Never did the Apples wrong. Always gave em a fair shake. Their families had always shared a Hearth's Warming's Eve meal together. He was a good friend. A good stallion. But Rich is a businesspony, first and foremost. He has to keep the Rich name clean. He can't be associated with the Apple homestead right now. It would just send the wrong message to the customers. No, he understands perfectly. This is just the cherry on top of the mountian of shit.
He wishes he hadn't seen Spoiled push Tiara out of the room. He'd pretended not to see Rich gauging his expressions when his daughter wandered in to show off her pretty new dress. He hated how quickly Rich had clammed up. How fast he'd been shown the door, been told not to come back around.
The whispers in the streets as he'd left the Riches doorstep. The guard walking him back to the farm, forcing him to take the long route. The arcane bracelet wrapped around his fetlock, glowing a soft violet. They all buzzed around his head like gnats.
He groans in frustration. He takes another long swig, but it doesn't stop the thoughts. He wants to be out there. He wants to be looking. He wants a dark alley where he can knock out some teeth and leave the bastard bleeding out on the ground and begging for a mercy he'd never shown, and would never be shown.
But the Guard don't have a name yet. Not even a description. A psych had come in. A "professional", they'd said. Some wack from Canterlot. Probably woulda cost a fortune. He raises a toast Applejack, he knows she'll be at the farmhouse by now, doting over her sister. Small miracles, Celestia was looking over the Apple homestead even now. The farm couldn't have taken that hit.
The psych had spoken with Bloom for hours. They'd been there at first, to support her. But the psych had shooed them out when Bloom started fidgeting. He could respect privacy, nothing wrong with that. But when the psych came out, mumbling some medical hogwash about trauma and suppression and the mind... He had zero clue what the doc was rambling about. How do you just forget something like that?!
But Applebloom said she'd been home. She hadn't seen anyone weird at school, her friends hadn't noticed anyone odd following them around, and she was at home the rest of the day. Day in, day out. Week after week. The only other stallion she'd been around, was him.
And there was the rub. He threw his tankard against the wall, storming off as it clattered perfectly upright into his little sink. He huffed, his breath clearing the floor of chaff and debris as he began. Up, Down, Up, Down. One, Two, Three, Four. One, Two, Three, Four.
His muscles burned. His shoulders screamed. His heart ached. Up, Down, Up, Down. One, Two, Three, Four. One, Two, Three, Four.
Sweat poured down his forehead, as he blinked it away. The afternoon sun blazed in his face, feeling for all the world that Celestia, that Equss, was judging him. He ground his teeth, closing his eyes and pushing. Up, Down, Up, Down. One, Two, Three, Four. One, Two, Three, Four.
He shoved himself up, storming back to the haybales. He collapsed into the stack. It wobbled for a moment, but he didn't look. True to form, they teetered and tottered and settled back in place. They wouldn't fall. He thought about getting another drink. Dull the pain. He doesn't. Needs to make it last. Shouldn't drink after exercise anyways.
His mind drifted as he lazily gazed out the open window, the golden light dappling the trees of his orchard. How could anyone believe he'd harm his most precious of Apples? That he'd disgrace Ma and Pa like that?
It didn't matter what he said. All that mattered was what everyone believed. The rumor mill turned the small town into a pigsty, and he was fresh slop. He dug his hoof into the haypile. Glass bottles clinked, metal clattered, and he fished out what he was hunting for.
snicksnick-click
The shells click into place with practiced ease. Fond memories of his Pa, teaching him to shoot, wash over his mind. Warnings never to point it at another pony, not unless you want them to die. He grimaces, envisioning the filthiest, ugliest, meanest son of a bitch he can imagine. He envisions the stallion's guts sprayed across the wall. He imagines standing over the rotten bastard's dying corpse, and slugging him in the jaw.
He can hear metal armor clanking outside. Changing of the guard already? Must be later than he'd thought. Sun's been setting lower every day. Leaves are turnin' orange too. The Runnin' will be soon...
He sinks to his haunches, cradling the gun in his hooves. His thoughts drift to the winter once again. How is he going to feed five mouths? The profits from Rich used to keep the farm afloat through their harshest season. He'd invested their earnings from the Zap Apples and Cider Season months back. Patched up the roof, bought Bloom new school books, and a set of nice farm tools. Did he really need ta git that fancy new shovel...
