My Little Tavi

by psp7master

Rating: teen
Tags: Sad, Slice of Life, Human
Length: 21298

When a person loses their connection to music, can they regain the music in their soul?

18+
Music. Music is the epitome of everything that a person holds dear; everything that makes it worth living in this grim reality. Music is more than love, and life, and death, and it is love, and life, and death, - all at the same time. Music is the last frontier of mind, the last boundary a soul has to cross to break through.

When a person loses their connection to music, they lose the point of their existence, even if they do not realise it at first. The world breaks them down, and they wallow in the deep seas of misery, hopelessly trying to grasp at the straws that had been connecting them to reality.

Can one person regain the music in his soul? With a little help of a true musical talent, all be it from a different realm, he will set out on a trip to recovery. Because the future is always bright. …Right?

/The cover image is by nickscottofficial and can be found on their deviantart page.
The story was partly inspired by, but is not connected to My Little Dashie by ROBCakeran53.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-12-26 15:20:01 UTC

My Little Tavi

~To my cousin Elizabeth. Never grow up.~

My Little Tavi

I sat down at the sofa. My laptop was lying nearby, exactly where I had left it in the morning - a pleasant side to living alone. All things were at their places; my utter, almost OCD devotion to it was only nurtured by the constant urge to bring a bit of order into the already oh-so-linear life of mine. I didn't mind it: if anything, stable, steady life was all I could ask for - and it was what I had received from Lady Fate. So who was I to complain?

I browsed the front page of Fimfiction automatically, without thinking much, just to see if I had any new notifications. I did. Stories submitted, faves added, comments left - everything was just as usual. Just as usual. I smiled and replied to a few comments. 'Thanks for your praise', 'Glad you like it' - the usual stuff. Not that I didn't mean it, of course. Each comment I left carried emotion, but that emotion was channelled within certain borders. One must always know their borders and never leave them, my parents would tell me. I thought much the same.

With a sigh, which had become a usual companion of mine, I got up for a stretch. The sun was already setting down, so any hope for a good, long walk was lost: you don't just go roam round and about the Metropolis at night, unless you have a devotion to being beaten up and having your stuff stolen.

I looked at my guitar with a mixed look of indulgence and disinterest. Once, it was my companion; my friend; my passion. I remembered times when I would place it onto my left knee - always onto the left knee, just to pay homage to the ritual - and play for hours, lost in the improvisation, playing on the edge of transcendence, betraying the borders of the impossible just for the sake of trying. That was in the past. For now, the guitar was just gathering dust in the corner of my room, sad and out of tune.

Still, I hadn't given up on my Music lessons. If I had, that would have been a betrayal of the usual routine that I had chosen for myself, and if there was anything I positively hated, it was a change of plans, a change of my routine, a change of anything at all. I could never put up with changes.

I marched towards the bookshelf, browsing it idly, in search for something to read. My eyes stopped on Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions, one of my personal favourites. Ahh, old Kurt and his depressing, sombre novels! That was just what I needed. It was strange, really - part of myself realised that I was probably in a permanent state of mild depression and apathy, while another part of mine disregarded that fact in favour of just living my life, day by day, week by week. I lived, abiding by the order I'd established, and lived to establish even more order to abide by.

For example, right now the room was filled with sweet blue notes of Miles Davis' trumpet as he, deceased but not forgotten, played his smooth jazz, forever sealed in a vinyl record that was rolling on my great-grandfather's gramophone. I put this particular record on every day.

Kind of Blue. That was the name of the record, and the name of the life I was living, as well. Kind of blue. I couldn't say that I was blue all the time; if anything, I was rather moody. Yes, I didn't smile most of the time, and my thoughts weren't exactly pleasant. But, for one, I could crack a joke when I met up with my friends, of which there were less and less. Most moved on with their lives.

America. That's where they were moving. Always moving West, never looking back. I couldn't blame them: the States offered money, and opportunity, and freedom. Maybe if I were rich, I'd have moved to America too. But I was lying to myself here a little. Too conservative. That's what I'd been told, and that's what I was: far too conservative. Never making a change; never eager to make a change. Changes were for the others; for me, my stable, steady life was just fine.

I studied at university. I was a proud owner of a grant that provided me with a decent scholarship. I had a part-time job that was enough to pay the bills. Nothing more to wish for. Live my life, day by day. Mature. Grow older. Get a full-time job. Get married. Have children. Die. Easy as that. That was a course. Courses were good. Courses were stable. Steady. Concrete.

There was a time when I was different. That was a time when I stumbled upon music. Music. I used to think Music was the ultimate answer to all of our worries; the answer to life; the answer to the question of why we exist. Music was my life, and I didn't need anything else. I would sit down at the piano, or take my guitar, and play all around midnight, if you pardon the jazz pun. Scales would break into pentatonic scales, and those would break into atonal passages, and those would break into scales again, which by then sounded more than just scales. Music would flow straight through my veins, filling them like a drug; well, it used to be my drug. All rules would be broken, and everything forgotten: the only thing that would exist, the only thing with meaning would be Music.

What a fool I'd been, I thought, sitting in a comfortable chair with the book. Now, music was nothing for me but just that, music. It was nice to listen to; sometimes I had to play a song or two, just to keep up with my studies. But it wasn't a fiery dance of emotion anymore; it wasn't a passionate mountain river, whose only purpose was to destroy the foundation life was based on, and replace it with a new one, a foundation made of notes and harmonies, rhythms and melody. One could say I lost connection to music. I don't know. It didn't happen immediately; just, day by day, I'd found less and less reasons to play the guitar; I didn't really put on any album save for Kind of Blue anymore; music was now just a part of my routine, nothing more.

I glanced up at the clock. 7 pm. With a sigh, I got up and placed the book onto the table, cover up. Once again, I didn't have the time to restring my guitar; or didn't have the will to do it. Either way, I didn't have the time to lit up a pipe, and that was bugging me way more. With my studies beginning at half past seven, I couldn't relax with a pipeful of pleasant smoke in my lungs; I had to pack my instrument and set off.

As I put the guitar into the case, I wondered what I was to do at this lesson. It seemed that my teacher, a guitarist in his middle-thirties, just some ten years older than me, could very well see that the thrill was gone away from me - I played the instrument mechanically, even perfectly, but without a single touch of personality, as he would always say, 'without the splash'.

Why did I even need a splash? I'd tried. I won't lie - I'd tried hard to bring back those days when my guitar and I would be one being, whose only purpose was to create music. Why had I tried? Partly because I wanted to get a kick from music once more; partly because once, it used to be my routine; and I always abided by my routine.

I closed the case and looked at it with a frown. It was going to be a long two hours, a boring two hours; two hours that would contribute nothing positive to my life. But I'd still do it, out of habit. Music was dead for me, but that didn't mean I couldn't just as well study its corpse, like a Medicine student would study a corpse of a human being, wondering what could lead to their death.

What could lead to the death of music? I couldn't tell. Maybe it was my father's passaway; but then again, didn't the news of his death evoke a powerful blues melody inside my heart, a melody that I never hesitated to record at once. Maybe it was the fact that my life was just a little too steady? But then again, jazz had always helped me to deal with the boredom and idleness of life before.

More likely, it was the fact that I'd learned to like idleness; I'd learned to find salvation in the grim, grey world surrounding me. Music used to be my weapon, and my armour in my holy fight against reality; but now, I'd admitted defeat. I no longer needed a weapon, nor did I need an armour. I'd given up. I'd given in. Now, I was just a normal citizen. Just a conscious, law-abiding, hard-working citizen.

Maybe life was intended to be so dull. Maybe music had just prevented me from noticing it, from facing the truth. But I didn't need such a lie to cover the face of reality. Without music in my soul, it was easier to wallow in self-deprecation. It was easy, and linear. It felt good to feel bad, if that makes any sense to you.

I threw a look at the small, square box of strings. Martin. The best there is for an acoustic guitar. I'd bought those a long time ago, but never had the chance to try. In the past, every set of strings meant something new to me. Every time I changed the strings, Music began to shine with new lights. DRs. The smooth, moody sound for my Ibanez, perfect for jazz fusion; perfect for playing. Elixir. The angry howl, the passionate moans that were just perfect for recording; for my Les Paul, that is. Gibsons demanded such a sound, after all.

I chuckled a little at how much all that stuff had meant for me in the past. I was past all that now. Music was just another form of entertainment. It wasn't anything special, anything out of this earth, anything beyond the last horizon, as I'd thought before. It was just another thing; just one of those things.

I took a pack of Marlboros with a sigh. Well, it seemed that tonight I would have to content myself with the cheap substitute for pipe tobacco - cigarettes. I put on my coat, checking the pockets for the lighter. Fortunately, there it was - my trusty Zippo, the Ace of Spades one. Perfect for cigarettes, completely useless for pipes; hence its constant place in the pocket of my long coat. They made special lighters for pipes, but I'd never used them, even though I had one, with a small pipe icon on top of it and the 'special chimney' and everything; nothing better than old good matches, for me.

