Chapters You wake up.
The air is wet, but warm. Bed delightfully soft and caressing. Very soon, it will be another day of your life. Just dangling, somewhere over the horizon. Waiting on your majesty to raise the sun.
Your sheets are tangled; pillow gracelessly spilled upon the floor.
You must have had a fitful night of sleep, but you don't remember.
You're fixing the sheets now, and it's making you feel better. It clears your head to form their lines. Crafting a peaceful order from the unkempt; gently cover the signs of unrestful nights.
The sun is cresting now, and you smile. It's going to be another wonderful day in your favorite little town.
Savory oats and tastes of carrots. Milk to smooth the flavor. The breakfast you love each and every day. Little, fanciful kisses on your palette, to carry you through your daily labor.
Carrot fragrance swirls with soilage musk, as you part the earth of your morning garden. Pale hooves stained with dirt. Small, wiggling friends, in your garden, on your tools. Eating and excreting your soil, making fertile.
Sweat is on your brow, and your jaw aches with exertion. There's another cramp in your neck, but you keep lifting and turning the soil.
You pluck the weeds that don't belong. Make room for your seeds to grow. Seeds that will develop into something crisp, orange, and plump. Seeds that will bring life to the ponies of the town you love.
There's a commotion off in the distance. It's a shriek of fear or joy. It must be important to somepony, but you keep on digging.
It's not your turn to look yet.
You're walking beside your friend now. Her light blue coat glistens in the afternoon sun, giving a quaint beauty to each articulated move. You're looking at her mane, and you're feeling confused. You don't understand its perfection, how it dances with every step of hoof. You're trying to remember the last time you looked in a mirror. You're trying to picture your own mane, as it once was, just to wonder how it might compare. But your head is hurting now, and you can't quite recall.
Still. Deep inside, you know you're not as lovely as her.
Her mouth is moving now. Her hoof pointing off in the distance; head still bobbing in tune. You can read the enthusiasm gushing from her. You can feel her body just crying out to communicate with you.
But for the life of you, you can't hear a single word.
You're nodding and you're laughing, but you don't know why. Your mouth is moving in that funny way, when no words come out. Your tongue feels numb, and you're gasping for breath. But your eyes twinkle like perfect little gems, and you've got a smile that would make a dentist blush.
You can feel it. You're in the limelight now, and you need to have your best face on.
You're eating the food that's in front of you, wishing you were hungry for it. Wishing it had carrots. Wishing it was something you made.
There are strange ponies sitting at your table, but you're smiling at them anyway. One looks almost familiar to you, just a little different than she's supposed to. Something is off with her cutie mark, and you don't remember her having wings. But you understand that sort of thing. Everypony has her off days.
You want to look for the waiter; want to catch his eye and ask for a box to go.
But you keep smiling. Keep pretending to know the ponies in front of you. Keep pretending you can hear the words they are supposed to say. You do this, because there's a buzz in the air. You can hear the humdrum of ponies enjoying themselves, echoes of phantom conversations that never really existed at all. You do this, because you know something important is about to happen.
You spot the waiter out of the corner of your eye, but you can't look at him directly.
He's holding a platter on his back, passing by that table in the spotlight.
The pink pony is bouncing and laughing. You can hear her voice cutting through the crowd. Shrill and grating, laced with unrequited glee.
You're not surprised when she collides with the waiter. You're not surprised when he stumbles from it, spilling the pitcher he so precariously balanced. You're not surprised when that water cascades right on top of the dangerous, purple unicorn.
But your face is carved in shock, and you're staring. You grimace as steam rises from the unicorn's head, and cower as embers burn within her eyes. To anypony passing by, you're the perfect image of a confused and intrigued mare, caught unaware by a moment of scandal.
But you're feeling bored, and just can't look away.
You really want to get the waiter's attention now. You're tired of sitting at this table, and sick of your undesired food and sick of your undesired company. But as the world focuses on the pink pony's sheepish grin, you know it just doesn't matter any longer.
For a fleeting moment, you're walking the streets again. Alone this time, and you swear you heard mention of the princess.
You're in a crowd, cheering your lungs out at the most exciting thing you've ever seen. Your eyes are deadlocked on the champion, as she's swept away in victor's glory. The stands are wild, streamers clouding up the air, and never have you felt so alive.
But you're still trying not to notice yourself, cheering two rows ahead of you.