Maybe only four mouths? Foals don't eat that much, not compared to a hard-working stallion. Maybe Rich would renegotiate, if the public stain was gone? Maybe he'd take pity, on a poor farm trying to feed a newborn foal?
The Autumn season needs ta treat the farm well. It's gotta. He leans back, and places the barrel underneath his chin. The farm will survive if he's out of the equation.
Author's Note
Is this getting darker, or have I proof-read this so many times I've been jaded to it? Who knows?
Somewhere along in the bitterness
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...
I would have stayed up with you all night
The barn door swings closed with a soft click. He stands at the door, holding it shut with his hoof. His breath hitches, and he bites his lip, holding his breath as her footsteps fade in the distance. She's being fair, he knows. In fact, she's been quite generous thus far. The primary suspect usually gets far worse than this. She's being fair.
He trods back to the haybales, slumping against his makeshift bed. The cold night air howls outside, and he shivers, thankful for the walls at least. He reaches into the haypile, Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he pulls out his ratty blanket. He pulls it tightly around him, and slumps against the haybales.
The investigation is still ongoing. Horseshit. "Not enough evidence." "No strong leads." Fancy way of saying they've got nothing on the fucker who did this.
Or that they just don't have enough evidence to toss him in a cell forever...
They'd searched the town from top to bottom. Checked the logs of all the local inns. No strangers passed through town recently. Ms Cheerlie hadn't seen anypony hanging around the schoolyard. Ms Rarity and Ms Dash couldn't recall anyone actin strange around the Crusaders either. Ms Scootaloo and Ms Sweetie Belle couldn't recall nothing either.
He sighed. It wasn't their fault. He'd noticed the Crusaders had been getting more distant by the day. They only had their marks in common, after all. Nothing wrong with having friends at work, but when you don't share interests, it just... all falls apart. Of course they wouldn't hang out all the time. It's only fair.
He can't imagine how Bloom feels at the moment. Knowin that the Guard is gettin nowhere. She must be distraught...
Music carries through the window shutters, a peppy string rhythm. It's not AJ's though, hers always has a bit more twang to it. This is smooth. Practiced. Solid.
He pulls himself to his hooves, ignoring his cold, aching joints, and pushes himself toward the shuttered window. He leans down, peering through the gaps. A flicker of firelight pierces the night. A billowing bonfire in the distance, just before tonight's snowfall.
He can just make out Pa's college buddy, Burnt Oak, strumming his banjo. AJ, Ms Dash, and Ms Rarity are helping Her Majesty and the kids as they try to make smores. Mr and Mrs Rich are toasting something exotic. Granny and Grand Pear are curled under blankets around the fire, watching Mrs Cake teach Bloom how to dance.
He watches them galavant around the fire, quick and lively springing steps to Oak's beat. The way Bloom's dress spins in the firelight. He can imagine the sparkle in her eye.
He can hear the racous laughter from his small vantage point. How the Princess tosses her snack into the fire, and declares a night of celebration. How she asks Grand Pear to dance, and how everypony springs up to join in the fun. He bites his cheek as they pair off, one by one, dancing circles around the fire. The jubilance, the community, the festival...
And then the light shifts, and they're gone. Replaced by a cold, purple-tinted, intricately designed, iron breastplate. The crescent moon stares him in the face, and his eyes drift up to meet the golden, slitted irises of the Night Guard, glaring down at him.
He mumbles an apology, and steps away from the shutters, shuffling back to the stack of haybales.
He stops, standing in the middle of the barn. He glances back at the window. No light peeks through. Not a spark.
He looks around the barn. The cold, dusty, dark space that has been his home for the past six months. He shuffles over to his haypile, and digs in. Glass bottles clink, metal clatters, and he retieves a myriad of objects. Forelegs full, he hobbles back to the center and carefully sets it all on a crate.
He leans in and strikes a match, carefully lighting his oil lamp. The glass casing slides shut, and he hefts the lantern. With a light, underhoofed toss, the lantern easily catches on a hook, bathing the room in its small, flickering flame.
