Sometimes your body has a way with persuading you to do bothersome things that no one would really want to do voluntarily. Sometimes you don't feel like listening to those primal urges of yours. Sometimes you get caught in a situation where you want nothing more than to just 'turn off' that little alarm bell in your head that tells you to get up and just do something.
This was what Snails felt one night at exactly 2:35 AM.
It had been relatively ignorable at first, just a little scratchiness that lodged in the back of his drying throat. He had simply gathered up a little pool of thick saliva in his mouth to swallow. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but it eased the discomfort.
Sleeping always came slowly for him, especially when he was alone and lacking Snips to help to quell his fears. There was a peculiar emptiness about being all hunkered down, alone, in a little cube of a room. A simple room, at that, with a pale white ceiling fan and a tiny bookshelf chopped full of untouched, dusty tomes.
He laid coiled up, his rail-thin body covered with a thick sky-blue comforter. All that one could see of him was the very tip of his cumbersome snout, comically poking out from underneath his little fabric cave. His horn forced the edge of the cover up, giving the colt a small opening from which he could observe his surroundings. From his perspective, there wasn't much to see but the flat, white wall that his mattress was pressed against.
But it wasn't white now. Colors have a way with performing vanishing acts in the dark, melting into a grainy, disorienting haze of grey. Snails watched the wall with fervent interest. How could a wall's hue change with just a flick of a light switch?
Contemplating such matters helped him to forget the crackly, bone-dry sensation in his mouth. No amount of spit could alleviate his thirst now, not when even his tongue felt like it had been wrapped in a sheath of sandpaper.
Squinting his eyes shut, Snails groaned and took a corner of his pillow into his mouth, wetting it with the little moisture that remained. Realizing that his sheets hadn’t been changed in some days, he promptly spat it away, wincing in distaste.
“Mom?” he called softly, his ears perking up at the sound of his voice. He didn’t yell or cry out, preferring to keep his tone low. “Dad?”
No answer, but he would have been a fool to expect anything otherwise. His parents were no doubt nestled in their bed all the way down the hall, a good ten or so feet from where Snails resided.
“Mom!” Louder this time, though the colt kept a calm edge to his tone. His dry throat distorted his voice, rendering it into a series of broken screeches. “Mom!?”
With no one cracking open his door, Snails sank back down into his bed, a harsh whimper bubbling from his mouth. Visions of sprawling waterfalls and gurgling streams waltzed into his traitorous head.
“Nnng...” He licked at his chapped lips and wrestled against his mattress, tail swishing in aggravation as his desire for sustenance only grew.
All forms of life will do anything to survive or ease the comfort of pain, even if easing said pain involves braving what they fear the most.
Snails felt this very instinct as he lifted his head to peek out from his covers, his eyes scanning the grainy darkness. Slowly, he slithered out from the confines of his sanctuary, his eyes clenched shut as he wiggled away from his sheet's tight hold.
His small hooves sank into the softness of his mattress, interrupting his balance and causing for him to stumble as he rose up.
The creaking springs echoed throughout the room and Snails froze. For a short, tense second, he could almost hear the scraping of claws against wood.
He spread his long, spindly legs, catching his balance on the uneven surface. His eyes were wide open now, and never resting in one place.
There was the wall, as harmless as ever, yet betraying him with that relentless static.
Snails could feel his heart beating, fluttering away against the dull swishing of the curtains that fluttered behind him, billowing against the current of his twirling ceiling fan.
And yet there seemed to be something else in that room, that room so small and stuffed with littered toys and dusty textbooks.
He saw a dull glitter of light in the corner of his eye, nothing much, just a cluster of sparkles. It could have been anything, a play of the light or something, Nevertheless, Snails stiffened.
Globs of something was dribbling to the floor. It was a thick substance, beading atop the wood with a cloudy hue.
"H-Hello?" Snail's voice sounded so small in his ears, a little squeak swallowed in the darkness. There was no answer.
Gulping, the foal stepped to the floor. The wood underneath his hoof creaked from the pressure, and the sound could not have been any louder.
If he had felt any less tired, Snails would have cast his illumination spell, but what good would it do? If anything else, its murky light would have just made him even more terrified by casting shadows in all of the wrong places.
Once the rest of him was on the floor, Snails took a few cautious steps to the door. A bird's eye view of the inside of his house flashed through his head, and he began to map out his route.
"Just go downstairs and go to the kitchen, then the sink. Drink, and then back to the covers." He repeated this mantra over and over under his breath, his voice a hoarse whisper. Having a plan made it seem less daunting.
The bottom of his hoof hovered over the brass doorknob, hesitating. What if he was too slow? From his skinny flank, Snails could almost feel the beady eyes of his cutie mark stare treacherously back at him. No 'talent' in the world could have ever been so counterproductive.
For a quick second, Snails shot a glance back to his bed. The rumpled up sheets stared invitingly back at him. The mattress was probably still warm, cozy and at just the right temperature to snuggle up in and wait the night out.
However, thirst had more power than fright. Hitching a breath, Snails grabbed at the knob and winced at its cold touch. He turned it clumsily, fumbling with it. It rattled loudly, as if in protest.
After what seemed like hours the door creaked open, but just by a sliver so that Snails could take a peek at the hallway. The doors were shut, but even from the barricade of wood he could hear his father's snoring. It was a low, dull growl, rising steadily only to fall to a low hum.
Snails stepped out into the hallway, eyes locked to the bathroom door next to the one that led to his parents' bedroom. Under normal circumstances he would have went there and stuck his snout under the faucet, but not tonight. The water there had been broken for weeks now, with his father proclaiming every morning that he would 'get it fixed soon'.
