A Rainbow of Redemption
Cold-hearted, ruthless, disgusting, despicable, a disgrace to everything right and decent in this world. This was the city where I lived, and these were the things I had to become. There were no "ifs", "ands", "buts" or "maybes" about it. It was an ugly necessity, an inconvenient truth.
I never wanted to join a gang; I never wanted to hurt people. I despised every form of violence. Even seeing someone slap someone across the face or push someone to the ground would make me cringe.
But for teenagers, like myself, that lived in these boonies, where crime was as natural as the sun rising, we only had two equally unpleasing options. Join a gang for protection, or stay independent and become a target, the equivalent of choosing to become a murderer, or being murdered yourself.
I didn't want to have anything to do with those sadistic bastards that walked around town, their black-leather jackets and glistening under street lamps, their plain white t-shirts underneath their jackets, their cold, heartless eyes scanning the dark surroundings, scoping for potential victims.
People that had their heads screwed on right were leaving. Flocking away from this dead place and moving either to the suburbs or safer cities, like New York or Chicago.
Sure, those places had messed up sections as well, but that's all they were; sections. Not the majority of the city. I could count on a single hand the number of areas I'd consider safe within this city's limits-mostly neighborhoods that had been nearly abandoned or consisting mostly of adults.
I envied those that escaped, wishing that I could do the same. I wanted to do better, more wholesome things with my life. I wanted my name printed in newspapers under headlines like "doctor discovers cure for cancer", instead of "criminal teen gets twenty-to-life for armed robbery". I wanted to do things people would respect me for. Something noble.
But the longer I lived here, that less realistic that dream seemed.
I asked my father to take us away from this God-damned place, but he didn't, he was too drunk. I often wondered if he was even aware of anything that was going on around him. All he did was sit in his armchair, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, his eyes glazed over as he mindlessly watched the latest rerun of "Seinfeld" on our dinosaur of a television.
He wasn't a bad, violent and dishonorable person. In fact he used to be the hardest-working, most straight-laced guy I knew. He was the kind of guy that always went to work with a nice collared-shirt, and a diligent look in his eyes. It didn't matter that he worked at the auto-plant; he always made himself look presentable. In fact, when I was younger, he would never get drunk. Sure he'd drink the occasional beer or scotch, and would sometimes get a bit tipsy. But he never got plastered, which is more than I can say about him now.
The only reason he binged was to forget the past. The alcohol seemed to bring him into an almost Zen state, soothing the guilt he carried from that fateful night five years ago, when my Mother was killed in a drive-by shooting.
I remember seeing her in the hospital, attached to large, beeping machines that were the only thing keeping her alive. Her face was as pale as the white walls of the room, and the white sheets pulled up over her chest. My father hunched over her, hands pressed together as he prayed and sobbed, pleading with God to take him instead, to kill him and revive my mother back.
He loved her so much, and if he knew if he hadn't asked her to drive home, she'd still be alive. The driver's seat took the brunt force of the bullets, while the passenger-seat, where my father sat, was safe from harm.
Ever since then, he's never forgiven himself. He refuses to leave, feeling that he deserves to perish in this shit-hole like his wife. He refuses to work and after our saving ran out three years ago, we've been living off the state, something I felt terrible about.
With the child labor laws enacted in the city, I was too young to seek work, so I tried to find ways to acquire things we needed. This included, to my own disgust, stealing.
I've also begged on a number of occasions, which was much more degrading than I originally thought. I tried to get my dad out of his rut. I tried to get him off his butt and back to work, helping him look through the few "help wanted" ads still in the paper. As with people, many businesses re-located to safer areas.
But my nagging never did any good. He refused to listen.
With a lack of money and food, and the threats of being harassed if I remained independent at school, I knew there was only one option for me. So, at the young age of fifteen, I reluctantly decided to join a gang.
All thought technically it wasn't my decision. My best friend, Marty, was the one who suggested it.