He sweeps the floor with his ratty blanket, clearing a small area of the dust and debris of the barn. That blanket will be itchy tonight, but right now he doesn't care. He tosses the blanket, watching as it spins in the air and settles perfectly onto a small rocking horse from Bloom's childhood. He steps over, and fastens it into a nice little neckerchief, like Granny has.
He pulls the rocking horse into the center of the room, and reaches to the crate for the last item. He carefully nestles the frayed, yellowed photograph squarely onto the head of the rocking horse.
And slowly, shyly, he begins to dance. He focuses on the picture. He imagines Granny, slower and wobbly, but clearly leading. Her eyes only have forgiveness in them, and he holds her close as they spin in the room.
He imagines Ms Dash, competing to see who can dance faster, who will be the last to fall over. A jovial challenge in her eyes, enjoying the dance in her own special way.
He imagines Ms Rarity, who somehow convinced him to do a Ballroom dance around a bonfire. He imagines her slowly realizing how poorly thought out that idea was, slowly falling into the more relaxed and carefree melody.
He imagines Applejack, bickering with him on who exactly is leading this dance. Stong willed, fast paced, and full of energy, even after a hard day's work. Her eyes have a promise in them, never to abandon him again.
He imagines Mrs Cake, apologizing to him for kicking him out of Sugarcube Corner, swearing he's welcome anytime.
He imagines Ms Cheerilee, spinning in some exotic Zebracian dance she's learning for her upcoming lessons on world history. She asks him to come speak to the class one day, on the subject of farming as the bedrock of the community.
He imagines Pumpkin Cake, stumbling over her hooves as she struggles with the Box Step. Full of giggles and light.
He imagines Berry Punch, stumbling together in a drunken, passionate dance. He imagines dancing her around the bonfire till the dawn rises.
He imagines Applebloom, slow and unsure, overly cautious and yet eager to move faster. Her big, round, amber eyes beg for her big brother to come home.
He shoves the rocking horse away. It slides across the room, landing perfectly in it's little nook. He stumbles off to his haypile, and fishes around within. Metal clatters, and he retrieves Winchester. He ignores the clatter of metal outside. He knows they meant for him to hear it. Knows they're watching him. Knows they want him to know they're watching him. Knows they've probably been watching him this whole time.
He slumps against the haybales, cradling his father's gun in his hooves and clenching his eyes shut.
The voices won't leave him. Promises he can come back for a bagel. Insults and accusations. Well-wishes and light conversation over a sale. Whispers behind his back as he walks down the street. Deep philosophical discussions. Admonishments and stubborn ignorance.
snicksnick-click
And like that, the voices are gone. No, not gone. Waiting. Watching with baited breath. Will he do it? Of course he won't. Won't he do it? He might as well. Might he do it? He really oughta. Should he do it? Such a bother.
Their eyes are on him, from across the town. Watching, waiting, begging him to just die.
He bites his lip, and raises the gun to his chin. In the blink of an eye, everyone he knew was gone, replaced by someone else filled with vitrol and disgust.
Or maybe he's the one who disappeared to them. Maybe he's the one who should.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and prays he won't see the dawn.
Author's Note
This was by far the most difficult chapter to write. Not sure why, the spark of inspiration just wasn't here like it was for the others.
I think it came out alright. Just had to focus on the theme of the chapter.
The old barn door slams open, its hinges squealing and rattling as it smacks against the wooden frame. He startles from his haybales, blinking his bleary eyes awake. An orange, well-muscled figure is silhouetted in the moonlight, her trademark stetson casting a long, looming shadow cover him. She's teetering back and forth, slowly, unsteadily. He can smell the liquor from here, cheap and strong.
He slowly gets to his hooves, and steps to the side, gesturing for her to enter. He watches as she slowly walks into the barn, her hoofsteps clopping against the hardened ground in an unsteady, rhythmless gait. She stumbles, and he watches as she smacks into a pile of haybales. The tower looms over, and topples, crashing to the ground in a cacophany of thumps, thuds, and clatters as tools scatter across the barn floor.
She shoves herself back into motion, shaking her gaze off the mess she'd made, and shoves her face right into his. He can smell the stink on her breath. Whiskey, definitely. Rum, maybe. A hint of Scotch too. How much has she had tonight?