Checking if my cell phone was already in the pocket of my black jeans (black, to fit the coat; everything black; black is better), I took the keys and the guitar case in a swift, usual motion and left my flat, closing the door behind me.

***

The evening air was fresh and invigorating; but not for me. The case was heavy, and the guitar in it seemed even heavier now that I was returning home from the lesson. I should probably replace it with a sack, I mused. But that would bring about contradictions. Adjusting to something new. I couldn't let even a tiny glimpse of new in my well-paced, well-planned life. I despised it, and yet, I felt that I wouldn't be able to live in any other way.

But you did! a voice in my head told me. Remember the Days Of Music? When you would bathe in new; when Music would shake your miserable life? I lit up a cigarette. A cigarette before the lesson, a cigarette after. All according to the plan. All according to the schedule. Everything as usual. Cigarettes killed my father. They would surely kill me eventually. Smoking was a sweet, cool, classy way of committing suicide. At least my psychiatrist told me so.

Haven't I told you yet? Yes, a psychiatrist. Every week. An hour 'session' during which I would sit down and tell him about my life and worries, and he would jot down something in his notepad, and nod sympathetically, and tell me to change something in my life. Like a new brand of whisky.

I chuckled and extinguished the cigarette. Changes, changes everywhere - where would be without 'em? Even my music teacher had told me to make a change. Today, he'd said I needed to 'refresh' my taste in music - listen to some dubstep, for one.

No, thank you. I was perfectly sure that a new genre wouldn't bring my passion for music back, nor would it help me improve my skills. And even if it would - so what? In the past, I'd been eager to improve my skill with the guitar, and learn more about Music to compose, to create, to play! Now, I didn't need it any more. Music was just part of the usual routine.

I reached the door to my flat and opened it with a habitual motion, throwing the keys at the desk and closing the door behind me. I got undressed slowly and went to the kitchen in hope of getting something to bite. The fridge opened with a pleasant screech: no money for the new one meant I was stuck with the old rusty one, back from the days when fridges were openly called 'refrigerators'.

Chocolate. Exquisite. Picking up a bar, I marched on into my room, which, as you may have already guessed, was the only room in the flat, save for the kitchen. And the bathroom. You get what you pay for.

Placing myself on the sofa, I took a bite of the chocolate, closing my eyes. Pure chemistry. Endorphines making their way to my brain, rising my mood a little. I changed the record on the gramophone. Thelonious Monk and his Quartet started to soothe my ears with a '66 take on Lulu's Back in Town - one of the best, in my humble opinion. My body relaxed and I felt an urge to have a smoke. I obliged the demands of my lungs and lit up a Marlboro, inhaling the smoke blissfully. That was it. A perfect Sunday evening. Perfect relaxation. Coffee and cigarettes. Without coffee.

And the music... the music was nice. It fitted the atmosphere rather well, but not more than that. Where were the times when I'd sit on the edge of the sofa, my eyes closed, a pipe hanging from my mouth, my fingers running up and down my guitar's neck as I tried to accompany the High Priest of Bebop? Where were the times when I'd sweat off listening to Larry Gales' bass solos, bobbing my head so hard that my neck hurt afterwards?  Where were the times when I'd go on Youtube, just to see a live performance by George Shearing, whispering, God, he's a God, as I drove into the music at full speed?

I sighed. Those were useless questions. Usual, useless questions. The Music was gone from my life; no, in fact, it remained; but remained not as a religion, but as a humble servant of my need for entertainment and relaxation. That was it. The question that bugged me more was why I was wasting my time instead of preparing for tomorrow's studies or taking a good sleep to deal with work hardships. I glanced at the clock. 12 am. Midnight.

I was at my early twenties, you know? I could jam in jazz clubs, all around midnight, just about now. I yawned. Sure, Josh. In your dreams. Haven't I told you? The name's Josh. Yes, I'm charmed too. My parents called me Jonathan, but, for some reason, that name had never clung up to me well. For my childhood friends, I was Josh. For my schoolmates, I was Josh. For my fellow students, I was Josh. Therefore, I was Josh. Hello, Logic class.

As on cue, the quartet started off Round Midnight. It was a little funny, really - in the past, I would try to take my time and line up the record so that it would start off with this exact song right at 12 am, to get more kicks or something; I don't remember exactly. Now, it was all meaningless to me. Just a coincidence; coincidences happen.

The loud sound of the doorbell brought me back to Earth, and I got up with an annoyed grunt and let my feet carry me towards the door, reminding myself to change the old bell. That was a poor facade of an endeavour: I knew perfectly well that I would never change it. I'd got used to its high-pitched, atonal shriek. It was part of my routine now.

The door swung open as I glanced out of the doorway. No one. That was strange, but did not exactly confuse me: London was full of pranksters, and the damn button could start malfunctioning, after all these years. Just as I started closing the door, a peculiar object on the floor commanded my attention: right before the doorstep lay a brown box, the kind used for delivering packages, or storing long-forgotten items of one's childhood.

However, there was no Royal Mail seal on top of the box, nor was it dusty, or worn-out, so I assumed that it was used for neither of the aforementioned purposes. My heart jumped up to my throat for a moment: what if... A bomb? a thought rushed through my head. But then again, who would want to spend their time, money, and talent with explosives on a completely common, usual, nothing-special student like me? Well, I knew a few guys from uni who would, envious of my scholarship... but that was certainly not the case now.

I gave the box an experimental kick, a light one, not powerful enough to overturn it. After a few minutes of silence, I approached the box with renewed confidence, squatting before it. A painful minute of hesitation - and here I was, opening the box, eager to see what's inside. The contents revealed to me struck me as slightly bizarre.

Inside it was a... plushie? I blinked. Then I blinked again and looked inside the box once more. Indeed, if my eyes were to be believed, I was looking at a fine, extremely well-crafted Octavia plushie. Have I told you that Octavia is best pony? Ever. Full stop. Or 'period', if you prefer. If you can ever find a more devoted fan of Octavia than me, I'll eat my hat. Well, given that I'm not what you would call a hat wearer, I'll buy a hat and eat it whole. My flat could be easily called Octavia's Temple: plushies (yes, a guy who sews; sue me), figurines (I work with plastic; what a crafty crafter I am!), printed and framed pictures, a cup with her cutie mark on it, a scarf with her cutie mark on it (I sew, remember?), T-shirts with the imprint of the glorious grey cellist... You get the idea.

So, upon seeing the plushie, my first thought was, Mine! Or, to be more exact, Oh my gosh she's so cute! ...Mine! In addition to being incredibly cute as she was, this one was a filly version of the magnificent mare, which only raised the cuteness, for the sake of the old meme, by at least 20 per cent. It was perfect: a little grey earth pony filly with a very realistic black mane that, despite being a bit short, was already falling onto her shoulders (I envied the crafter who had managed to find such fine fleece - or was it smooth wool?), and the pink bow tie on her neck was a wonderful topping to the overall impression. The filly had a smile on her face, and her eyes... Oh, how beautiful and how immensely cute her eyes were! Two big lavender pools, two saucers of purple that stared right into your soul, the big foalish eyes that would make any person do anything for the little filly! I could've sworn I saw her blink as the bickering light of the lamp fell onto her eyes; but, of course, that was just my imagination.

"Boo!"

I might have screamed. No, actually, forget that: I did scream; and on top of my lungs at that. As my shock subsided, I looked at the plushie with unspoken fear in my eyes. To my deeper horror, the toy smiled even wider, jumping up inside the box. "Tee-hee! Scared you!" She giggled.

I considered screaming again, but immediately decided against it. After all, this was all a dream. Right? I mean, Octavia? Real Octavia? And filly Octavia, in addition? Yes, that was a dream, definitely a dream. And I was eager to make the best of it.

I squatted before the box again and looked into the plu- into the filly's eyes. They shone with little fires of childish mockery, and were a little wet, presumably from the wind that was now rushing through the doorway. I cursed myself for not closing the window beforehand. The only course of action that seemed possible to me was to take the box, and its, well, 'contents' inside; but... could I? Did I have the right to? After all, it wasn't mine. Maybe someone had left it here?..

Yes, left a box with a pony inside, a pony from MLP. And a foal, at that. Not surreal. Not surreal at all. Even more assured that this was nothing but a mere dream, I stood firm by my decision to make it perfect, before I eventually woke up, ruined and depressed and not-so-eager to go to university.

I tried to lift the box with the sheer force of my willpower, given that it was all a dream, of course. It seemed that it was a little bit too lucid, for my attempts were in vain; if anything, my pathetic struggle to perform telekinesis only led to more giggling from the little grey filly, who seemingly found my concentrated frown amusing.

Having no success at controlling my dream (if it ever was a dream; I began to question that), I lifted the box carefully, so as not to bring any harm to filly Octavia (only now had I begun to realise how amazing the whole situation was: real, filly Octavia!) and carried it inside, closing the door behind me. I put the box on the table. Octavia kept smiling cutely, so impossibly cutely that it was impossible not to smile in return. What did I tell you? I can smile, and laugh, given the moment. I'm no pessimist; just a sore realist.

