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                        Appletulpa                         
                       -by Dawnpath-                       
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                        Chapter One                        
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Chapter One
Chapter One
"Put your fucking dishes away. I'm not your fucking maid," your stepmother says from the kitchen. You grow angry with her, after all, who was she to order you around like that, to cuss at you with such menace. You slowly rise from your chair and walk to the kitchen, knowing depressedly that there is nothing, nothin you can do to tell her that it's not even your dish that she's angry about. Afterall, how could she believe satan's proof your dad loved another woman first? Especially since that woman is still alive. As you daydream about your mother's house, your dad comes home.
A few hours later, after a particularly tence dinner out with a family friend, you come home and get on your computer. It's you're dad's 40th birthday, but if he's happy, nobody knows it. As he begins to open his first presant, he yells at you, "Can't you get off the fucking computer for one minute?" You are so close now, the phone burns in your pocket. You can see yourself dialing the number for freedom, taking only 40 minutes to get to your mother's house. Sure, moving would be no cake walk, life never is, but it would be a farcry better than getting cussed at, at being treated like a hell hound for the simplicity you like.
You do not, as your father opens presant after dull presant. Do to the shortage of money, all of the presants are dull, cheap, and probably necassary, but previously thought to be unavailable. You sigh as you go to flip your computer open, and get four sold daggers from your parent's eyes. Not ten minutes later, you are sent to bed.
A week passes, and your are excited. For one of the first times in all of your sixteen years on this earth, you are given the oppertunity to spend the night at a friend's house. Your father reluctantly agrees, and for some strange reason, piles your whole family, stepmother, brother, and baby, as well as your excited self, into the car with him. You soon get lost, and fighting insues. "call your friend!" he repeats, over and over. You, however, see no sense in this, as it would just be easier to imput it into the GPS. He does not see your logic, and insults your intelligence until you call up yourfriend. For the next ten minutes, you are fighting with your entire family, minus your baby brother, to find this house. Once, your father declares, "If we can't find it, we're not going!" and the phone burns in your hand yet again as you feel like yelling, "Then don't bother picking me up!"
You finnally find the house, settling down for a relaxing night with your friends, and going through the customary 'Truth or Truth' before bed. You think about how clever you all are for having taking out the 'Dare,' part, since noone ever picks dare. Eventually someone asks a question about Tulpa. Confused, you ask about it. "A tulpa is a part of your conciousness that you seperate from the rest of your brain," one of your friends explain, "It becomes a seperate entity and you designate it with a body that you can see, feel, etcetera. Here, go look this up," he says, handing you a link. The rest of your friends settle down to sleep as you mull the idea over in your mind. You feel ever so lonly as your thoughts stray to recent events, and you know you will not be able to sleep tonight. You get up, and walk to the computer in the room over.
Sitting in the chair, you boot up the internet. Going to this website, you read up on it, even take notes. You're tired, but you feel almost as if this is the most important thing in your life, like a combination of the ACT, your senior finals, and your GPA. You look at the clock, it's four in the morning. You begin, with a notepad and pencil, taking notes as you go through most every help page, information page, and exercise page, gathering as much information as you need to help you with this building of your imaginary friend.
About two hours later you have half the website down on five pages of notebook paper, when you're friend's mom comes in. She asks if you'd been at this all night. Never really one to lie, you confirm this assumption, looking at the time. Six AM, and it's still dark outside. That's what you get for living in the midwest during autumn. You're given a funny cross between a smile and a weird look by the friend's mother as you assure her you'll get some sleep. You figure you have enough information to begin the tulpa of your choice, even if you may have to cime back later.
You go home excited, not even your stepmom can get you down in the car. You actually relish the conversation, even though you know in about thirty minutes it's going to go back to the inability to do anything right. That's why you like other people's houses; you're always smart, the nice guy, even if you're slightly introverted. Never touched a drug in your life, never wanted to. The good kid. Ya, you're that guy. You go home, and the depressive wave of family swallows you up like a clam. Holding your info sheets like a sheild against this oppressive evil, you go immediately to your room.
Your room is a fair sized room. You were never one for organization, and it shows. The desk in the corneris covered in papers, and the three amps under your bunk bed, the on your dad took the bottom bunk out off, look as if they were placed randomly. Clothes are strewn everywhere, and clean cloths are piled on top of the dresser besides the small bookshelf. A treasure trove of dreams, and not all of them were yours. This is you're cave, your home away from the freedom snatcher's rein of tyrany around your house. It probably doesn't help that you don't conform with society.