Her emerald eyes bore into his, filled with hatred and pain and questions he knows he'll never be able to answer the way she wants him to. As her hot, angry breath washes over his face, his mind drifts back to the photograph. He sees his sister as she was. The way she smiled at him on that day. It never needed to be said. They'd done good. Ma and Pa woulda been proud.
"Whiy ahre ya shtill 'ere..?" She slurs, struggling to get the sentence out properly.
He blinks, the question snapping him back to reality. His little sister isn't here anymore. The mare who'd helped him raise Bloom like a daughter is gone. All that's left is anger, hate, and pain. Her emerald eyes brim with fire, and he can see her eyes watering.
But she doesn't cry. Apples hurt on the inside.
He sighs, trudging over to the window and gazing out at the Orchard. The slivers of dawn peeking over the hills, dappling the apple blossoms with pink rays. "The farm needs me..." He whispers, staring at the beautiful white flowers that speckle the branches of Jimothy, Samantha, Katrina, Lucas, and all the rest of his hundreds of fruit trees. Hoof-planted and doted over. He knows each nook, hook, and crook of their branches. Every one of their names and stories.
His gaze drifts to the farmhouse. Harold cries on the rooftop, announcing the dawn of a new day. "Granny needs me..." They'd raised Harold from just a chick. Taught him how to protect the coop from foxes, kept him from hurting the other hens. Granny showed him how to clean and bathe the rooster after a scrape with a Raccoon, and how to keep Winnona from biting his head off every time Harold tried to flirt with her.
He watches as Bloom stumbles out of the farmhouse, belly swollen and wobbly as she waddles her way to the chicken coop. "Bloom needs me..." She's nearly due, it'll be any day now. Ironically, its fortunate she's still a teenager. She doesn't have to crouch so much to fit inside the coop, and a few minutes later she's out with all the eggs, waddling her way back to the farmhouse with the basket in hoof.
In the distance, he can hear the buzzing of wings and the tell-tale rattle of wagon wheels bumping down the country road. He wishes he could tell Ms Scootaloo how thoughtful she is, how proud of her he is, that she bought a wagon with her own bits, so her friend could have a safe ride to school. She ran a paper route ever single day, the Foalfree Press, bright and early, all so her friend didn't have to waddle across town.
And there goes Bloom, speed-waddling out the door, toast in her mouth, squeezing her forelegs through the maternity dress Sweetie had helped make. A soft green like Granny, with red apples on the hem. It's not pretty by any means, frayed edges and rumples and half-stitches. But it was made with love, a sister trying her sister's craft for her best friend. He's so proud of Bloom, to have found such good friends.
He freezes as her eyes catch his. The shimmering golden peach glint. Her mouth moves, he can't see what she says to her friends before she sprint-waddles over. His mouth is dry, his eyes are watering, as she waddles up to his window.
"H-hey Mac!" Her smile is shy, unsure. Her eyes gleam with hope. "I-it's been a while. You doin' ohkay?"
He gives a hesitant, shaky nod. It's been so long.
"M-me an' th' gurls ahre jus' about ta hed out." She stammers. "Gotta git an earleh stahrt ta skhool, ya know?"
He nods again, his hooves trembling beneath the windowsill.
"Ahre ya..." She hesitates, clearly unsure. "Will ya be joinin' us fer supper t'night?" Her eyes plead with him, begging him to do the impossible.
He dips his head. "Ah... Ah'll try."
Her eyes light up, and for an instant, all is right in the world. "Reahlly?! You'll be thare?!"
His heart aches, as he so desperately wants to promise what he can't. "Ah... Ah'll try."
She practically vibrates with excitement. From behind her, Ms Scootaloo is already hollering. "Ah-ah gotta go." She turns, speed-waddling away. "Ah'll see ya tonight!"
There's movement beside him. He can see AJ in his peripherals, watching the same scene play out before him. How the hatred melts away in her emerald eyes, as she watches her little sister bicker with her friends while she awkwardly clambers into the little Red Ryder wagon, and begin the bumpy ride down the road.
He turns his gaze to the sky, watching as a rainbow streaks across the sky, clearing the clouds for the trio. Even Dash is up this early, all for his little sister. The whole community really came together for her.
He grunts, shoving himself off the windowsill, and trudges back to the haybales.
"How dare you..."