Marty was the antithesis of a stereotypical gang member. He was a pale, thin and timid guy, with a phobia of both bees and his own shadow. He would go out of his way to not kill a fly, even if it was hovering over his dinner plate or annoying the hell out of him some other way.
I could never see him joining a gang. But, like me, he understood that refusing to join was begging to be shot. Sure gang members shot other gang members, but at least he'd have the others to back him up, which was much more than you could say for teens without an affiliation that often went missing for two days before popping up in the sewers with either a bullet-hole to their head or a stab-wound to their abdomen.
Oddly enough, people not in the school system, such as adults, were often immune from this violence. But not kids. For us, it was an unspoken requirement that we join a gang. And so many good students already left the school, moving to safer places outside the city limits. Now, almost everyone in my class was a member of a gang, so chances were Marty and I would become targets just like those poor souls, bodies left to the sewers.
So Marty asked me to go through initiation with him and I begrudgingly agreed. One day after school Marty led me to meet with the leaders of the Blood-Stakes, one of the dozens of gangs predominantly made up of teenagers.
We met the "big wigs" in the shaded area behind the football equipment shed at the back of the school. The leader, Bradley, was a tall, burly bastard with a shaved head and a swastika tattoo on the back of his neck. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, he listened as Marty and I told him why we would be good assets to join his gang. It was like a demented version of college interviews.
After going through our own list of reasons, Marty starting it off and I concluded, Marty getting too scared to finish, Bradley nodded and gave us a creepy smile. But that didn't mean it was a malicious smile. In fact, the smile was creepy because of how friendly it seemed. It was the smile of a typical teenage guy, a smile no different than the star quarterback on our team gave as he passed people in the hallway.
Then again, our quarterback was in a gang too, so my perception on the "friendliness" of smiles was probably a tad inaccurate.
Either way, he accepted our pleas and ordered us to meet him in the park later that afternoon for initiation. They both nodded in thanks and ran off, my mind racing as we widened the distance between us and the three judges of our fate.
What have we done?
What have we gotten ourselves into?
What the hell would our initiation require of us?
I was scared, both for my life and my innocence. I was afraid of what task they'd tell me to carry out. Kids at school told stories, how they heard that rape and murder was common for initiation. There was one instance where somebody had to rob a store at gunpoint without a mask to conceal their identity, and then kill the owner, even though he followed his orders.
None of that mattered, it was initiation, and because of that the cashier had his brains splattered all over the cabinet that held the cigarettes, most of which were untouched. Not many people smoked. Smoking was less common than murder.
But Bradley smoked, he smoked a lot. I knew this because I would see him and his gang-members in the hallway. He would be the only one smoking in the group, but he did it so often it made the entire gang look like a bunch of tar-lunged, chain smokers.
After walking for about fifteen minutes, I arrived home. I bade Marty a brief farewell, having the full knowledge that I'd be seeing him later, and made my way inside.
I closed the door behind me and let out a sigh, glad for even the most superficial block between me and the outside world. Our house was small and run-down, old and ramshackle. In laymen's terms, it was a shit-hole that nobody would buy other than people desperate for a home. Even then an apartment might have been more appealing. Maybe that's another reason why we didn't move, because our house was such a shit-hole that it couldn't be sold.
I passed by the living room, my father already passed out drunk on the sofa, the iconic "Seinfeld" theme playing on the television as he snored. I sighed and made my way upstairs, entered my room and fell backwards onto my bed, staring up at the moldy ceiling.
A rickety old fan spun slowly above my head, blowing my hair around in a small gust. The sun streamed through the window as I lie. I turned onto my side and looked towards the wall of my room nearest the window. Specifically, I eyed my small desk; a tiny little space for the ancient texts our teachers handed to us at the beginning of the year. Had I been anyone else, those books would either be collecting dust, or torched on an open fire.
But not me, I was one of the few, diligent students at our school that actually cared about his grades. I did the readings, sometimes even enjoying them, especially history texts and the occasional book we were given to read for English class. One topic I was especially fascinated reading by was war. The violence the death the horrible nature of it all; it was so similar to our city that I gobbled it up.