After all, this was all a dream, right? I had all the rights in the world to have nice dreams! I eyed the filly more closely. Her fur was indeed not fleece, as each little hair swaying slightly as she breathed. Her tiny nose was propped up; already a sign of the posh, adult Octavia, I noted. As for now, she looked... five years old? Six? Do ponies ever mature the same way we do? Of course they do, the voice in my head, whom I know as 'me', or 'inner me', if you prefer, told me. This is all a dream. You decide.

And indeed, it was time to decide. My first decision, which I immediately brought to life, was to close the window so that Octavia wouldn't catch a cold. If ponies could catch a cold. If ponies that I totally dreamed of,  and which were not real. Sadly. I guess this is the part where I tell you I'm a Brony. And that's it. I guess you must have guessed already. Well, I'm not sure I can tell you more. I love ponies. Octavia is best pony. I used to love pony (and brony) music, and I used to write some, when I used to love music. Some of that music would send shivers down my spine, and sometimes not metaphorically. Non-pony-related music used to have the same effect on me, too. Just so you know. But that's all right; that's shadows of the past, or, if you abide by grammar rules, those are shadows of the past.

Travelling back to reality (or was it a dream, after all?), I made my second, and most wise decision: I calmed down. No freaking out. No going nuts over what was happening. I was concrete sure that there were no foreign substances in my blood that could lead to hallucinations, so either this was all a dream... or... Or this was real. I'd read fics, sure - Human in Equestria, Pony on Earth, all that stuff - but those were mere fantasies. But this 'dream' of mine was so vivid, so realistic, so real!

"Achoo!"

I was driven out of my stupor as Octavia sneezed, her nose wrinkling cutely as she did so, her big, round eyes closing for a second. Suddenly, I started to panic. I should have brought in the box earlier! How long had she been there? She must have caught a cold! On a positive side, at least one of my questions had just been answered - apparently, ponies could catch a cold.

The grey filly coughed, and her smile faded the next instant. While that should have driven me to panic once more, I gathered all the willpower I had to keep calm and outline a plan for the next few minutes. Yep, that's me talking about willpower; a guy who can't quit smoking. Not that I ever wanted to, of course; but I'm sure that I'd never quit, even if I wanted to. Just give me a cigarette or a pipe, and I'm a content person. Pleasantly satisfied in his own way, with a trusty routine, a mild apathy (if my psychiatrist was to be believed), and no perspective in life.

And an ill filly, the voice in my head reminded me. I rushed towards the wardrobe, running through the coats, and jeans, and shirts, until I finally found what I'd been searching for: a woollen plaid, which I had a luck to have bought in Scotland, that was now resting on the shelf, folded and dusty, given its lack of use.

My feet carried me towards Octavia, whom I immediately took and placed onto the sofa. The filly didn't protest, though her eyes were a bit watery, either from the constant coughing or the sheer unexpectedness of the whole situation. I tugged the thoughts that were haunting me (How did she end up here? Where are her parents? Why is she a filly?) to somewhere in the back of my head, and carefully laid the plaid onto the pony's body, still feeling the warmth of her fur on my hands.

I scratched my hand. It was itching wildly: being allergic to wool, I had to avoid touching it at all costs; Octavia's fur didn't have a similar effect on me, though. Well, at least the plaid did come in handy, after all. Next step. Find medicine. Step by step. That's how things worked for me; that's how they ought to work. Assign a step, and perform it - that's the way I lived; the way to bring some organisation into the world of anarchy. I'd read that the whole universe was guided by entropy - some kind of a random number generator, to put it simply. The future was unclear, because everything could happen. So, I never planned everything; I just assigned steps. Steps were not a plan: they were proto-plans, if you wish. They didn't extend further that today, and that was the only way I'd known, the only way I accepted.

Searching through my medicine box for a few minutes filled with Octavia's cough and sobs (apparently, the filly had begun to cry, and that was tearing my heart apart), I dumbly realised that I didn't know how equines would react to human medicine: what if a pill of aspirin would make her feel even worse?

Damn it, I needed a pipe. Without nicotine, my brain ceased to deal with unexpected situations. Nicotine was my way to salvation, and the only drug that could send the gears in my brain running neatly and properly. But there was no time for that now. I strained my mind in a painful attempt to remember any ways of dealing with sickness, other than taking medicine.

The answer came in a flash. Tea. Warm tea, with a spoonful of honey, was just what the ill filly needed. I stopped, eyeing the little pony with care and concern. She was sweating, and I'd be damned if it weren't a bad sign. I approached the sofa, taking silent, smooth steps, not to break the general silence of the room (the music record had been over long ago), and smiled at the filly. "Hey," I said, doing my best not to cry as I looked at her small body shivering. "It's gonna be all right."

With that, and an obligatory wink, I rushed off into the kitchen, taking the tea tin and opening it post-haste. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do keep tea in a tin. Because that's the right way to do it. Don't let anybody prove you otherwise. Tea bags are just a poor excuse for tea, and real tea leaves ought to be kept in metal tins.

I watched in contemplating silence as the tea floated in hot water, drowning in the whirlwind caused by my spoon, so little and yet so mighty for the little, neatly cut leaves of classic Earl Grey - just enough bergamot to leave a pleasant aftertaste. A spoonful of honey soon made its way to the mug. Yes, by the way, I use mugs for tea and coffee alike. Sue me.

"Achoo!"

I blinked, snapping out of my self-induced contemplation, and grabbed the mug, rushing into the living room ('my room', 'the only room', whatever suits your fancy) at the highest speed I could maintain without tripping over and thus sending the mug to the ground, along with any hopes to tending to little Octavia.

Fortunately, my timing was perfect and I reached the sofa, carefully placing the mug onto the glass table nearby, throwing away some useless magazines and old newspapers that, in homage to tradition, had been lying on it for days, or even weeks.

I took Octavia in my arms. Her little heart was beating fast, and her fur was sweaty; yet, it only contributed to the shining colour of her coat. "Here," I handed the drink to the filly, who pierced me with her teary eyes. I really don't know if body organs can explode, but it looked like my heart just did, as I tried to keep calm. Keep calm and carry on. Isn't it what we're supposed to do? Always keep calm and carry on. No rough movements. No falling apart. No stepping away from the firm, outlined trail. No letting emotions get te best of us. Keep calm and carry on.

I was thankful that either the little pony was very thirsty or she trusted me, as an adult (maybe a little bit of both), but she obediently sipped the warm liquid until the mug was empty. After that, she snuggled in my arms, and I decided it for the better to let her remain so. Besides, she was warm, and her very presence tugged at some invisible heartstrings - was it the parental instinct I never had?

Anyway, Octavia had already closed her eyes, and I felt a need to soothe her somehow, to make her go to sleep faster. After all, they say that any wounds heal better when one is sleeping. Some even say we are sleeping all the time, while life itself is just one long dream. I wonder why our wounds heal so slowly, in that case.

I began cradling the filly in my arms, humming a lullaby - something my mother would always do when I was a child and would have trouble sleeping. I believe I should mention that my voice is not suited for singing lullabies. Or anything, for that matter. I just so happen to possess a very raspy voice; one of my friends once said that it sounded like 'an alcoholic dying of lung cancer'. Heh. Well, I'm no alcoholic. Though, I have an inherited predisposition towards alcohol: my father was an alcoholic. But in the end, it was cigarettes that killed him. Isn't life just ironic?

However, my familiarity with music allowed me to choose a song that I was able to make the best of - Tom Waits' Lullaby. Though, I replaced the "If I die before you wake" line with "If I leave before you wake". Little fillies weren't to be exposed to the grim reality at any cost.

Soon, the filly's breath was deep and relaxed, and I exhaled in relief. She was asleep. Finally, I could let my mind explore the boundaries of the situation I found myself in. I laid the filly onto the sofa and silently slid into the kitchen. For the first time in my life, I regretted that there was no door in the flat I lived in; because I had a rising urge to smoke a pipe, and a door would have established a secure barrier between the poisonous smoke and the little filly.

Barriers. Aren't they what we are trying to make our whole lives? Every step we take, every decision we make is barrier between ourselves and the rest of the world. Race, nation, class, country, job, family - those are all barriers, provided and supported by the society. The society itself is a barrier between the human race and the nature. The nature is a barrier between our planet and the rest of the Universe. And so on.

As I inhaled the smoke blissfully, sitting by the open window, I looked at the glass of water I'd poured myself a few moments before. The glass was a barrier, too; a barrier between water and the surface of the table. I took a few deep, fervent puffs and gulped my evening pills, washing them down with short gulps of water. One, two, three. All done. No, these weren't drugs. At least not for me: my psychiatrist had prescribed them, and I took them according to the schedule. All according to the schedule. Antidepressants, anti-OCD pills, anti-anxiety pills. Funny thing is, those pills sometimes make you more anxious. I had got used to them eventually, and if I forgot to take my morning pills, for example, I would spend all day concentrating on that thought; that is, before evening came and I took my evening pills.