You, of course, already know what, or rather, who, you want your tulpa to be. For about a year, video games have been split with a television series known as My Little Pony; Friendship is Magic, and you half-lead a small group of close-knitt frieds at your school. You're favorite pony is Applejack, a rouph-and-tumble, laid back country mare with a knack for apple bucking and a strong sense of self. You always loved a woman with a strong will, but Applejack has the decency to soften the punch of her words, and firmly believes that if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything. Okay, you might over glorify her, but one thing is sure; if this mare were human, you wouldn't be writing this hate poetry that you mixxed with depression. Maybe you should see someone, but why not have a constant companion, someone who actively returns your love and understands you? Why shouldn't you have a partner?
You relax in your room, having taken some basic yoga from school. As you clear your mind, you bring Applejack to the forefront of your mind. She's two dimensional, so you work out your details; the wide brim of her hat, the smooth, dull orange of her fur, the burning green of her eyes, the yellow-cream of her mane and tail, nothing is left unnoticed as you remember episode after smooth episode of MLP. Gradually, letting your breath out, you work on building her perfectly, precisely, from the ground up. Base emotions, favorites, everything you know about her being poured into the three dimensional shell of your beloved mare. You know this will take time, as you are not some emotionless computer creating a program. You have to be sure your own emotions don't mess with the personality of Applejack, and as you dip down into the Warrior pose, you try to sharpen her to clearer focus. She is not fake, she is right there in front of her. The tip of your outstreched fingures touching the brim of her hat as she winks at you, as i to tell you that you'll be okay. Applejack was born on that cold November morning.
That night you lay down in your bed as Applejack crawls in next to you. She'd been there or you all day, even though she couldn'ttalk on her own yet. Trying to coach her through it, with your brain as well asyour mouth, you see her mouth moving and smile. It should be a few days yet until she'll be able to talk, but that's alright. You can still feel her warming the covers next to you as you tilt her hat back and kiss her orehead goodnight. You see her blush and smile again, saying softly, "Good night Applejack." You turn you're back, drawing the covers tight, as you feel a hoof around you. "G'night brother," is all it takes to drive all of your doubts away as you sleep.
There are only a few people you tell about your Tulpa. You brush it by a few friends of yours, and you mention it on one of your forums, but she is your trigger. She brushes against your legs, presses against your side, even rests her head on your hands when she ffeels you anger rising. "It ain't right, the way yer treated," she says from time to time, "But it don't you can't treat them right. Y'all know better'n that." Youlove the way she presses her hoof against your chest sometimes and looks you in the eyes, smiling as she goes in for a hug. You hug her back, even though it looks like you're hugging yourself. Simetimes you sit there on your computer and she starts yelling at you, telling you exactly what enemy is coming, or that you're getting attacked. She puts hat an your head from time to time, and calls you partner. She learned she had a brother already, and you can tell sometimes that she'd like you to make him a tulpa for her, but you just don't know him well enough. You always promise, "As soon as I know Big Mac well enough, I'll make him for you." What you both know is that you've tried, over and over again. You've even tried Apple Bloom, heck you tried TWILIGHT, but for some reason, they're just ghosts, popping up every now and then.
A month goes by and your routine with Applejack begins to settle in. She makes life for you happy, or at least, bareable, as you struggle to survive another year of school under your father. It doesn't help that your father taught every orchestra student to come out of fourth grade, and half of them to make junior high. People you don't know come up to you, say hello, make you edgy. You used to have friends who only liked you because they thought putting up with you guaranted good grades. They soon learned that you and your dad operated on different systems, and very few of them managed to stick with you. For the most part, you try to stick to a group of friends, rather than a mob. You think popularity is a curse to be avoided like poison ivy, and you don't really care what anyone but you, your teachers, your family, and your friends think. You may think that's a lot, but that really boils down to about twenty people.
Applejack is always ready to help you. In class, she tries to keep you focused. She reminds you what homework you have too. "Y'all need to get smart," she says, "So Ah can get smart. Teach 'em ta call ME a background pony!" That is the one thing you both can't stand. Those jokes were getting old by that point; you'd already punched a few people over it. Than couldn't see how depressed it made her. How she sits at you shoulder every Saturday watching, silently pleading for an episode, a minute of air time. Sometimes, a line. It's not fair Twilight gets the spotlight, even Rarity got her own episode. "Sometimes," you tell her, "It takes a little time to recognize what you've got." She just sighs and deflects the topic.