I felt horrible about it, but that was the truth.
But the main thing I remembered reading in class, on one of the days our teacher actually assigned us work, was hearing about the loss of innocence for Vietnam veterans. How they'd see such gruesome things, such chaos and death, only to come home to people booing them and calling them "baby-killers".
They were so young too. But because of the war, they quickly matured into unemotional and distant adults. By the time they turned twenty-five, they were hardened men. It wasn't much different from what happened to people living in this city. The only way you could avoid losing your innocence here was to find some form of escapism, to take your mind off of the environment.
Most people I knew did hard drugs and drank heavily.
But me, I chose an alternative path. Something I don't think anyone in this city was into. Something that, if revealed, would be the literal death of me.
I was into "My Little Pony", I was a brony.
I loved that show, how sweet and pure it was to everything else on television. It was so unlike everything around me, so happy and bright. I didn't buy merchandise, save for a lone Rainbow Dash figurine that was placed precariously on the top of my desk. I looked up at the cyan figurine, and it looked back down at me. My living eyes meeting its plastic ones.
Funny thing was that I never saw the figurine as an 'it'. I saw it as a 'her', often imagining that having the little figurine somehow made me closer to the real element of loyalty.
She and her friends were the only source of escape I had. Hell, the entire show was. I always thought about the show, trying to imagine what it would be like to live in a world like Equestria. To ditch this city, this entire world, and find peace in a place that could actually offer it instead of simply preach it.
I've lived in this reality for fifteen years. Peace was impossible. No matter what, violence would always exist. This world was a prison of judgment. It is a place run by chaos. Living here, everyone had two options: take the honorable path, or take the dishonorable path.
I tried to take the honorable path. I wanted to be a historian, or a screenwriter, or even someone involved in medicine! I wanted to do something that would allow me to contribute something to this world, something that would last long after I was gone. I wanted to do something permanent and honorable.
Yet I couldn't. This town wouldn't allow me, this reality wouldn't allow me. I stood from my bed and walked over to Rainbow Dash, grabbing her by the tiny, plastic wings and bringing her close. I looked down at her with a smile on my face.
"I wish I could actually talk to you, to hold you. To know someone as innocent as you exists, somewhere out there." I said to the figurine, thankful nobody was around to hear me talk to myself like some mental patient. Sighing, I gently placed the figure down onto the desk and looked at her in the rose-painted eyes one, last time.
"Please don't hate me for what I do."
And with that, I walked downstairs.
The next few hours were mostly uneventful. I made us dinner; we often ate around three to four anyway since Dad would always be passed out by six in the evening.
I cooked up something simple. Microwavable macaroni and cheese, which I stole from a convenience store down the road. Truly the epitome of fine dining and moral behavior.
I fixed myself a plate of the gooey, yellow substance and fixed one for Dad as well. I walked into the living room to see he was fully awake. No matter what, no matter how much alcohol was in his system, the guy was always up and raring to go when it came to eating. We ate our meal in near silence, the only sound coming from the ancient, bunny-eared television. It was "The Puffy Shirt" episode of Seinfeld, so I enjoyed it.
I looked over at my Dad. His eyes were glued to the television screen, a misty film covered them. I hated seeing him like this, so lost and pathetic. I knew he'd rather be dead than continue living on without Mom. Maybe I should've felt angrier at him for failing both of us, but I couldn't.
After I finished my meal I cleaned the dishes and went upstairs, leaving my father to his post-dinner nap, complete with small snores and sniffles as he slept, either dreaming of something sad, or something happy.
I always believed he dreamed about mom, and being reunited with her. I believed this because I, too, had those dreams. But unlike my father, there was one other dream I had over and over.
A dream where I stood in front of a gaping hole, almost a portal of some kind. Behind me was the grey city that I lived in, full of despair. In front of me, through the hole, was a colorful land with rolling hills and vast fields. Angelic music seemed to play, as if I were looking directly into heaven.