Maybe they were drugs. To think about it, everything's a drug; we get used to everything. Coffee, tea, the air itself - everything is some kind of drug. At least my pills gave me the ability to think calmly. And there sure were things to speculate on.

What was going on? By now, I had pretty much realised this wasn't a dream. This was all very real, and that was giving me the creeps. A pony at my doorstep? A fiily pony at it? Not to mention that it was Octavia, the best pony, and my personal favourite. This all sounded like a scene from a fanfiction; but there it was, a little filly lying in my bed, ill, and presumably confused, maybe even more than me. I had to talk to her in the morning, if she were in the condition to.

I frowned and took a few more short, punctuated puffs. Grey, almost transparent smoke covered my vision, and I blinked. What point there was in speculating upon question that there was no answer to? At least not for now. For now, I had a pipe to finish, a few tutorials to attend to in the morning, and, more importantly, the fact that now I had a pony on my hands; a pony to care for; my little pony. My little Tavi.

I frowned again at such thoughts. She wasn't mine. She was a living being, and, if anything, she was her own pony, no matter how small. But the phrase had a nice ring of it. Tavi. I had always preferred this nickname over the other one that the community had come up with - Octy. Octy sounded like something only Vinyl would say. Yes, I ship them. Yes, I wrote shipfics about them. You may have even read them. Tavi, on the other hand... Well, it seemed cute, and pretty lovely, to my mind. I decided to roll with it, for the time being.

The fire died, and the ashes made their way to the glass ashtray, flickering and weak. I cleaned the pipe thoroughly - I would rarely leave it up for the morning - and returned to the room, taking a blanket that was now no use to the little filly, who was snorting cutely under the warm woollen plaid.

I laid the blanket on the floor and took a spare pillow from the open cupboard, not closing in it fear of waking Tavi with a careless noise. I lay down, my head clear and a little light, due to the tobacco. The pills' sleep-inducing effect kicked in and I closed my eyes, drifting off to the land of dreams.

***

I'm not

Content

To be with you

In the daytime~

I hit my cell phone with a swift, usual motion and rolled over. The alarm was by no means pleasant - you don't want to wake up to The Kinks' All Day and All of the Night every day for several years - but I was too used to it to change it. Once again, I praised Blackberry phones for being so sturdy; if I had a touchscreen smartphone, it would have been long broken.

My eyes opened slowly, revealing an unusual perspective from the floor of my room. Memories came in a flood: the box, the pony in it, Octavia, the illness, the kitchen, the plaid, My Little Tavi - everything danced in a whirlwind of emotion, hitting me like a tidal wave. I blinked with a yawn, stretching my neck. Sleeping on the floor was really uncomfortable. Trying to fight the usual urge to immediately fall asleep again, I decided to put my mind on the track of the recent events. I frowned, speculating upon my once-realistic approach to the situation. Of course it was all a dream.

"A-ha! You're up!"

Or not. I raised my head, only to see a certain grey filly looking at me from the height of the sofa, her eyes shining with foalish vigour, her expression cheerful and by no means sick. Good. At least I had managed to bring her round, in some way.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the filly's body tensed, and she leaned back a little. Worry returned as swiftly as it had left me a few moments prior. What's wrong? Is she in pain? It's all my fault! the thoughts rushed into my head, seizing control over my brain. The little pony closed her eyes and...

Jumped. Using her tiny legs to spring, she leapt at me with a gleeful yell, pinning me to the ground, just as I had achieved high hopes of getting up. Well, if this wasn't the cutest thing there ever could be, then there were no cute things in the world.

I smiled in content, the last remnants of sleep vanishing, as I patted Tavi on the head gently, not to frighten her. Fortunately, she didn't seem afraid at all, jumping happily on my defeated body, smiling while her eyes were closed, forming those adorable cartoon-ish lines that sent my heart into full-on melting mode.

I chuckled and patted the filly on the head again. It felt so good, and so natural; after all, she was just a little child, albeit not a human one. But who ever said that humans were the only sentient race on Earth? We like to think we are supreme, the overlords of this planet, and - who knows? - the Universe! We send expeditions and all kinds of rovers to explore our solar system, which itself is but a small village on the outskirts of our galaxy, in hopes of finding signs of life - but at the same time we hope there are none. It is easier to believe there are none. It is always easier to believe.

Anyway, I had a little experience in the dangerous field of dealing with children, having two cousins, which were roughly Tavi's age. Sure, they were human kids, but kids were kids, right? Besides, I really had to ensure the filly's safety before going off to university. I sure as hell couldn't take her there, and, moreover, I needed some time alone to think over the way to approach the little pony with the following questions, Where are you from? and How the hell did you end up here? Those questions indeed needed some pondering, and, in addition, the latter needed to be smoothed just a little.

I gently cradled the filly in my arms, as she giggled again, and brushed her nose against my cheek. I blinked, tears welling in my eyes. I blinked them away, and smiled at the pony, eager to show that I appreciated the little show of affection. Something in the back of my head told me that this was all insane - the whole situation - but then again, wasn't the whole Universe insane? Besides, the filly was obviously recovering from an illness, so she needed something to eat. And so did I.

I stood up, not letting go of the grey fur ball that the filly formed, and walked ahead into the kitchen, placing Tavi onto the table as I eyed up the stool and realised it was too low for her to reach the table.

"What are we gonna do?"

Good question. I eyed the filly and scratched the top of my head. That was a habit from my childhood: one day, I was told that "smart kids don't scratch the back of their head" so I scratched the top instead. Silly, I know. Still, I'd got used to it.

"How about breakfast?" I suggested, putting on a bright face, waving a box of cereal, which I had just taken from the cupboard, in the air before Tavi. Her big round eyes followed the sacred box like purple beacons in the darkness of the sea. Or were they lavender? I had never been good with colours; I knew, and could distinguish, black, white, grey, red, blue, green, orange, yellow, purple, pink and brown; all other colours were mere shades to me, and, being unable to visualise things properly, I couldn't really distinguish between all of them.

Tavi nodded eagerly, and I placed a bowl on the table for her, and a similar bowl for me. One quick trip to the fridge - and fresh milk filled the bowls as I poured it carefully. Then, the cereal made its way into Tavi's bowl, and mine. The filly dug into the meal with such fervour that I felt ashamed to have forgotten to feed her the previous evening. I made an obscure excuse (ill fillies have no appetite) and sat down to my meal as well, glancing at the clock.

Still an hour to go. If I were fast, and instructed Tavi what to do and, more importantly, not to do, I would still be in time for the Labour Law tutorial. Tutorials, seminars, lectures - everything involved hard work and concentration and, if I wanted to get my degree, I needed to attend them, more or less, despite my having or not having a cartoon pony at home.

To think about it, she didn't look very cartoon-ish. If anything, she was very real; made of flesh and bones; and her coat tickled my hands as I touched her. Her face was what made her stand out; but, on the other hand, who was I to think about what possible creatures there were in the Universe? If I had studied Physics better at school, I would have come up with a convenient formula or some kind of equation; but I was sure only of one thing: the Universe was one hell of a mysterious place, and everything could happen.

So I decided to save up all the questions I had for later, and, instead, focused on what really mattered.

"Tavi..." I began after swallowing another mouthful of cereal, which by that time had become the wet, unpleasant mass that I despised so much; that's why I always ate cereal fast, before it would change its crunchy condition.

"Octavia," the filly interrupted me, piercing me with her eyes. I couldn't make out if her gaze was stern or just generally disapproving. "I'm Oc-ta-vi-a," she spelled for me, as if I were a child and she was an adult, trying to explain something to a hopeless student. But do we, as adults, really have the right to claim our supremacy over children? Aren't children, at times, way smarter than we are?

I blinked, astonished both by the way she distanced herself, and the royal beauty that her high, foalish voice carried; the way she pronounced 'A' in 'Octavia', her regal accent. Hell, her accent was more British than mine! Well, at least it eased the understanding: I had trouble understanding American accents sometimes, especially when it was essential. Like when watching Mad Men or something of the kind.

"Octavia," I revised my form of addressing. "I need to leave you for a few hours. Can you manage?" Well. What a dumb question. Of course she couldn't. She was just a child, for fuck's sake! Now she would just cry, and start whining and-

"Okay."

Wait, what? I blinked and eyed the obedient filly with caution, as if I were expecting trouble. Well, as a matter of fact, I was  expecting trouble. That went way too smooth. Children were supposed to misbehave! Or something. I wasn't sure: I didn't have a child, myself (no wife, no child, no trouble), and the very few memories of my own childhood were vague, muddled, replaced with new ones or displaced completely.

"Mama and papa always leave me alone for a few hours," Tavi (I decided that I would still call her so at least in my own thoughts) carried on, putting on a serious expression that, to me, seemed even cuter than her normal one; if children can have a 'normal' expression. "I can manage."