He blinks his eyes, a throbbing pain in the back of his head. His vision is bit blurry, his heart is hammering in his ears. Is he on the ground? Why is he on the ground? He reaches back, rubbing his head, and feels a warm, slick wetness. He pulls his hoof away. There's red, where there should not be red.
He turns his gaze. Brown glass shards are scattered on the floor around him. His gaze slowly sharpens as the thrum of his heartbeat slowly abates. He turns his gaze to the heavy panting behind him. There stands the well-muscled, stetson-wearing mare he knew, frozen mid-throw, teetering back and forth, her face frozen in horror.
He pushes himself to his hooves, ignoring the way his head rushes as he wobbles unsteadily. He steps around the glass shards carefully, walking over to his sister. She drops her hoof, looking away from him as she pulls her stetson over her eyes. He stands before her, staring down at his father's hat.
"Jus' leeve alrheady!" She shouts, refusing to look at him. "Y'ain't welcome 'ere no moar!"
His head throbs in pain. His own sister. Of course, his own sister. Why not?
He reaches out, tries to put a hoof on her shoulder, around her neck. She bats it away, dropping her hat to the blood-stained floor. "Dammit Mac, no one wants ya 'ere! Don'tcha git it?!" She screams, her voice raw and pained. "Why would th' Ahpples want a Sun-damned child molester ohn th' farm?!"
She spins around before he can blink, her hips coiling back into that famous Applebucking position they're known so well for. He braces himself, bending his knees and gritting his teeth. The impact still knocks the wind out of him. He skids back across the barn floor, hooves flaring in pain as they skid through the broken glass, cuts lighting up in agony as the appear across his fetlocks like lightning.
He slams into the stack of haybales with a thud. The impact jars his head, the pulse drowning out all sound for a moment. He can feel the stack teetering behind him. He shakes his head, looking away from his sister, and braces himself against the pile, steadying the wobbilng tower.
He breathes a sigh of relief as the tower slows, settling to rest once more. Then his jaw flares in pain, as an orange hoof connects. He flips over backwards, impacting a support beam with a heavy thud. The roof shudders, and he can feel his jaw ache. He probes with his tongue, feeling a few molars knocked loose. His sister, stands over him, rubbing her hoof as she drunkenly wobbles. "Ah don' need no raipist on mah farm!" She slurs, winding up her shoulder for another left hook.
He stares up at the celing, his head in a daze. He can hardly focus on what his sister is saying. Something's caught his eye. The roof has needed patching for a while now. Heavy rain damage, no access to family funds, no one wanted to come out to the barn to fix it. And there it is, an old, rotten beam swinging loose.
He forces himself up, ignoring the pain and the blood loss. He tackles his sister, bowling her over and rolling towards the haybales as the roof collapses. He prays he aimed correctly as they knock the tower over like a stack of Jenga blocks, haybales flying everywhere.
She bucks at his stomach as he holds her tight, pinning her to the ground as she screams. "What Mac, yer gonna rahpe me too?!" She bites at his foreleg as a haybale impacts his shoulder. "Wahs Bloom naught enough fer yah?!" Another crack, glass bottles shatter, metal creaks and groans as his haypile is buried in the rubble of the roof. Another blow to his pelvis, as she coils up her hind legs and bucks at him. He grips his forelegs around her even tigher, pinning her barrel to his chest as a piece of roofing clips his temple.
He pins her there as til the dust begins to settle, as she bites and kicks and screams and cusses. And when the sounds have finally stopped, he strains his muscles, pushing the haybales up and off of his back as he stands over his sister. He winces as he kicks a haybale out of the way, clearing a path for her to crawl out of the pile. She scrambles, bolting out of his grasp with a cackle and he groans, shifting more of the weight off now that she's free.
He limps his way out of the pile, shoving his way to the clearing where she stands. He looks up at her, frozen in shock at the chaos of the barn. He gives a wet, wheezy chuckle. "Looks lahike Dihscord took a piss an fergot ta whipe." He groans, slumping to the ground as his sister spins around to face him. He closes his eyes, not in the mood to look anymore. Not in the mood to see. It hurts too much.
"Whiy are ya still 'ere?" She chokes out. It's dusty in here, he muses. Can't be good for her lungs.
"'Cuz you need me."