On the other side stood six familiar candy-colored ponies, all of whom were looking right at me, beckoning me to enter the hole. Leave my old life behind and enter this new one. I would slowly reach out my hand towards Twilight's extended hoof, her violet eyes welcoming and kind.
"Don't be scared, Josh." She would say with a smile on her face that warmed my heart, "I'm not going to hurt you."
Rainbow Dash flying above the rest, giving me a small wink, as if to wordlessly repeat what Twilight said.
I smiled. A rarity for me in real life; I hardly ever smiled. Maybe this was the trigger, letting me know it was a dream so that right before I clasped my hand around Twilight's hoof I'd be pulled back, screaming in horror before waking up in my bed, shirt drenched in sweat and body trembling like I'd just completed a marathon instead of have the most magnificent dream.
I had this dream so often my reaction to it upon waking has become mechanical. I'd get out of bed, walk over to the bathroom across the hall, wash my face in the sink, and crawl back into bed before falling back asleep. I'd try to re-live that dream one more time, to have a second chance to take Twilight's hand and enter paradise.
But I never did. It was a one-time a night dream, and once I had it, I wouldn't have it again until I fell asleep without thinking about it. It'd pop up on me like a skeleton in a haunted house.
I lay in my bed, relaxing until I'd have to go to the park. My eyes gazed up at the fan, spinning round and round and round again. In my hands I held the small Rainbow Dash toy, gripping it like a rosary and muttering prayers into her little plastic ear.
Had I gone insane? Seeing this figurine of a cartoon character as a holy relic instead of a plastic model?
I couldn't help it. She was my only source of comfort, whether as an image on television or a plastic toy, she was my stress ball.
I knew that in less than an hour, I'd have to complete my initiation, and I would most likely have to kill someone, something I never wanted to do.
But there was no way out. I lived in a city where it was kill or be killed, simple as that.
I held up Rainbow Dash and looked her in the eyes, feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt for what I was about to do. But it wasn't for my benefit, or my dad's, or even the poor soul whose life I'd be asked to take.
It was for her, Rainbow Dash, and her friends. What would they say? What would they think of me? Would they see me as a monster? Would they sympathize?
Would they forgive me?
Shame. Shame and disappointment was all I felt as I thought over these questions. I didn't need anyone to answer them to know that they'd loathe me, seeing me as nothing more than some horrid beast beneath even a violent manticore or timber wolf.
I could feel my eyes start to water, and a lump swelled in my throat. It was a rare occasion for me to break down in tears, living in such a city often made people cold to things that outsiders would consider the worst possible thing, such as death. But when I gazed down into the figurine's rose-colored eyes, I couldn't help it.
All I could say was, "Dashie...please forgive me." I whispered before giving the figurine a small kiss on the head.
It was about five in the evening when I finally arrived at the park. It was lifeless and empty, the perfect place to carry out illegal activities, both during the day as well as at night. Cops hardly came by; even they had more common sense than to approach gangs without reason.
I scanned the surroundings, looking for any sign of life outside of the occasional stray cat. I did see a mangy fox, though they're supposed to hunt at night so, assuming it was rabid, I kept my distance.
After about five minutes of walking further into the park, I found who I was looking for: Bradley, some of his thugs, and, of course, a very nervous and disheveled-looking Marty, clearly not wanting to be there. They were all standing around what appeared to be one of the park's grills, typically used for Fourth of July barbecues and birthday celebrations.
Sighing, I made my way over, not exactly ecstatic over what I'd have to do. The ember end of Bradley' cigarette like a beacon, guiding me to my fate. For better or worse, my life was going in a very different direction tonight, and I couldn't stop it.
I finally reached the group and stood next to Marty. His hands were shaking and his head was down. He didn't want to be here anymore than I. We should've bailed, we should've run.
Instead we stood there like two, dorky kids about to go through some terrible hazing process to hang out with the 'cool kids'.
Bradley grinned, "Happy to see both of you made it."
I gave a small nod, as did Marty, though he kept his eyes down. Bradley saw this and immediately snapped.