"Well, alrighty then," I replied, embarrassed and a little confused. Funny thing is, what astonished me even more than her 'adult' attitude was the way she called her parents: not 'mom and dad' but 'mama and papa'. It seemed so right, so cute, so... warm? She has a mother and a father somewhere, a thought rushed to my mind. I blinked, shaking my head a little. It could wait. As crazy as it may seem, I still had studies to attend. And an obsessive disorder that told me to attend them.

I patted the filly on the head (I could swear she purred in delight a little; but maybe that was just my imagination), and went on to dress up, leaving a full bowl of cereal on the table in case Tavi should get hungry. As I put on my gloves, I saw the grey filly trot into the room, smiling at me. "Bye-" she cut herself short and frowned. "What's your name?" she wondered, jumping a little. Those kids - they can never stay still.

"Josh," I replied with a gentle smile. "My name's Josh."

"Nice to meet you, Josh! Bye!" she cooed before vanishing back into the kitchen. Well, she hadn't finished her meal yet, after all.

"Nice to meet you, too," I whispered, closing the door and checking the keys and the cigarettes in my pockets mechanically. "Nice to meet you, too."

***

The bus arrived at the station faster than I had expected; usually it would get stuck in a traffic jam of some sort, especially given the narrow streets of the Metropolis. I lit a cigarette as I walked up the concrete path home. A couple of boring seminars; a tutorial; the announcement of the winter session - there was completely nothing interesting or new for me at university, so I finally let my mind decide on the questions I was going to ask Tavi.

Asking everything I wanted to know at once probably wouldn't help; if anything, it would only make matters worse. If the filly was so content, she was most likely unaware of her being in a different universe, away from home; and bombarding her with questions like that would make her cry, or even worse, run away.

I shivered, both from the cold and the thought of what could happen to a little pony in the streets of London. Don't believe the official propaganda: London is a dangerous place to live in. Maybe not as dangerous as the North, though, but still enough to make you forget all ideas about going for a walk in the park at night or something of the kind.

Information. I needed information, and there was none. Irritated, I lit another cigarette with the still-burning end of the previous one; sometimes I'd allow myself such deviations from the routine, especially if it was connected to nicotine. Chain smoking, eh?

Finally, just as I reached the tall block of flats that housed mine, I decided on asking two general, vague questions: the last thing she remembered before someone (somepony) put her in a box (I doubted she would end up there herself; but now that I thought about it...), and a little about her family, where she was from, and stuff like that. If she was here to stay, and if I didn't have a means to teleport her back (because I didn't), I needed to know, at least, what her life used to be, to provide, or at least try to provide, a similar life for her here.

Of course, I realised I couldn't let her out of the flat, especially during the day; it would be insane - causing such a shock; maybe even the military would come and take her... I shivered again as I waited idly for the lift to come. I hated the military. My father used to be a soldier, but soon gave up that pathetic attempt in pursuit of a better career.

I took out the keys as I approached the door and opened it, hoping that Tavi was all right, and had been all right all that time. After all, leaving a filly alone like that had been reckless of me, no matter how responsible she seemed. Responsible. That was a word that I surely didn't like in the slightest. Responsibility. Responsibility always led to problems, and taking responsibility for something, anything at all, seemed like a terrible prospect. I'd always try to avoid responsibility at all costs.

"Why didn't you tell me your name was Jonathan?"

I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light, closing the door behind me. In a few seconds, I could make out the silhouette of the grey filly lying on the sofa, a small pocketbook before her. Coming a little closer, I saw it to be not a pocketbook, but instead my very own passport, with the lion, and the unicorn, and everything that goes with it. But of course I had forgotten to take it. I would never leave home without the keys, or cigarettes, but I would easily leave my passport lying on the desk. Octavia's expression was stern, but not the cute kind of stern; instead, I could see the older Octavia's piercing glare that was already revealing itself in the filly's eyes.

"Um..." I found myself at a severe lack of words, and decided just to follow my subconscious reflexes, taking off my coat and hanging it as the keys made their way to the small table near the door.

"You lied," the little pony carried on, eyeing me as I took a chair and placed it opposite the sofa, to be on the same eye level with her. They say being on the same level with a child helps to understand them; I resolved to give it a try.

"Not entirely," I retorted mildly, leaning back.

"Lying is bad." The filly frowned, and her voice carried an indestructible belief in her words.

"Not always," I replied, rubbing my fingers against each other - another habit of mine that had reached the state of total devotion. "Sometimes a lie can sweeten the truth," I said, recalling my father's words. 'Bare-faced' and 'white' lies - two sides of one coin, but at the same time so far apart.

The filly huffed and tossed her long black mane back. I idly noticed it needed combing. "Why'd you need to sweeten the truth?"

"Because-" I cut myself short abruptly. Indeed - why? Because it's easier. Because it makes life easier. "Because the person... erm, pony you're lying to may feel better?" I offered, noticing a traitorous questioning note in my voice. An odd note - always out of place. Not according to the main key. Atonal. Off-beat. ...Jazz.

"But when they find out you were lying-" Tavi jumped in excitement, as if the argument were setting her hooves on fire. Oh, by the way, her hooves were soft. Like skin covered with fur. Strange, really, but very, very cute and touching at the same time. "They will be even more sad!" she finished, almost angrily; still, her eyes shone with a smidgeon of content, probably because she was sure she'd just won the argument. Well, apparently she didn't know how stubborn I was.

"Firstly, it's 'sadder'," I began in a tone that, to me, seemed thoughtful and lecturing. I immediately considered teaching the filly some grammar in the coming days. "And secondly..." I pondered for a moment. What exactly was I going to say? She was right, in a way. One lie would lead to another, and, in the end, everything will open up and make matters worse. Damn, why did children have to be so smart?! Or maybe it was just foals. I'd never really thought about how they aged; maybe they aged differently from humans. (However, looking at Tavi, I could very well see that she was just a five-year-old child (or a six-year-old child) in pony form.) Or was it just Octavia?

I sighed, admitting defeat. "Secondly, I didn't lie. My parents called me Jonathan when I was born, but eventually everyone started calling me Josh; that's why I'm Josh," I explained, receiving an approving nod from the filly, just as her expression softened a little. I decided that it was time to ask one of the two major questions that, sooner or later, I had to ask.

"Ta- Octavia, can I ask you something?" I wondered carefully, feeling like an explorer stepping on an especially steep path.

"Sure!" the filly chirped, her stern expression vanishing instantly. I'll have to get used to such mood swings... I thought idly. "Only if I can ask you something too, though!"

Oh. Well, alrighty then. Equal terms, eh? Straight swaps and all that stuff. "Sure. So... Can you tell me a little about your parents?" I asked, holding my breath for a moment.

"Well, mama is beautiful, and kind, and she loves me a lot..." Octavia began as I released the breath I'd been holding. I hit the sweet spot. She opened up. "And papa is always at work, and when he comes home, mama plays the violin for him!" she concluded. Then, her face twisted in a frown. "Do you thing they're looking for me? I mean, I just went to bed, as they told me, and then I woke up in a box..." She fell silent, and that meaningful silence was tearing my heart apart.

I couldn't help but approach the bed and hug the little filly. Her fur brushed against my nose, almost causing me to sneeze. "Of course they're looking for you. Cheer up!" I winked at the little pony, brightening her mood a little, if her smile was any indication. Still, that doesn't answer the question, *How?** How the hell did she end up here? Why did she go to bed and then appear here, on planet Earth, the United Kingdom, London, on my doorstep?* No. Those thoughts could wait. Step by step. Solving problems, one step at a time. I'd learn more about her, in the future. As for now...

"Was there something you wanted to ask me?" I smiled at the filly, reminding her about or agreement. As I had expected, it evoked a very cheerful reaction: she jumped up, freeing herself of my grasp, grinning widely. Finally, as she calmed down, in a few seconds, she asked the question.

"What's 'even-tu-ally' mean?"

I sighed. But of course. She was just a child - her vocabulary was limited. Well, it seemed it was time for a long, boring English lesson...

***

The small waiting room seemed warm and cosy, making a pleasant contrast to the cold streets of the Metropolis. I noticed that the clinic had installed Christmas lights all about the room: the walls, the ceiling, even beside the leather armchairs, one of which I was currently occupying. Although Christmas was far from being near (the contrast, it hurts!), they had already done their best to make sure that the clients could feel the holiday atmosphere. It was nice, really, but nothing special - they'd put on the same decorations every winter.

My thoughts, however, were far away from the pleasant thoughts of Christmas and the New Year; instead, they were lurking the minefield called, 'Octavia'. Only half a week had passed since the filly had become my flatmate, and I realised that all questions of her origin were not half as important as everyday issues, like what to feed her, how to keep her mind away from her home, and parents, and the future. Because even I wasn't sure about the future. And I was just going to make it a little clearer.