And thankfully, she has the courtesy to do the same.
The last fleeting rays of sunlight skitter across your bedroom wall. Illuminating speckles in the autumn air.
There's a bittersweet feeling in your heart.
You tell yourself that you're happy, and that you had another wonderful day in the town you love.
But you're not sure.
When you try to think back on the events, your head begins to hurt. And you just can't recall.
You lift the covers; slide your body across the cold sheets. Your limbs and neck are sore, extra sensitive to the mellow water chill. You tell yourself it must have been another productive day in the garden.
Little doubts peck and chew at the corners of your mind, but you sweep them away. You're happy, and that's final. If it wasn't true, then you wouldn't have a smile on your face. You wouldn't be grinning and chuckling to yourself, hoping to Celestia it doesn't turn into a sob.
The sun is setting, and you don't have much time left if you want to get up before dawn.
You close your eyes.
You feel the sun.
Soaking through the fur, deep into your skin. Pools of warmth in your chest, radiating with every breath. The grass feels soft this time of year. Plump with rains, and happy. No thoughts of winter, nor concerns for the pony gingerly nibbling them. You.
The sound of fillies lingers in the air. Wordless laughters and jibes.
You are thinking of your garden again. You're trying to remember how soon it will be harvest day. You're positive that you planted the seeds today, but you also know they're just about ripe. The more you think about it, the less sense it's making.
But these are the slippery sorts of thought. You can pin a single thought down, hold it with your hooves. Scrutinize its every detail. But as soon as you do, the others will slip and fade away, leaving you to wonder what it was you were trying to think at all.
Besides. Carrots can be funny that way. They grow up so fast these days.
You take a moment of relaxation. You're not a philosophical pony. Nor do you ever want to be. For now, there's just you and the sun. And the park.
And... a bouncing ball?
You've been hit.
It's on the ground now, rolling just beneath your nose. There's a small filly heading your way, with a sheepish grin and apology on the eyes.
You smile.
Your bones are creaking as you lift your body. Hooves falling in place.
You think back to your own foalhood. Warm nostalgic thoughts and feelings, but no memories or images you can recall. Just the smell of carrots, and thoughts of a mother you don't remember anymore.
The filly is grateful when you nose the ball to her. You watch her giggle, running off to catch her friends. A part of you wants to join her. To forget your thoughts, and just live with them in a moment. To partake in simple foalish activities, that you never had a chance to experience before.
But the filly is off in the distance now, and things are getting fuzzy.
You're at the market, selling carrots.
You smile at each pony that passes by, happy to see them another day. There's a commotion in the next stall. Something or other about the fairness of prices. Supply? Demand? It doesn't concern you or your carrots. So you just go about your business.
Time and attention have passed you by, ponies distracted by something you're not a part of. So you're doing what you always do in this kind of moment.
You're nudging your carrots. Feeling proud. Feeling self conscious.
You tell yourself that they're good carrots. They serve you well. It's just that. That. They're so orange. Always perfect.
Too perfect.
You know you can look as close as you want, but there's nothing to be found. Not a spec of dirt. Not a divot. Not an insect bite. No strange growth. No discoloration. Nothing. Each and every one of them is the empty image of everything a carrot is supposed to be.
Always.
Sometimes you wonder if there's something wrong with you. You wonder why you can't grow a carrot that has a blemish. Sometimes...
There's a hoof tapping your shoulder.
That wasn't meant to happen.
The hoof belongs to a stallion. Brown. Handsome enough, but he's making you sad. He is not one of your ponies. He's just not supposed to be here.
You wish he would leave, but he seems to want a purchase. You put on a fake smile and move your mouth as if to speak. Gestures of a salesmare. He nods his head, and there's an exchange of bits for carrots.
You wave him goodbye.
You're hoping to forget this soon. You're already thinking of where you can toss those bits. Some place safe, where they'll just simply go away.
But that's when he looks you right in the eyes. That's when he says, "Thanks."
And you hear it.
Loud and clear, when you know you're not supposed to. A simple, single word. Boldly innocent. Unrepentant. Even in the face of violating nature.
Your eyes have grown wild. You're looking every which way. You're telling yourself that this simply isn't happening. These sorts of things don't happen. Not to a mare like you. They just can't.
But that's when he does it again. Without a hint of remorse, he looks right at you, and he asks you if you're feeling well.
Sweat.
You are sweating. Sweat is on your brow, and it's building up there. It's wet and cold.