"Hey!" he snarled, getting Marty's attention. Their eyes met, Marty's filled with terror, and Bradley's filled with authoritative control. "Pay attention to when I'm talking to you, you little shit-fuck."
Marty nodded. Bradley sighed and walked over to the grill.
"Okay, so tonight you two are going to have to perform one deed we assign to you. It's something each of us had to do in order to become a Blood-Stake member. Your initiation process will involve this grill."
Bradley tapped his fingers against the metallic surface of the grill.
"Now, the most important necessity for any gang member is to take a life, no matter how 'precious' it may be. You cannot let your emotions or morality get in the way. If you do, you'll be of no use to us."
Bradley chuckled, "Normally the initiation process would involve giving each of you a small German-shepherd puppy, which you would toss onto a lit grill and watched it die."
My blood ran cold. Did he just say they initiate people by cooking dogs...alive?
What kind of sickos did that? Even for a street gang that was despicable. Hell, it was downright satanic!
I knew that these ass-holes killed people, so it shouldn't be much of a surprise that they'd have no problem frying an innocent puppy like a T-bone steak. But I still couldn't help but feel shocked hearing it. There was something about killing a dog that disgusted me more than anything else, even more than killing a person.
I had to remember the stealing for food, the dangers of not being a gang member, to convince myself not to reject their offer right then. I continued to listen, mentally hoping they'd have us do something less horrible. But it was more denial than it was hope.
Bradley continued, "But today we have something a bit different. We have a special guest that we found sleeping right here in this park ten minutes ago."
Bradley held up a pillow-case that clearly had something inside. And from where I was standing, I could have sworn it was moving, like something was alive in it.
"Today, both of you will cook...this."
Bradley reached into the bag and pulled out what was inside. Once I saw what it was, or rather who it was, my eyes went wide and I swear I my heart stopped beating.
There, in the gang leader's hand, was the familiar, animated face of a filly Rainbow Dash. I couldn't believe she was here, I didn't want to believe it. But the proof was right in front of me, and all of the denial in the world wouldn't be able to convince me otherwise.
She was very young. Not foal young, but younger than she was at any point during the show.
Heck, she didn't even have her infamous cloud and lightning-bolt cutie-mark yet. She was a blank-flank filly with an extremely terrified expression on her face. I understood being in a new world would be terrifying, but she looked even more scared than I thought she would. Her entire body was shivering like she had a cold and her eyes were the size of soft-balls.
Maybe she knew Bradley was planning to do malicious things to her. To harm her, to kill her. To make us kill her.
I slowly began to shake my head. I didn't want to believe what I'd have to do. It was too horrible to imagine, let alone physically carry out.
"I bought a puppy already," Bradley continued, pointing to a second pillow case by his feet. A little movement inside proved the innocent creature was inside. Poor thing was probably scared out of its mind.
"But we can save that for later. I want to see you to use the grill and burn this little cartoon...thing...to death. Understood?"
Marty slowly nodded at Bradley.
I couldn't stop shaking my head, both in shock and disapproval. Bradley saw this and his smug smile immediately vanished.
"Are you shaking your head at me, boy?"
I stopped and stared. What was I supposed to do? Talk back to him? Defend my morality?
The only good thing morality would do me now is put a bullet in my head before they killed the sweet little filly that was shivering in Bradley's arms.
"Boy!" Bradley shouted, snapping me out of my daze as I looked at him. "Answer my fucking question. Were you shaking your head at me?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but couldn't. A peculiar dryness prevented me from uttering a syllable. Bradley kept staring at me expectantly for about ten seconds before he realized it was going nowhere. His devil's smile returned and he nodded.
"Okay...all right. You know what, I want you to be the one to put her on the grill, and your friend can cook the dog later." Bradley said, pointing at Marty, who looked even more terrified than I imagine I did.
He then walked over to me with Rainbow Dash in his hands. Before I could object, he put the little filly in my arms. I looked down at her; and she looked up at me. Looking into those rose-colored orbs ripped my soul to shreds.