"Jonathan? The doctor's expecting you."

I didn't even wince; I'd got used to the secretary form of addressing me, even though I had attempted to persuade her to call me Josh instead. The very phrase had been repeated by her so many times, ringing in my ears even as I went to bed, or took a stroll along the street, that it had become part of routine. And routine was nice. It wasn't good; it wasn't bad. It was normal, and had a pleasant topping of order to life's cake of randomness.

I found myself thinking about Pinkie Pie, which was only normal, because she, of everypony, would know everything about cakes and randomness. Had Octavia met her? No, of course not. And I wasn't going to ask. Moreover, I had hidden away everything that could give away the very existence of the show, everything even slightly related to My Little Pony, lest Octavia find it. She didn't need to know. I didn't want her to know: it would only bring about complications; unnecessary, bothering complications. The only thing I hadn't hidden was my grey scarf with her cutie mark - her yet non-existent cutie-mark; but only because it could pass as a simple pink treble clef.

Her cutie mark... Was she going to get it? I frowned, making a mental note to contribute to the filly's Music education, and marched on along the corridor, up to the familiar light brown wooden door. I sighed and pondered for a couple of seconds before entering it, as I would always do. Why did I still visit the psychiatrist? I knew very much that neither my OCD nor my state of 'mild depression' could be cured; they could only be covered and eased, with pills and... music. Well, yes, the time when I was Music's priest used to be the easiest for me; without long, meaningless thoughts haunting my mind, leaving me sitting and staring at the wall, hopeless, unable to do anything but to sit and think. Even if I didn't want to. Thoughts were ruling over my head, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

I quickly stopped my train of thought. No. Thinking about thoughts would lead to thoughts, and so on, ad infinitum. I shook my head, as if I were shaking off the thoughts, just as little droplets of water after a rain, and entered the doctor's office.

He was sitting at his desk, a completely ordinary person, at the first glance: a white man, in a grey pullover, a few wrinkles on his forehead giving away his age, even though his hair was still light brown, with no streaks of silver. You know, it's very hard for me to describe people, even though I have spent a lot of time describing ponies in my fics. Strange, really, especially given how we put the sign of equality between persons and ponies when we write fanfiction. Well, at least I do.

"So, how's it going?"

I leaned back in the comfortable chair and sighed. Every time, same question. Talking about my mood, the recent events, the dreams I'd had... Avoiding the real problem all the time. He would say I were missing the point, and maybe I indeed was missing his; but my point was, to deal with an OCD, one didn't need to talk about their dreams, mood and stuff like that for hours. Sometimes I thought we were just wasting my time, and my money. Well, not my money, to be honest: my mother would send me money for the treatment, and I would spend it accordingly. It felt rather strange, and a little embarrassing, to be still dependent on someone else, all be it my own mother; but a part-time job can't pay all the bills, what?

"Nice and smooth. The session's just about to begin," I replied, while the doctor nodded and took down some notes. Always taking down his notes, asking his pointless questions... I knew he tried to sound friendly, but, if anything, the age difference was kicking in: he was in his early thirties... middle thirties? I never asked.

"Any interesting events?" he carried on, looking into my eyes. I looked away. I always had trouble looking into his eyes; it felt as if he could read my very soul, from the way he looked - no, pierced me with his gaze, thoughtful, experienced and professional. And I wanted to have at least a little island of privacy, untouched by anyone, shall it be my psychiatrist or not.

"Well, there is one..." I began slowly, looking at the large round clock that was ticking, and ticking, and that was by no means unnerving. Did he notice the sound? Or had he got used to it? As usual, as my mind wandered off to explore different issues, my mouth was telling him the story, from the beginning, up to the point I reached his office.

He sat in silence for a few moments, his face plain, as always. It was strange, really: his expression could be surprised, curious, sympathetic at times, but his face always remained plain. I don't know how to explain that; maybe I'm just not so good a writer.

"That's not an illusion, or a hallucination," I sad quickly, lest he jump to conclusions.

"I didn't say that," the doctor replied, the wrinkles on his forehead forming a straight line: a sign that he was deeply lost in thought.

But of course. I was always the one to speak; and he would simply write down something, and sometimes explain to me some things that, to me, seemed meaningless. He didn't say that. But what was he thinking?

"Listen, Josh." He played with his pencil, tossing in from one hand to another, and rotating it between his fingers. That was a neurotic action, if anything; and it was rather ironic that he, being a psychiatrist, had something "off" about him as well. But then again, wasn't Freud himself a psychological deviant? Deviations. Deviations everywhere. Before I could speculate on the topic, he continued, "I don't really know what to say. On one hand, I understand that your obsession with ponies is rather... healthy, to say the list. On the other hand..." He put the pencil on the table. "I don't really see how all of that can be possible." I felt an urge to have a smoke. I should've had a cigarette before coming to him. "But then again, isn't the Universe a strange, enigmatic thing?"

I answered his question with meaningful silence; at least, to me, my silence seemed meaningful.

"What do you feel now?" he asked suddenly, making me blink. It's a damn habit of mine - always blinking when facing something unexpected.

What did I feel? "Well, I have a child to look after," I said, stroking my beard. Oh, didn't I tell you? Yes, a beard. A moustache, too. The doctor said it was a sign of my 'devotion to freedom' or something of the kind. I didn't really know, nor did I really care. I liked my beard and didn't like to shave.

"And?" His quizzical expression made me frown.

"And all that comes along with that. Bathing her, reading books to her, telling stories, playing with her..." As I named my recent activities, I felt my heart melt a little at the pleasant memories.

"Responsibility," he supplied nonchalantly.

I frowned again. "Maybe. I don't feel it yet. Nor do I want to." I was speaking the truth: I didn't feel responsible for Tavi. Sure, I did everything a good brother would do with his younger sister, but that was it. I cared for her, and about her; but I didn't feel responsible for her.

"You'll have to, eventually." As he said that, I smiled a little, remembering how I'd spent a good half an hour explaining to the filly what 'eventually' meant. Or, as she posed it, 'even-tu-ally'.

"Remember something pleasant?" the doctor asked, taking his faithful tool, his pencil, his weapon that his used against the dark legions of psychological problems, momentarily. Actually, scratch that - I don't like the word. 'Momentarily' - this was a word whose meaning was muddled and obscure, and it carried little to no sense, to me. So, let me paraphrase that. He took his pencil, immediately.

"Kinda." I leaned back in the chair again (I hadn't noticed that I'd changed my sitting position) and smiled. "A few days ago, I was explaining to her what 'eventually' meant. That was fun."

"Fun," he repeated, writing a couple of lines on the standard A4 sheet of paper. God knows why he didn't use a notebook. Actually, I don't believe in God, just so you know; that was a fixed phrase in the English language. But I guess that even if God existed, he still wouldn't be able to guess the reasons that were driving my psychiatrist. But then again, I didn't mind it: we all had our quirks. Besides, was there really motivation behind anything?

"Fun," he said again, putting the pencil down. Idly, I mused if it would be more convenient for him to use a pen. "It's good; but you are responsible for her general education."

I began stroking my beard as I pondered over his words. That was another habit of mine; maybe it was because I'd been told that thinking over something goes side by side with stroking one's beard. Or something. "I'll see to it," I agreed, even though I could pretty much see it myself: the filly did need education, and, more importantly, she needed to be acquainted with quality literature. I hadn't shown her any books of mine yet; however, I knew that she could read. In English! In human English - imagine my surprise!

"Moreover..." the doctor began again, taking a quick glance at clock. I glanced at it too. Our 'session' was almost over. "You've told me this 'Octavia' was a musical pony, right?" I nodded. "She'll need some Music lessons," he concluded.

Music lessons. I winced. I knew very well he was right, absolutely right; but still! No, he was totally right: I couldn't show her to anyone, but she had to discover her special talent, sooner or later. And I already knew it was Music. Well, I thought, I don't need to 'feel' music to teach it, eh? Because I could no longer 'feel' music. I've told you that already, haven't I?

"Well, Josh, see you next week," he finished our 'session' with a smile. "Think about what I said."

"I sure will..." I got up and nodded, heading towards the door, checking my pockets for cigarettes. I was going to have one hell of a smoke as soon as I got out.

"Josh?" he called out to me just as I opened the door.

"Yes?" I replied, holding the handle. It was painted gold, but the paint had worn out, and now it was a weak yellow-ish orange; a colour better described as 'rusty' than 'golden'.

"What do you call her?" he asked. I didn't turn round to meet his look. "In your head, I mean."

I smiled, stepping out of the room, not really caring about whether he'd asked that question to take a note, or out of pure curiosity. The reply came easy, and left a pleasant taste on my tongue.

"My little Tavi."

***

"What are you reading?"