He can feel the blood running down the back of his neck. That'll probably need stitches. Not that Redheart would even look at him. He groans, pulling himself to his hooves. He turns, looking away from her and starts walking to his haypile. He grunts, and starts sifting through the debris. Roofing tiles flop aside, he hefts a beam off and it clunks over to the other side of the barn. This'll take all day. He pretends to miss the sound of hoofsteps leaving the barn.
There it is. An old photograph, mercifully intact. Well, intact enough. It doesn't matter. He sits there, holding it close to his chest, pushing aside the aches and pains in his body and forcing the memories to fade.
They don't want him here. His head throbs.
They don't want him here. His shoulder aches.
They don't want him here. His hooves sting.
They don't want him here. His back cries.
He reaches into the debris.
snicksnick-click
He's so tired. It feels so light. Like it's barely even there.
They slid in so easily. Snicksnick-click. Onetwo-done. Locked and loaded. He knows they'll come out even faster.
He sits there, as the dawn rises over the wreckage of the barn roof. He looks around at the mess of his home. The chaos of his life.
He stares up at the rising sun and he prays. He begs to Celestia, that this pain would be over. That peace will finally come. He begs for his nightmare to end.
He looks around the barn. Nothing has changed. He looks at his body. His eyes are getting blurry, the wounds are still there.
They don't want him here. No one does.
He raises Winchester to his chin, and his breath hitches. Is any of this worth it?
Author's Note
And here it is, the culmination of every last hurt.
This was one of the first chapters I actually finished. Been holding onto this one for a bit now, tweaking it, making sure everything fit. And, ya know, had to draw this all out. I've condensed a year of pregnancy and torture into 6 chapters. In my opinion, the best way to read this story is one chapter a day. It just puts you even more into Big Mac's shoes.
The screaming had stopped an hour ago. He's sure he could've heard it all the way from the Everfree Forest. It had echoed around the barn, torturing him within his prison, unable to be by her side.
But it was over now. He laid on the cold, hard dirt and strained his ears. Listening for anything. Mumbling prayers as he stared up through the hole in the roof, at the silent moon in the skies above.
Was she safe? Did she survive? He knows Granny's the expert, but that didn't mean he hadn't heard ponies whispering about low survival rates in home births. Any number of things could go wrong, for the child or the mother.
And here he was, laying in the dirt.
So lost in thought he was, he nearly missed the slow, trotting hoofsteps approaching the barn. But he could never miss the rap-tap-tap on the doorframe. Something was different though. For the past year, it had always been harsh. Demanding. Tonight the hoof knocking is shy. Quiet. Almost... afraid?
He rolls over, forcing himself to his hooves, and stares at the door in trepidation. It almost seems to loom before him in the darkness, like a manitcore waiting to pounce.
But then the clouds shift, drifting away from the barn, and the moonlight falls upon the door. Suddenly, it's perfectly visible, clear, crisp, and blue. He sucks in a tight breath, wondering if this is a sign. Slowly, carefully, he steps towards the door.
He doesn't want to open it. Doesn't want to see what's on the other side. What if she's hurt? What if they died? The moon casts his shadow upon the door, and it almost mocks him. It whispers in his mind, staring at him with its black, empty face, taunting him with the visage of darkness, of death.
Another set of knocks, right in front of him, slightly more forceful but equally as scared. A voice peters through from the other side of the door. "B-big Mac?" ...did her voice just... crack? He swears he imagined it. She sounds... hoarse. Wet. Throaty. Like she's just run a 5k on 1 bottle of water and 3 hours of sleep.
He grits his teeth, and slowly pulls the barn door open.
***
She laid in the four-poster bed, resting underneath the quilted comforter and surrounded by pillows. Ice packs rested in all the right spots. Her jaw hurt, her chest hurt, her legs hurt, her pelvis hurt , everything hurt. But it was done. It was over. The sun had set a little over an hour ago, and a cool night breeze gently lifted the curtains in her window, drying the sweat off her as she sighed in relief.
It hadn't been easy. Months of mockery behind her back, whispers around town, slowly losing her ability to keep up with her friends, everypony treating her like a damn invalid all the time. And the delivery. Oh how that had hurt. Granny said it was gonna hurt, but Celestia, what an understatement! Felt like fittin a dried pig through a sewin needle!