Spots are dotting up your vision. Patches blurred and confusing. You can look as much as you want, but you just can't see anything.
There might be a hoof on your shoulder, but you're not sure right now. It's not something you can think about.
There's a huffing sound, and a terrible shaking. It's getting darker around you, as your stomach wretches.
Your head is swimming.
Dizzy.
You're at home. Sitting down at your table, sipping tea. Watching the sunset. Way off in the distance, smoke is billowing from the Ponyville library. It just finished blowing up. Again.
You're in a crowd.
It must be a fashion show, because you're wearing a wide brimmed hat, and you have unquestionably gaudy shoes.
Loud, thumping music fills the air. It's moving your spirit, and really wanting to move your hooves. For a moment, you picture yourself breaking away from the crowd. You see yourself on the stage, dancing your heart out. Playing yourself the forbidden fool. Everypony be damned to stop you.
For shame.
The lights are dimming now, and the show is about to begin.
You're reaching in your saddle bags, pulling out your favorite scarf. You want to look your best for the show. But as you tug the last of it free, something goes wrong. You hear a clatter. Tiny metal pieces ringing against the floor.
Loud and clear.
Ponies are looking at you now. Some shocked. Some confused. Some just looking scared.
You glance at the floor, and the offenders are staring right back you. Bits. Just laying there, like nothing happened. Golden bits, from your very own saddle bags.
You slowly pick one up with your mouth. Lay it on a hoof. It looks the same as any other bit you have ever seen. But it just made a noise. Noise, when it wasn't supposed to.
You don't know where these bits came from, but you want to tell everypony they're not yours. They can't be yours. You don't own bits that would misbehave. You're not that kind of mare. You just wish you could remember where in Equestria they came from.
But it doesn't matter.
The music is changing, and it looks like the show is starting. Most ponies seem to be forgetting the disturbance. A beautiful mare takes the stage.
But you keep staring at the bit on your hoof. Watch it glisten each time the light catches its edge.
And you're feeling angry.
Angrier than you have ever felt before.
For the first time in your life, you're holding something in your hoof, wishing you could destroy it.
You’re sitting in your garden, watching your carrots grow.
Watching their greens dance with the wind, shuffling sunlight and shadow.
How they express themselves so freely, without ever leaving their roots.
You’re humming a silent tune to yourself, imagining that each carrot is singing. A chorus of green and brown, maestro of orange, paying tribute to life and love in your garden.
A thought blossoms on the surface of your mind. You realize that in all the years of growing carrots, you have never seen a carrot flower. Nor, at the moment, can you even imagine what one might look like.
You begin to wonder.
What would happen if you didn’t harvest? Just how many carrots would make it through the long, cold winter? How many would be there to bloom in spring?
You wonder. If they could survive the whole year without you, would they still need you? Would they have ever needed you in the first place?
You’re sitting in your garden, watching your carrots grow. Telling yourself that they're good carrots, strong and brave and healthy.
You’re humming a silent tune to yourself, wondering.
And you’re trying your very best to ignore the sounds coming from your carrots, rustling in the wind.
You’re trotting down a lonesome road.
Walking in the cracks and dusty veins, trying to avoid the cobble stones. Your hooves aren’t being cooperative right now, and you just don't know how to fix them. For the moment, all you can do is minimize the damage.
You’re looking around, not seeing ponies. Just vacant little houses, lining up the way. Some with smoking chimneys; some with open windows. Flowers. Daisies. Roses. Picket fences painted perfectly, with hearts and hooves carved into the wood. Everything quaint and cheerful, varying shades of yellow, tan, and pink. Just the way a pony likes it.
You have the feeling you're not supposed to be here.
You just don't know what else you can do.
Something was wrong with your carrots this morning, and you needed to take a walk. Needed to clear your mind, and give them time to figure themselves out.
Ponies take walks, don't they? It's a perfectly natural thing to do.
The market is bristling with with musical activity.
There's an energetic song filling the air, extolling arbitrary virtues of friendship. Ponies are dancing on their hind hooves, singing, swaying. Ghostly voices lifted in jubilation, high into the sky, drifting on borrowed time. No single voice from any one pony. All voices, all ponies unified in song.
You are not a part of it.
You're just sitting behind your market stand, in case a pony happens to look your way.
Still. Your smile is contagious.