I looked at the filly, taking the pipe out of my mouth and letting the smoke escape. I'd established a neat set-up for the both of us: I was sitting in the chair near the kitchen, the window open, and Tavi was occupying the sofa, listening to my old jazz records. Ever since she'd seen the gramophone, she would always listen to jazz. No, actually, she would not just listen; she would take part in the performance, even though she didn't play any instrument or sing. But she was part of the play, not the audience; she was rocking, her eyes closed, swimming in the sea of bebop, and stare at the wall in meaningful silence at the sound of John Coltrane's magical songs, and bob her head with a wide grin, listening to George Shearing's bawdy jazz. I didn't feel envious. Honestly. There had been times when I would feel music the same way she did; but now I was just a humble listener.

So, as I as saying, I was sitting near the kitchen so that the smoke would leave through the open window, while the window in our room was closed, of course, lest Tavi get cold. ...Our room. Such a reference to the room I was sleeping in (now on the floor; 20 per cent less comfortable in ten seconds flat... flat, that was surely a good word to describe the hard floor), and Tavi was now sleeping in as well, was new for me. I assumed I was getting used to having Tavi by my side; after all, it's been a week since we'd met.

"What are you reading?" the filly demanded again, disrupting the quiet, peaceful atmosphere. Monk's Dream was on, supplying a pleasant background for a conversation. I liked conversations like that. Maybe I was getting old. Maybe I was not.

But I sure liked her accent, her voice - it was like a tingling of Christmas bells; and when I came home with a B for an exam, her voice alone was enough to calm me down and soothe me. The session was no longer unbearable; if anything, it was passable. I liked how she was saying, "What are you reading?" instead of "What'cha reading?", when most kids her age would probably prefer the latter variant, having heard it in American films, I suppose.

We have become another America; thanks to the mores, and a little nod to Margaret Thatcher. A discrete, secluded, island version of America, with its lifestyle and fashion, its taste and its relationships. I don't hold anything against America, God forbid (funny to hear that from an atheist, I know), but it was kinda strange to witness your country slowly change, and not always for the best. Skyscrapers were rapidly replacing old, cosy traditional English houses; they still are. Suits had been replaced with T-shirts and jeans, and our speech had become overflooded with American words and phrases. Awesome. Stellar. Sick. What is sick? I'll tell you what - it's ill, people. No other meanings. Well, maybe that one when we say, 'sick of waiting' or something. I, for one, was sick of people around me, and life in general; but that didn't mean that life wasn't 'sick' or 'awesome': it just meant that it was far from what I may have expected.

We have embraced American spelling, in some cases, and the famous British accent was slowly but steadily coming to the verge of extinction. If anything, I didn't possess what you would call a British accent; Tavi did, however, and that added a soft touch to my heart. If that is any indication, I was reading an American book, written by an American author, with American spelling; and I was just going to inform Tavi about its title. So no, I don't mind Great Britain becoming another America; it's just rather strange to watch.

"Breakfast of Champions, by Kurt Vonnegut," I finally replied, fixing my attention on the filly. Her eyes shone at my mentioning of the title.

"Is it about cereal?" she asked, tiny notes of hope evident in her tone.

"No." I chuckled and shook my head, my hair falling onto my eyes. I made a note to drop by a hairdresser's, for I liked my hair neatly cut and relatively short. "It's not about cereal." Indeed, she was a smart filly, but just a filly nevertheless. "It's about..." I searched the depths of my mind to find the safest issue raised in the book; and, believe me, if it was Vonnegut, it was so damn difficult. "Well, many things." I took a puff. Puff puff puff. Sweet nicotine making my worries melt away. Puff puff puff. Making my head light. Puff. Making life easier.

"Mostly, it's about a man," I carried on, my mind a little clearer, thanks to the wonderful nicotine. Now that I think about it, nicotine is one hell of a drug: it grants you a better perception of reality, but rips you of it almost entirely, at the same time. Let me explain. Before you get addicted, you have a certain level of wit, and intelligence, and so on. When you do get addicted, life becomes a two-sided coin for you. When you take the drug, your 'certain level' rises; when you don't, it becomes lower than it used to be before you got addicted. If you manage to break the habit, however, you return to the state of absolutely normal 'certain level'. But old habits die hard, what?

"It's about a man named Kilgore Trout," I continued, paying utmost attention to my phrasing. "He lives his life as a writer, but then sudden, unexpected events happen to him." The filly was listening attentively; at least she didn't ask what 'unexpected' meant. "Then he finds out he was just a character in Vonnegut's book; the author appears in the story and tells him about it," I concluded, taking another puff.

"How does he react?" Octavia asked, lying still on the sofa, her pose royal and regal. "Kilgore Trout, I mean," she specified.

"Well..." I frowned. I glanced at the thin trail of smoke that was making its way to the window. "You'll find out when you read it, when you're older. I don't want to spoil it." Of course that was an excuse. I could come up with an excuse for pretty much anything. But I was at least partially right in my conclusion: she was too young to understand Vonnegut's books yet. She didn't have the experience. But then again, how could she gain experience without interacting with the outside world? Sure, I had a lot of books, but still... Well, at least she was smart enough to realise that she had to grow up to understand some things.

"What if you're a character?" she wondered solemnly, staring at the ceiling. "Or if I'm a character, in somepony's book?" Oh crap. She wasn't supposed to have existential problems yet! (I still couldn't help but find it rather cute when she said, 'somepony' instead of 'somebody'.) I had to make up for that, so I placed the pipe into the ashtray, and approached the little pony and hugged her.

"You're real," I said. "I'm real. We're here, talking with each other; so we're real." Well, that was a crappy explanation, but it seemed that it was enough to calm the filly. Not me, however; I still wasn't sure about her. I mean, she was real; but still, she was a character; a character of a cartoon I watched; a character of my fanfics...

"Do you want to be a writer?" she asked suddenly as I broke the embrace, distancing myself from the grey filly, lest my foul breath bring any inconvenience to her.

"No," I lied. Of course I did. Well, technically, I was a writer, if fanfiction counted as writing. But I felt that a lie would be better, in this situation. Just had a feeling, you know? "Life's pretty much interesting as it is." Another lie. Life wasn't interesting; it wasn't supposed to be interesting, and, strangely enough, I was all right with that. As I returned to my place by the kitchen, I could feel the filly's purple (lavender?) eyes piercing me.

"But sometimes books are more interesting," she said, and, mentally, I couldn't disagree with that. She was right; she was so right. I marvelled at how intelligent she was, for her age. I reminded myself that I didn't know her exact age yet; but she was way smarter than an ordinary child.

So, instead of arguing, I took my already dying pipe, and resumed my smoking. She remained silent, lost in thought, and so did I. We sat in silence as Monk played his jazz, bringing a touch of sunshine to the plain winter evening.

***

White snow was falling from the sky, little snowflakes ending up on my coat and hair. It was rather cold, but I felt no need for a cap; I loved the way snow touched my head from above, melting slowly, making my hair wet and sticky. It was only my ears that were bugging me: they were numb, and probably red from the chilly bite of the temperature; but I didn't really care. All I cared about was the little filly that was warm and content in my bosom, and the beauty of the night that was only accentuated by the emptiness of the park we were walking about.

It felt nice, just walking, wandering around the familiar surroundings, exploring unfamiliar paths and passages, even though for me, there were few of those: I had walked about the city (well, at least my district and a few neighbouring ones) many times, and noticed every little deviation from what I'd seen before: a new garbage can, a new bench near the lake. New. Everything was new. The city was renovating itself, but I wasn't fond of any kind of renewal.

Contemplating, without thinking - that was my aim, my ultimate goal in life. Thinking led to the thoughts - haunting thoughts about nothing, or maybe everything at all, that would haunt me, for minutes, for hours, paralysing my activity, making a useless lump of clay of me, - one more psychological issue of mine. Some people believed, and some still believe, that we, as the human race, take our root in the lump of clay that our common ancestor once was. I didn't share their opinion; but sometimes I couldn't help but notice that we all were lumps of clay, more or less. Marching on with our briefcases and business suits, our jeans and headphones - the barrier between us the outside world: I can't hear the world, so it can't reach me - we were all lumps of clay, with no motivation, no goal, no hope of safety whatsoever.

"Are you all right?" I asked Tavi, making my way to the entrance that served as one of the many exits to the park. It had been a few weeks since I had invented the convenient way to take her outside, in my bosom, under the warm shield of my coat, at night, and I would always ask the same question. I would have phrased it differently, like 'You all right?' or something of the kind, but the filly always protested against breaking strict, fundamental grammar rules, even in a spoken conversation, and, besides, I had been teaching her grammar, along with other subjects, so what kind of tutor would I be, not following my own teaching?

"Yes," she replied, shifting to occupy a more comfortable position. "You know," she carried on after of few seconds of silence, "it's beautiful." I listened quietly, as I would always do when she spoke; sometimes children can teach us much more about the world that we already know. "The park, and the lake, and the trees. It's, like..." I winced a little. I could never stand the word 'like' used in such a way; still, I remained silent, my frown invisible to the grey filly. "I've been here many times, and every time it's new. But it's not. The park is the same, but it's kind of new to me every time I'm here." I could hear her grunt in irritation. "It sounds silly, but I can't explain it."

