A whining reverberated throughout the spherical mausoleum. The purple creature was lying on its own coat carpet. Lax. Its dry eyes made clicky sounds in their sockets as it looked to see a hole opening up in the wall. The colors of magic twinkling through. The purple creature smiled a little and went back to sleep. A tendril of harmony reached through and pulled it out.
The elements came back down to earth. Windy day in Canterlot’s hedge garden. The princesses Luna and Celestia presiding, contributing their power. A mangy tartarus creature materialized out of the light. Lying on the grass dead to the world. They were all silent until they weren’t. The purple creature was a deep cave untouched by the Sun. Not meant to be touched by the Sun. It was a rotten skeleton, brown and malting. Stinking the fresh air and polluting the flowers. Not meant to be touched by the Sun. It rolled its eyes at the piercing light cacophony and crushing weight.
A panic so deep it couldn’t make it to the surface.
The ponies did not take it well. Princess Celestia stayed with them. Consoled them. Luna floated the thing up to the palace infirmary. Warm smiles dropped. Love and bedrest seemed an insufficient pill. Nurses washed it wearing masks of optimism until they couldn’t. New masks prancing in, shuffling out. Luna standing over it all, Mane flying at half mast, a distant look in her eyes.
The bath cycled empty then refilled a dozen times. The creature’s coat regained its color. It was thin and patchy. Color without lustre. Two eyes sunken, sparkling with life, looking around at the porcelain walls enraptured. New sights and smells. A shade of white unstained with yellow. Amazing and uplifting. Like a book. Like a daydream.
Luna looked down into those eyes looking up. She saw somepony asleep whilst awake.
They led it to a bed and pulled the curtains all around. They asked it questions as it spooned up soup.
“How do you feel?”
It responded with a nod and a smile.
“Do you want anything?”
It shrugged. Spooned up potato. Studying the soup.
“How are you feeling?”
It shrugged. Chewing. Studying the soup.
“Are you in pain anywhere?”
It shrugged. Spooned up a carrot.
Luna sighed and announced, “I believe that’s enough for now, thankyou all.”
It really liked the colors in the soup.
Its parents visited in the afternoon. Celestia knew it was a bad idea, but how could she rightfully stop them? She was its second mother herself. She stood outside the curtains. Cringed at the noises. Unconsciously tapped the tiles with her slipper.
“We’re here,” they consoled, choking, crushing her.
“Thankyou,” their foal chirped. It looked out over the crying ponies and called out politely, “May I have a book please? It’s alright if that’s not possible. It’s not a big deal.”
Its parents wanted it to move back in with them. It looked to Celestia. Hovering. Always hovering, smile stuck. “It’s your decision Twilight,” she said. The purple unicorn shrugged.
It lay in its fillyhood bed reading books all day. Everyday. And then its old Canterlot friends came to visit. They came in smiling. Went out to eat cupcakes in the park. Laughing, reminiscing. A break in the conversation. Its friends shifted, uncomfortable, and they asked, “So, are you okay to talk about what happened?” Searching glances. “Where you were?” Awkwardly knocking their hooves together, twirling their manes. “It might help if you let it all out.” Shy smiles.
The purple unicorn looked over all the random ponies going about their day. So busy. Noise and visual noise. Overwhelming some part of itself. It finished a strawberry cupcake and nodded, humming through the dough. Its friends were relieved, back to smiles. And then the purple unicorn opened its mouth and told its story. Eyes glazed, reminiscing. Smiling and laughing at it all. How ridiculous it was. It broke into hysterical giggling when it got to all the parts with Spike. The Spikes. It wasn’t a big deal anyway. It came back down to Equis as it petered out into, “The practical applications of dragon scales, even baby dragon scales, are really underutilized.” And it realized its friends were morbid. Silent tears and harrowed stares. Looking at the purple unicorn. Unable to see their friend anymore. Heart wrenching guilt as they saw something from somewhere else.
They didn’t see the purple unicorn again after that. Word got around outside, but the purple unicorn didn’t mind. It was happy reading. Sleeping. Eating dinners silent across from its parents.
And then one day it looked up from its book. Looked around its room. Sketches and magical formulae plastered over the walls. The work of its younger self. Somepony else. Somewhere else. Where?
Where was it? It didn’t know. It furrowed its brows. Wheels turning behinds its eyes. Really trying to work it out. Where was it right there and then? In its fillyhood bedroom, in bed, reading. No. That didn’t feel right. Was it home? Where is home? What is it? Here? The library in Ponyville? Her coat carpet? Her old room in the palace?
She looked up eyes wide. Focused. Existential terror bubbling up from deep within from where it had been simmering for months. Pressurizing. The glass wall between her and her emotions, her comprehension, splintering and cracking. Where was she? How had she ended up here? What had happened to her? She breathed haggard feeling the panic coming on.
And then her eyes unfocused. It got shut out. The tide receded. The boiling panic pulling back. But still there. Always there. Agony in some distant pit within her.
It looked back down at the book. The writer’s world made her smile and cry and feel for real. It was real. The purple unicorn would get to the last page, close onto the back cover, and return to the hazy daydream.
It wasn’t a bad daydream.
It wasn’t to be understood.
It knew it probably should.
But why should it?
When it didn’t even know
where it was.
It shrugged.
It's not a big deal.
Author's Note
If you missed it, this is an unofficial fan sequel to ocalhoun's Blink: https://www.fimfiction.net/story/341279/blink
I like angst. I like trauma fics. They're cathartic to me. They used to be a guilty pleasure, but now they're just a pleasure. I think I understand their importance now.
I've read a lot of them, and like all fanfiction, I'm often surprised at the quality anonymous internet authors can produce. But one criticism I'll almost always have is that everything feels exaggerated. The fallout of trauma, at least in my experience, is beneath the surface and understated, even invisible.
I haven't written this kind of story before, but I just got the overwhelming urge to do so lying awake one night, as it always goes. I felt it necessary to contribute what I felt was a realistic take on the genre, or at least something approaching realistic.
Tell me what you think! For better or for worse, I don't mind.
It's not a big deal.