But then it was over. It was done. Granny took the little thing and wiped it dry with a wet washcloth, hot water running down its fur, cleanin off all the icky gunk. Redheart was there too, she'd been the one ta cut the cord. Oh Celestia, how she'd been in her ear all year long. "Unsafe birthing practices" and "Medications". Hogwash. The Apples have been homebirthing for centuries, and Granny knows what she's doin. She wasn't gonna break tradition like that, that there's bad luck!
They'd all stepped outta the room now. She could hear em talkin' in the next room over. Couldn't make out the details though, too damn tired to try and focus. Heh, the shocked look on their faces when she'd popped the foal out. She coulda sworn fer a second that somethin was terribly wrong.
But then Granny handed her the foal, all swaddled up in a beautiful orange blanket, and assured her everything was alright. The foal was healthy. Redheart had a real funny look on her face, some kinda shocked, confused, and sadness all mixed together. But she agreed, the foal looked perfectly healthy.
And then they'd left. She cradled her foal in her forelegs, and pretended not to notice the look that her big sis had shared with the two, before they all bid her a goodnight. She focused on the foal snuggled up to her chest. His mane, golden and wild like the sun, and his coat, a soft, light green. And the tiny, fluttering wings that tickled her cheek...
She sighed. How was she going to explain this?
She hadn't expected his genes to be so strong. She remembered Ms Cheerilee saying something about how Earth Ponies were built fer endurance, but Pegasi were built for the speed of war. Probably has somethin ta do with that.
Was she gonna tell him? Should she tell him?
This all got outta hoof so fast. She just didn't wanna get in trouble. Granny woulda asked her where she'd been, AJ woulda been fussin about her chores, and Mac woulda been furious she was out on a school night. It was just a white lie, no harm done.
But then she'd started feelin funny. Throwin up at odd times. Gettin hankerin's fer weird foods, like Pears or Pickles over Stirfry. Granny noticed somethin was wrong, and took her down fer a checkup.
Pregnant.
That one word had changed everything. Suddenly everyone had all these questions. Granny damn near fainted at the news, AJ wanted to know how, and Mac just wanted ta know who. She'd seen the murder in his eyes, he was gonna go do somethin, somethin rash. She couldn't let Rumble get in trouble, not fer her own dumb mistakes.
What was one more lie?
Lyin' to AJ ain't easy. Ya have ta curl up real tight-like, intah a ball, and cinch yer eyes shut. If she sees yer eyes, she'll know in an instant if yer lyin. Zecora said somethin about eyes bein the windows to the soul, I reckon she's right on the bit there.
She believed it. Dunno how, but she did. Not even a question, just held me close an told me we'd get through this. She'd ask Twilight fer help, we'd figure this out. It was fine. She'd done it. She was in the clear, Rumble wasn't gonna get in trouble!
Next mornin, there was a knock on the door. Some fancy-pants stallion from Canterlot. Fancy mustache, fancy vest, fancy tie. Smelled like cheap hooch and week-old plums.
What was one more lie?
She'd thought she was in the clear. But then he started askin all these questions. She wasn't even sure what half of em meant! How do ya lie when ya can't even tell what ta lie about?
It was fine. Easy fix. Just had ta say she didn't remember nothin. He seemed... Well, he didn't seem happy about that, but he accepted it easily enough. Too easily, really. Without a second thought, he had a whole new line of questions. Celestia, she must've made up a dozen lies on the spot then and there.
But it seemed to satisfy him. He apologized fer some reason, and said he'd speak with her family a moment afore takin his leave. That was fine. Gave her a chance to try and get her story straight, 'cuz they'd sure have all their questions, an her answers needed ta match what she told the doc.
An then the yellin started. AJ threw a plate, Mac started yellin, an she'd just covered her ears. Granny was hollerin, and she blocked it out. Tryin ta figure out how to fix it all an not git in trouble.
AJ came in her room an told her everythin was gonna be fine. Mac was just gonna sleep in the barn fer now, they could set up his room fer the foal. He needed to fix up the old thing anyways. Had some concrete ta pour, some fancy new stuff with nasty fumes that ain't no good fer foals.
AJ was choked up fer some reason. Sweatin real bad. Somethin wasn't right, but... Askin questions just leads to more questions, and she didn't need none of those right then.