I looked up at Bradley, who tossed me a pack of matches. I caught them with one hand, careful not to drop Rainbow Dash in the process by holding her tight in my other arm.
"You have ten seconds to put that thing on the grill before I blow both your knee-caps off."
I looked back down at Rainbow Dash, and our eyes met again. I swallowed, unable to take my eyes away from the helpless little pony in my arms, her eyes still full of fear, but there was something else.
The look she had when Bradley was holding her was terror. But with me, her expression wasn't like that. It was more of a plea for help. It was like she knew I didn't want to do this, and was silently begging for me to rescue her.
"God, why did you bring her here?" I thought to myself, only then noticing Bradley's countdown.
"Ten...nine...eight..."
I shook myself from my thoughts and instinctively pushed my morality to a far corner of my brain. I didn't have a choice, I had to put my "childlike" morality aside, I had to adapt. I had to survive. I had to burn the little filly alive.
"...seven...six...five..."
I took two cautious steps towards the grill. Some chuckles came from behind me, most likely Bradley's minions getting a sick enjoyment from watching me do this. Bradley stood in front of me, still near the grill. His eyes were so wide and white I swear a specter was behind them rather than an eighteen-year old sicko. I could see his cocky smile return as I inched my way closer. He knew I was going to do this, he knew I didn't have a choice.
It had to be done.
"...four...three..."
But Rainbow Dash, how could I do this to you? You're so innocent, so carefree and pure. To follow through with something so reprehensible, so immoral, so cruel and so despicable, would make me beyond redemption or forgiveness, especially from me.
If I went through with this, I could never forgive myself, nor would I want anyone else to forgive me.
"...two..."
I reached the grill, the cold appearance a stark contrast to what it was to become. A blazing inferno of fire, her own version of hell.
Suddenly, I realized the truth. I was right in front of Bradley, my eyes glued to the little cyan pegasus filly in my hands. She had the saddest look on her face that I'd ever seen. It was then that I realized I couldn't do what was being asked of me.
"...one..."
And I'd rather die protecting her, than live because I harmed her.
"...zero..."
Once the countdown ended, I did something I really could never see myself doing.
Without a second thought, I elbowed Bradley in the abdomen. He let out a yelp before falling to the ground, hands clutching his stomach. His minions ran over to his side. Using this as a distraction, I pressed Rainbow Dash against my chest like she were a toddler and sprinted off. I could hear them cursing, shouting my name. I could hear Bradley give them the order to fire, to kill me, to kill us.
The gunshots rang out like rhythmic drum-beats, tiny craters being blown in the ground around my feet. But I kept going, pressing Rainbow Dash close to my chest, shielding her from harm. Her body still quaking, her breathing was rapid.
Suddenly, I felt a shot of pain as a bullet tore through my right shoulder. But I didn't stop. My adrenaline was too high, my determination to get away pushing me to my limit as the bastards' shouts became increasingly distant.
I reached the pavement and kept going. After running for about a minute, my adrenaline rush waned. The pain that had been obscured by my need to get away, now hit me like a ton of bricks. I let out a groan; it was by far the worst pain I've ever felt. I clasped one of my hands over the wound, which wasn't bleeding too badly; thankfully it appeared to only be a flesh wound.
I looked at the filly in my arms, holding her up to my chest, staring into her gem-like eyes.Seeing her so scared broke my heart.
"You're gonna be okay, Dashie. Do you understand?" I said through gritted teeth, trying to fight the pain and reassure the filly. I was fairly certain she couldn't understand me, but talking to her when she didn't understand me, was better than saying nothing at all. I pulled her close in a tighter embrace, letting her know I was there for her.
"Don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you." I whispered soothingly.
To further display my desire to keep her safe, I kissed the top of her head, right on her mane, much like how a father would kiss his daughter. She returned the gesture by nuzzling her furry little head against my neck, her mane tickling the skin under my ear. This little show of thanks by the filly was like meditation for me, calming my nerves to a reasonable level for the first time all day.