You are a cellist, a person who plays cello. It'snot exactly as cool as guitar, but you like it, even though it can be frustrating. In his own way, your father supports you, but it's more likely to make you angrier at the end of the night then practicing by yourself. Still... it's kind of nice to sit in the same room with him, connect, do an activity together. Your stepmom drops you of at the school at six pm to go to show-band, where you play an accompanied part to a show choir. It's fun and challenging, but it's also a tad boring, especially since you don't play half the songs. You sit down to do your Chinese homework for the thirty minutes you have before rehearsal starts. You go through character after character, bouncing sentences and phrases to Applejack. She's much better at it than you, but in all fairness, she learns better than you. You finish up and go through rehearsal, noticing the significant drop in attendance.
After rehearsal, you text your stepmom your ready to leave and proceed to wait. And wait. Wait a minute, you finished at eight thirty. Now it's nine o'clock. You call her up, where she tells you she just got your text and she'll be there ASAP. You sigh with relief and continue to wait. Thirty minutes later you see her come in, and feel your phone burn in your hand. Just a sentence and a phone call is all it would take. "Forget it, I've got a ride," and you can make the call for freedom. You don't though, as you get into the silver symbol of oppression that is your stepmom's vehicle. You'd been told how selfish you were with your schedual, how hard it was for your parents to get you a ride. Sometimes you think your stepmom wants you to move away. You wonder if she knows what that would do with her relationship with your dad. You realize they might get a divorce, and how hard that would be on your dad, and realize why you haven't left yet. She still has an ace.
The phone, and the memory of the phone, burns into your hand for the rest of the night. You'd come home right before your father, and she brushed off the hour long pickup as a simple silly mistake. You know if you'd had made a similar mistake, or even a smaller one, you'd have been punished. Yelled at, probably. Might have to give up your phone for a day. Your sleep is restless and not even Applejack can block all of your anger. She's never seen you like this, grim-faced anger. She can even see a part of you, a tiny, depressed part, wondering, What if they're right?
You wish you could sleep forever. Failing that, at least live a calm life forever. But it was not to be; the next morning you are taken to the dentist. A over-cheery dentist violently picks apart your mouth, attacking your gums until they bleed. Your teeth no longer feel like your own, as your appointment ends. You remember tonight you have Lion/Dragon practice for Chinese after school, and tell your father. He nods, and tells you that he'll make it work. After practice, which Applejack had a good time at, beating the drum, you get into your dad's car and realize that your stepmother texted you. You read the text, she had been there right after school to pick you up. You ask your dad if she's mad at you, and she shakes his head, "No, she's mad at me."
She blames you. You should've know her sick, twisted mind would find a way to blame you. Apparently at the dentist's office this morning, she had said something like, "See you at two thirty!" The best part is your dad's not even home to see her like this. He never is, not that she really has to try. Seriously, all she has to do is wait for one of the many things he has to do, since she doesn't work. Her jobs around the house are inconsistent, and she often tells you to do her jobs for her. She uses your brother as an excuse, perpetually touting around how hard it is to be a stay at home mom. You realize it's not really that hard to be a high schooler, but then again, when was the last time someone heard you complain about it? Speak only when spoken to, keep your opinions to yourself, or at least between you and your brother. It's not fair that she continues perpetually treating you like a slave, or some rebellious thorn in her side.
Applejack nuzzles your arm again and you sigh. Your phone calls to you like some sort of soul-linked infrared beacon. Resisting it is impossible, but resisting what it wants of you, to free your self, that isn't hard at all. You text one of your friends, letting Applejack tell you what to type every now and then, but mostly you just talk about weekend plans and such, trying to disguise the fact that your parents are grating on you. You flip on your computer, still texting your friend, and begin that night's homework. It's another essay due at twelve midnight to a website your teacher seems to love. You pull up the customary nightly media and begin your paper, trying to drone out the background noise and your own tumultuous feelings.
(Everything in the above is based on truths. Based on them. It's not entirely true, but the things that happen, 90% chance they've happened in the past. This is where I'm splitting it off.)