She sighed, shaking her head and staring out the window towards the barn. How had this all gotten so out of control?
The late spring breeze blew through the window, ruffling the curtains as the clouds drifted over the moon. It was harder to see the barn now. Harder to peer through the windows, through the half-fixed roof.
Why hadn't Mac come to see her this whole time? It wasn't fair. Was he that upset about the foal?
Granny would say Mac was sick. Caught a cold while workin. AJ would say he was busy with her chores.
She knew they were lyin'. Coverin' fer Mac. He didn't wanna see her. At first, that was fine. If he wanted to be an Ass about it, she wouldn't see him either!
But weeks turned into months, and he still wouldn't come by. She'd sneak out to the barn some nights, listen to him shuffle around. Try ta work up the courage ta go in an ask.
AJ caught her one night. Started makin Winnona sleep out in the barn. "Mac wants his privacy, ya owe 'im that much."
Liar.
She sighed, nuzzling the little wings that tickled her nose as she stared into the night. Watching the stars shine in through the window, coating the orchard in a blanket of darkness. She wished she could be up at night more often. It was so pretty out.
A speck of light in the darkness. Someone'd lit a lantern. She squinted, her heart fluttered with hope, trying to make out a large, muscular frame. Her heart sank as she caught the stetson in the firelight. Just AJ, headed out to the barn. She watched as her sister slowly trotted over, knockin on the barn doors. Weird that she'd do that, not like she's gotta worry about no fumes.
Maybe she's worried 'bout somethin fallin on her? She an Mac were in the collapse last month, she supposed she'd be nervous too. But Mac was in there all night, shorein up the supports all good-like. Couldn't come to dinner, too busy makin sure it was safe. It should be fine ta go in now.
There, as the door swung open. She squinted as hard as she could. Just barely, the shadow of her big brother in the doorway. Maybe AJ could get him to come in? Come visit? See the foal? Surely he'll care about a new Apple? She wished she could hear what they were saying.
She got out of bed, hobbling over to the windowsill on her tired legs, and leaned as close as she could without droppin the foal. Strained her ears, squinted her eyes, and prayed to the Sun and Moon that her big brother would come home.
Wh-why did Mac fall? Is he okay? H-he's poundin the ground. She can hear 'im sobbin, even from 'ere. Did he hurt himself? She watches as AJ scoops her brother into a hug, she can hear AJ cryin too.
What's goin on? Apples don't cry. She ain't seen either of 'em cry once in her life. She wants to call out to them. Wants them to come in and talk.
But would that just make Mac mad? Would he hate her again? Go back intah the barn an not come see the foal? She bit her lip, turning and moving back to her bed. AJ would fix it. AJ promised she would help the foal any way she could. AJ would get Mac to come see her. She trusted her big sister.
She crawled back under the covers, and pondered on what she was gonna tell him when he got here. Mac was her big brother, after all. He couldn't be mad forever, right?
She'd decided on a name a couple months back, after tryin Cousin Green's odd recipe. A sugary apple & oatmeal-pie. And Mac does love his oatmeal.
The little foal in her arms wriggled, and she held him up to her chin, burying him in the crook of her neck as they laid down to rest. She stared out at the silver moon, drifting lazily in the starry sky. Luna's blessing on full display.
"Ya know Crisp," She whispered, stroking the little golden mane curled up in her forelegs. "Ah think everythin is gonna be ohkay..."
Author's Note
I had so much fun writing this, dancing around such a dark subject like the name of an eldritch entity, describing only the effects a simple word has had on this man's whole life.
I'd like to think our King in Yellow would be quite proud of how easily humans drive one another mad with one simple word.
I doubt I'll do a sequel. I'm pretty happy with how this ends. It leaves a lot to the reader's imagination. The reader projects much of themselves onto Big Mac here, and while I certainly know what the canon outcome would be, many people have differing views on how they would handle such a situation.
And more than anything, that's what I wanted to get out of writing this. I wanted people to read this, and think about life from this point of view. And maybe, just maybe, give a friend the benefit of the doubt, instead of jumping to conclusions.
I may do a blog post in a couple days, going into some of the details and such that I couldn't fit in an Author's Note, just for funsies.
Merry Christmas, y'all!