I wanted to stay by her side and make sure she stayed safe, but I needed to get home. Marty was with Bradley and the others. He knew where I lived and, therefore, so did the gang. They knew where find me. They knew how to find my Dad. For the first time I realized that my actions had put my Dad in danger. A shot of guilt hit me like a kick to the gut.
I had to get to him before they did.
But I couldn't bring Dashie back with me, not after working so hard to save her. I had to find a way to protect her while I went to rescue my Dad. This mess was my fault, and I would be damned if I cause any of us to die. Not me, not Dad, and especially not Rainbow Dash.
I began to visually scan the area, trying to find someplace to hide her. Hardly a car passed by. Figures, this part of the city is especially devoid of residents.
Run-down homes, rusted-out vehicles, trash littering the sidewalk. But even with all this, the neighborhoods here were much less dangerous than the ones where I lived.
Sure, every part of this city was a potential danger zone, but this section was so abandoned that gangs hardly came around here. I liked to jokingly think of it as the "pristine place to raise a family" in this city. Saying this would get me laughed at. Big words like 'pristine' were rarely said by students at school.
I hopped onto the sidewalk and kept searching. It didn't take long for me to find something useful. Just up ahead a cardboard box lay overturned on the sidewalk. It was perfectly preserved and large enough to hide Rainbow Dash. I walked over and got down onto one knee, propping Rainbow Dash up in my arm. Using my free hand, I overturned the box so the open top was an upright, pointed at the sky above. It wasn't much of a hiding spot, but it would do for the time being.
I gently lowered Rainbow Dash into the box, careful not to hurt her. Once her four, little hooves made contact with the bottom of the cardboard, I let go of her. She made a few attempts to reach out towards me, like she wanted me to pick her back up again. But I stopped her, gently pushing her little hooves back towards her chest. I put my hand onto her back and looked into her eyes reassuringly.
"Okay Rainbow Dash, listen to me." I swallowed, "I don't want to leave you here in the middle of the sidewalk. But right now I have to see if my Dad is okay. I would take you back with me, but chances are those bastards are already at my house, waiting for us."
I cupped my hand under her chin and lifted her head up so she looked me in the eyes.
"So I can't take you with me. I wish I could, but I can't."
I started to question whether she didn't understand me, as she seemed to become sadder as I spoke these words. I let out a sigh and continued.
"If everything works out, I promise to come back for you. But if not..." I fought back the tears, "...if not you have to stay in this box no matter what. Do you understand?"
She didn't respond. She just continued to cry silently. I reached out and wiped her tears away from her face, trying my best to comfort her. I should have been home now, seeing if my Dad was okay but I felt so terrible to leave her here. I felt responsible for her.
I had to leave a message in case somebody finds her.
Looking around, I spotted a pen in the grass nearby. I grabbed it, quickly popping off the top. I pressed the tip of the pen to the box and scribbled down the briefest and straightforward message I could come up with.
'Give to good home'
I capped the marker and tossing it back into the grass before looking back down at Rainbow Dash. Her sorrow seemed to have lessened a considerable amount, which made me feel better. But I couldn't help but want to comfort her more. I wanted to make her feel safe, though I wasn't confident in her safety either.
I got back down to her level, kneeling on the rough, concrete sidewalk. I put each of my hands on the sides of her tear-streaked face, cupping her cheeks as I looked into her eyes.
"Dashie, in case I don't see you again, just know that I care about you. You're the only thing that gets me through the hell of a life I lead. You're my stress-ball."
I moved my right hand off her cheek and started to stroke her back, causing her muscles to relax. It was by far the cutest thing I've ever seen, I couldn't help but smile, one of the rare times in my life that I smiled at something real.
Ironically, the real thing was Rainbow Dash, the "imaginary, cartoon pony" that was such a source of joy for me before. I gave her a small, appreciative scratch behind the ear.
"So thank you...for everything."
She quickly gave my hand a gently lick before pulling away, a weak smile on her face and a serenity I hadn't seen since she was brought here by whatever unknown force sent her.