Even when Snails begged him, the stallion would just laugh, the yellow snail upon his flank bobbing up and down in time with his guffaws. Its eyes were just as mocking at the ones branded upon Snails' own skin, that fearful reminder that he would turn just as careless as his father.
Wrenching his gaze from the bathroom door, Snails leaned over to peer down the stairway. Normally he could have made out the outlines of a few chairs, perhaps even the glare of the glass that encased the grandfather clock (which was also broken). No matter how dark, Snails could usually have a small idea of where his hooves were landing.
But lately the darkness outside of his door had turned more sinister. It wasn't 'dark', rather it was an inky black. It was thick and choking, much like smoke, yet neither of his parents ever seemed to betray that they saw any difference in it, so Snails never brought it up. What point was there in worrying them?
Snails kept as quick of a pace as he could manage, his hooves flying as he dived down the stairs. The carpet draped across the steps muffled his hoof-beats, but the noise was still enough to drown out his father's snoring.
And then, silence. Snails hugged the wall as he gingerly walked off the bottom step.
He could see the dining room table more clearly now, thanks to the one window that graced the first floor. It was small, and just barely able to let a hint of moonlight through the room. It's pane had been lifted up, and the breeze made the curtain flow into the room, its edges lightly scraping against the kitchen counter.
Snails lived in a small house, so the first floor was nothing more than a measly dining table and a small counter with a sink embedded into its surface. There was no living room, no sofa, nor any kind of entertainment. It was a sad sight to see, especially compared to the massive four-bedroom cottage that Snips lived in.
(dear, when are you going to get another job?)
His mother's voice, so sweet and pleading, replayed itself through Snails' mind like a tape recorder. It was like honey to his ears, even as it echoed only in his mind. It was a talisman, a ward against the bad sort of darkness that he hated so much.
And then, something else crept into his head, the response to that conversation that he remembered so well.
(i'll get it eventually, don't worry. we'll make do till then.)
His dad, with that graveling tone that had been so distorted through cider. Snails hated his dad's voice. It always made his head hurt, like how dogs were with high-pitched squeals.
As the colt crept to the counter, he felt the darkness bleed back into the room. It wasn't obvious, and it certainly wasn't something that a grown-up could see. It was more the feeling of it, that oppression that came through like the smoky wisps that beat themselves against the light from the window.
His dad wouldn't stop talking. His scratchy, gritty voice ran through Snail's skull mercilessly.
(it's just my nature to be slow with this kind of shit, hon, come on)
Snails found himself stopping dead in his tracks. The sink was in his sight now, its metallic faucet arching its neck in a way that seemed almost sensual. There he could
(oh celestia i need to)
get a drink. He could just imagine the nice, comforting feeling of cool, crisp water running down his throat. It nearly made him shiver in anticipation. He wanted to move, but his legs wouldn't let him. They stood rooted to the spot, their knobby knees seeming to rattle in place.
From upstairs, Snails could hear his dad's snoring. It was loud, louder than it should have been. It was almost as if he was placing an ear next to his parents' bedroom door.
The darkness got closer, and Snails could see it cloud the window. Its tendrils wrapped in front of it like a thick wire mesh, closing off the moonlight piece by piece.
In the corner of his eye, Snails saw the glitter from his bedroom. It sat in a cluster next to the table, its size only growing and sculpting itself into something almost pony-like. He didn't dare to look directly at it, but it's rhythmic growling sent a shiver up his spine all the same.
(well lookie there son! you got your cutie mark. you make your dad proud)
First a growl, then a snore. Snails forced himself to walk around the counter's edge, his sides slick with sweat as he pressed against the corner. His hooves clacked against the cheap linoleum, the remnants of what his father had tried to messily put down..
(looks just like mine)
There was a small, wooden stool set neatly in front of the sink. Snails clambered onto it.
(wanna watch the game with me, son?)
He balanced his front hooves onto the edges of the sink, and he slowly peeked up over the counter top.
The glitter had shifted its shape again, from a pony to a fat, snarling bear. Upon its forehead was a bright star, brighter than its red eyes that stared into Snails'.
The darkness across the window pulsed and undulated, writhing back as the star's light basked the room a sickly yellow color.
(you did WHAT with an ursa major!?)
Spittle ran down from the bear's fangs, and it dribbled to the ground, forming a dense puddle.
(i don't care if it was an ursa minor or major or whatever hooey!)
Shaking, Snails reached out a hoof to try to turn the faucet's knob. It slipped against the polished metal. Once. Twice.
The bear growled. The snoring groaned.
(i'm so disappointed in you)
The faucet's knob turned, but the water didn't come. Creaking, the faucet's long, slender neck shivered and groaned, but no water came out. It was broken, just like the one upstairs.
(shame on you, son)
Snails watched, horrified, as the bear stepped forward, its tongue lolling from its maw.
(you don't deserve that mark)
Snails dared to look at his flank. The snail's two dumb, stupid eyes stared at him.
(it's too good for you)
It came closer. Its claws scraped against the cheap linoleum as it opened its mouth.
Snails didn't move. He watched as the bear bit down on his hind legs, its teeth sinking into the flesh of his flanks. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel like anything, save for the satisfaction of seeing that detestable snail get chewed away, making way for blossoming meat and white globs of fat.
In the back of his mind, Snails realized that it was just another one of his dreams, and that he would wake up very soon, but for now he could watch and enjoy. Maybe, if he was very lucky, he might wake up and find that the mark had really been gnawed away after all.