Your mane is bouncing, tail swishing. Your hooves have taken on a life of their own. They're tapping out a quiet counter rhythm, while you mouth the words to the song. You imagine yourself on center stage, taking on a lead. A single true, consistent voice, among a backdrop of darling, beautiful nothings.
The song is rounding back to the chorus, and the dancing is vigorous in keeping pace.
Colorful coats and dazzling manes. Pegasi soaring over head. Stomping, rocking, hoofbeats. Always to the rhythm of the song.
Your hoof is on the door now, dangling in your moment's hesitation.
You look behind you a second time. The streets are empty still. There's not a single soul to be found.
You already know you're not being watched. You're not even supposed to be here; never should have come. But you're afraid. Terrified. And so terribly compelled to push on.
The chorus is wrapping up, and the next verse is starting.
The tempo's increasing and the harmony is splitting. Performing ponies divided into groups. Building towards the finale.
You're forgetting your intentions. Your whole body is moving with the tune; hooves clacking loudly against the beat. Your mouth is open, head swaying erratically.
The dancers are parting, shifting their lineup in a synchronized twirl. You're watching with bated breath, knowing the moment is almost here.
And you stop.
You've spotted him.
The music is still playing. Ponies are still dancing on their hooves. But just beyond that, on the other side of the market, is the brown stallion.
You don't think you've met him. But he's filling your head with fuzzy, scratching thoughts. Images of carrots and glistening golden pieces; echoes of memories from lives gone by.
He's bobbing his head, dancing and smiling at the music. And as you watch him, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world, your blood is beginning to boil.
Your vision is turning red.
Empty.
You look about you, and all you see is an empty, decaying caricature of a home.
It's just a box. A box with flowers and curtains, and ornately decorated awnings. Second story windows and a chimney on top. Everything beautiful, lovingly crafted, just so long as it's on the outside.
But the inside is a different story. All it has is dirt. Dirt that's ripe with stenches of mold. Dirt that has never seen the light of day.
Four dirty walls, reaching towards the undercarriage of a broken, dripping roof.
A humble little box of rot and filth.
No pony has lived here. No pony would ever choose to. The deathly foliage of Everfree would make a more inviting home.
You're tripping over your hooves, trying to back away. You need to leave this place. It's not healthy, and it's not natural. No pony was ever supposed to be here.
Your nose is stinging, sinuses swelling. Nausea is taking over. You're stumble out the door, desperate for the comfort of fresh, clean air.
You tell yourself this is all a misunderstanding.
Something is only wrong with that house. Some pony built it on the outside, and never was able to finish. It was just forgotten. The neighbors are simply keeping it maintained.
You tell yourself that every other house has a home inside. Warm and clean and furnished. Hoof painted pictures of stick ponies hanging on the fridge. Red woolen rugs, sitting by the fireside. Oats are on the table; carrots in the crib.
You're galloping away, reminding yourself this is a beautiful community. Just a cozy little extension of your favorite little town.
But you already know the truth deep inside you.
And you will never have the courage to come back and see for sure.
The stallion is on the ground, looking frightened.
Your hoof is on his chest, and you're pressing. Mouth is twisting, contorting in rage. Teeth gnashing, spittle flowing free.
This is the stallion that hurt you.
He's the one that broke your carrots. He's the one that put echoes on your hooves. He's the reason you're afraid to move or breathe too quickly. He's the one that built those empty homes.
His hooves are fidgeting and he's pleading.
He wants you to believe him. He wants to talk to you, another time. Another place. He's trying to lure you into false sensibilities. His whispers are intoxicating, trying to make you speak.
But his words are wrong and twisted. Sins to ever leave the tongue.
"P-please, miss Harvest. All I did was buy your carrots..."
Whimpers of a wretched, lying foal.
"Golden. J-just let me..."
Both of you are interrupted by a bestial roar.
Echoes ringing in your ears of, "That's not my name."
You don't know where it came from, but your throat is feeling strange now. Sore and prickly. Stretched.
Your hoof is on your mouth, and the stallion is slowly backing. Something is very wrong. The fear in his eyes has now been laced with shame.
You take a step back, and your breath is shallow. You notice the silence. Swallow your throat.
The music isn't playing.
You look around, and the ponies are no longer dancing. They're just watching. Horrified.
Mothers hiding fillies.
"That wasn't me!"
You stand up. You tell them. You hope to find a way to make them understand.
"I... I don't speak..."