I gave her a small nod before turning around and sprinting home, going as fast as my tired legs would allow. My sneakers were so worn out that I could feel the tiniest pebbles with each step. My shoulder was still aching, but the bleeding had mostly stopped. The blood that already seeped out caused my shirt fabric to stick to the wound, which I knew would hurt like hell when I would take my shirt off.
Once I reached the end of the street, I turned to look at the box one more time, sitting stationary in the middle of the sidewalk, the only thing intact and upright. Chances are it would get a thinking person's attention, and fortunately for both Dashie and I, most gang members were complete morons.
I continued home. The sun still in the sky to light my way, though much lower than it had been earlier. The sky took up an orange hue as the giant orb of light began its descent. The streets were barren, the homes dark and empty. I was in a modern ghost-town. I kept going, passing neighborhood after neighborhood until I re-entered the dangerous part of the city, the part I lived in.
After five more minutes of running, my nose running and my breathing growing more difficult due to exhaustion, I finally reached my house. Without hesitation I made my way to the front door and burst through. I slammed it shut behind me and ran into the living room. The light and television were both still on so he was in there, I made it, everything would be fine.
"Dad! Listen, we need to...."
I stopped. My eyes went wide and my body froze in terror.
My father was sitting in his armchair, as he always did. His hand held a bottle of whiskey, as he always did. But then there was his head. Specifically, the gaping, blood-lined hole in the center of his forehead. The wall behind him was covered in blood, the lifeless appearance of his body as his still-open eyes gazing directly at me.
Before I could say anything, Bradley walked into view, along with his thugs. His face was cold, but surprisingly not angry. In fact he was smiling a smile that made me wish for the angry Bradley to return, to replace this eerily happy one.
"Good to see your priorities are with a cartoon character over you and your own father." he sneered.
I didn't respond, I just stared at him, standing my ground to the best of my ability, but I knew it was pointless, I was as good as dead.
Bradley looked behind me and nodded, "You're up, finish this and you're in."
Slowly, I turned around to see who Bradley was speaking to. Once I did, I could feel my heart break.
"No...It can't be."
There, standing behind me, holding a gun aimed right at my head, was a disheveled looking Marty. His face wasn't serious and cold like the other members of the gang. His face showed the signs of heartbreak and guilt, a preemptive guilt for what he was about to do.
What he had to do.
"M-Marty." I said.
He shook his head, tears running down his pale-white cheeks.
"I'm sorry Josh." he whimpered, voice shaking with regret.
It was inevitable. It was done, my life was about to end.
I expected to feel more remorse, more anger at this moment but, in reality, I felt calm and...relaxed?
I couldn't understand it, I had a gun pointed at my head and I felt relaxed. I failed my father, I failed myself.
But I saved Rainbow Dash. I brought her to safety, or as close to safety as realistically possible. She was real, her big eyes gazing into my soul, her cute little face looking up at me, begging me to stay with her.
Then there was my father. His face wasn't distressed. He might have had a bullet wound in his head, but for some reason he didn't look at all angry or upset. If anything he looked more at peace than he did at any point in his life since mom died.
Then there was me, my serenity. Why did I feel this?
Did I want to escape this reality so badly I'd chose death for the possibility of a paradise in the afterlife?
An afterlife in a world unlike this one, a world like the one Twilight and her friends beckoned for me to enter in my dreams. Their kind faces, their sweet eyes. Rainbow Dash was real, and therefore they must have been real. If there was truly a world as peaceful as Equestria out there, maybe I could still find it in the next life.
The 'click' of the gun being cocked snapped me out of my thoughts. Marty was ready to fire, his eyes full of tears, his hand that held the gun trembling.
I had time to think of one last thing, so I focused on the source of my joy. I focused on Rainbow Dash, I imagined someone in need of comfort finding her in the box, perhaps another brony. I imagined her getting back to her friends, and if not immediately, the anonymous individual protecting her like a father. I smiled at this thought. The most brief smile possible, but it was a smile nonetheless.
Marty pulled the trigger. A quick feeling of pain shot through my head before everything went black.