"It doesn't," I assured her. She was so smart; way smarter than a kid of her age. But I have already said that, haven't I? "I understand." Even though I didn't feel the same, I could still see her point. I could feel it, in some way. "Some people say that 'new' is just 'old' taking a new shape." I didn't feel the need to visualise inverted commas, for Octavia couldn't see them. Besides, I didn't really feel the need for them.

I left the park, and made my way along the narrow street, thankful that we hadn't had any encounters. I was afraid of those, and rightfully so: even if we didn't meet thugs, we could always come across ordinary people, lonely night crawlers, romance-seeking couples, that wouldn't be particularly open-minded about a cartoon pony, and a real one at that. Sometimes I wonder if most British people were accepting and tolerant due to the sheer force of law; our nation is law-abiding, but by no means tolerant; if anything, we are still very conservative, almost all of us, deep beneath the frontier of our skin, where modern trends and mores couldn't reach.

"People," Octavia said, and I felt my gut twist in knots. This was a question I had tried to avoid, all that time. Surely the filly would notice, albeit from literature only, that the world I lived in was not Equestria; if anything, we were all a very, very long way from becoming Equestria, and our morals. "There aren't many ponies here, what?"

I winced again, both from the question and the way she phrased it. And here I was, thinking I was teaching her proper grammar. I wished she'd said 'are there', as it was the right way to use the English language, and not the spoken abomination we, as the British, had created from a simple question word. But then again, I did use it myself, and way too often at that, what? Oh, here it is again.

I shivered from the cold wind blowing against my face, picking up the snow from the ground and entwining its ethereal body with the snowflakes. But even more, I shivered upon realising that I had to answer; and I really didn't know what to say, maybe for the first time in my life. Previously, I would have said something in reply to pretty much everything, all be it a lie. But I couldn't lie to her. Not to my little Tavi. How could I tell her the truth? How would she react upon seeing that she was in the wrong world, realm, universe - whatever! How could I shield her from the painful, hurting truth?

I accidentally stepped on a crack in the pavement and cursed mentally. I didn't like stepping on cracks. No, there wasn't any mystical reason behind that, like 'the earth would swallow me' or something like that. I just didn't like it, and that was all. Add it to the list of my quirks.

"Having a good time?"

I stopped, and my blood ran cold. Funny, how we write that, instead of depicting the actual emotion of fear, or the physical process in our body, which now was my blood pressure skyrocketing, while I remained oblivious to it: I was focused only on the low, masculine voice behind me, or, to be more exact, its bearer.

As I turned round and prayed that Tavi wouldn't reply to that question, being the polite filly she was, I saw that, in fact, there was not one, but two men standing next to me, wearing long black coats and hats. My heart jumped to my throat. Those weren't mere street thugs, or hooligans, or whatever; those weren't the kind of guys who would come up to you wearing jeans, or cheap training suits, and ask if you 'had a light'. Even from their appearance, from the way they were standing, the calm superiority their strong bodies carried, I could easily deduce that those were professional criminals, to say the least. Recidivists, even.

"Yes, why?" This was pointless; this whole discussion was pointless. Funny thing is, I barely felt any connection to reality. Everything seemed even more surreal than the evening I found Tavi; it all felt as if it were a dream, and the worst thing was that I didn't know what to do.

"Well, aren't you a loudmouth." One of the men winced at my voice (probably the raspiness of it, not the volume), while the other one began approaching me, covering the small distance between us. "Just stay still, and you'll be safe."

He didn't have a smug grin on his face; if anything, he remained perfectly calm, and that, in addition to his commanding tone, made me obey. Tavi had remained strangely calm all that time, probably due to the fear; or, more likely, she didn't know those people meant harm. Tavi! a thought rushed through my head as the thug (I decided to call them 'thugs', at least inside my head) dipped his hand into my bowel.

"No!" I shouted out, and tried to block his head, that ugly palm that was going to rob me of what was dearest to me! Yet, he easily avoided my pathetic attempt and took the filly out, holding her with two fingers, as if he were holding something dirty.

"What's that?" He frowned, his fingers almost releasing the filly, who, to my horror, didn't make any attempts to break free. "A plush toy?"

Now, I could write something exciting. Like, 'I charged at them with all of my might' or 'I yelled, "Let her go!" and delivered a mighty punch at him' or something like that. But the reality was different, and not even half as romantic as what you read in books. In reality, I let out something that could be considered a roar, a primeval sound driven by instincts, and ran headlong into the thug who was holding my Tavi. He was stronger; but I took him by surprise, so he staggered back and let go of the filly, who ended up in my hands as I rolled over, falling to the ground, grasping the pony to my chest.

I don't really need to describe what happened next. To put it plain and simple, they beat me, long and hard. The ribs, the back, the kidneys - especially the kidneys! It was all painful. It felt as if a whole new world of pain opened up to me, consuming me whole. I wondered why I didn't faint; if anything, that would only ease my suffering. But, in the end, I could tell myself I won. Because they didn't take her. I had managed to protect her, even at the cost of a few broken ribs and countless bruises. Tavi was safe, trembling as I held her in my hands, shielding her with my body; I was glad that she showed at least some kind of reaction, that she was conscious.

They didn't take anything. People like them don't go lurking the streets to take your stuff. Sometimes they are even more rich than you are. In this situation, they probably were. They just have this strange, inexplicable aggression burning inside their hearts, or souls, if you prefer a more traditional approach. I used to have it, too; but it just wasn't there anymore. There was one crucial distinction between them and me, and that was the fact that I'd been cured. Cured of this aggression. Not by pills, or doctors, or exercise. Cured by a cartoon show with colourful pastel ponies in it. When I started watching it, I felt the hate melt away like butter under the rays of midday sun; the aggression was vanishing, replaced with new ideals of love, and tolerance, and friendship. Now you understand why I am a Brony, don't you? I owe my whole life to My Little Pony. The show has changed me, and I can't imagine being the previous 'me', the 'me' before I became a Brony. I guess if I met the previous 'me', he would have kicked my arse pretty bad. Speaking of kicking...

Making sure that the thugs were gone, I managed to get up gradually, wincing at my limbs' disobedient protests against moving. It would have been so much easier, just to lie there and fall asleep eventually, but I knew I had to reach my little flat; I had a filly to calm down.

"Hey," I said weakly as I stood, staggering, in middle of the street, as the filly looked at me from my bosom, her eyes wide open.

"They beat you!" she whispered, trembling, staring into my eyes. "Why did they beat you?" she asked; demanded, even.

"They wanted to take my money," I explained, taking a few hesitant, experimental steps. "They are bad people," I said, slowly walking towards my flat, hoping that I wouldn't encounter any more trouble on my way home. But of course, there always was a possibility; Murphy's Law does work sometimes, and pretty damn well at that. I pondered over my phrasing. Were they really bad? Could people be bad as such? I guess not. People can't be good, or bad by nature; they all have their personal background, and stories to be told, and experience to share. People can't be bad, and I wanted Octavia to know that, even if she couldn't understand it yet.

I saw the ever-so-familiar block of flats and came up to the door, wincing in pain as I searched for the keys; one of my arms was probably strained. I had to see a doctor first thing in the morning. To hell with university.

"Well, what I mean is, they aren't bad." A-ha! The keys. "They just act in a bad way," I concluded, having a very difficult time going up the stairs leading to the lift.

The filly frowned and huffed, while I waited patiently for the lift to come and take us to safety. Technically speaking, we were already safe, and just a dozen steps away from my flat, but I always felt safe only inside my flat, where I could give in to the misleading feeling of total security, which, in reality, none of us have.

"But that makes them bad, doesn't it?" she said with a little hint of irritation in her voice. That hint was always present when she didn't understand something: a part of what I called 'future Octavia', meaning the adult Octavia, the pony I adored, the pony I wrote fics about, the pony who had been my constant companion on my trips to the world of music. Music... Well, at least she had formed the question correctly!

The lift carried us up slowly, but steadily; sometimes, it would take a dozen seconds to ascend four floors with those new lifts. Safety above everything - the motto of modern life. People would spend money, buying barriers that would protect them, make them safe. What people didn't see was the fact that life itself was one big escape from safety.

"No, it doesn't," I replied, staggering towards the door, holding the key in my hand. "You'll understand when you're older." Great. Now I was just abusing the hell out of the usual excuses adults would use when they couldn't explain something to those younger than them.

"But I am old, already!" She practically yelled as I entered my flat - our flat and shut the door behind me, locking it securely. "Not as old as Grandma, of course..."

As the filly carried on with her chatter, I realised something, looking at her, into her eyes, into those deep pools of purple. I couldn't avert my gaze from her, as she jumped onto the sofa, while I undressed myself, wincing from occasional pain; but she didn't seem to notice.

Responsibility. That's what it was. I was responsible. I was responsible for her. I took responsibility for her, and protected her, securing my protectorate. I finally realised what my psychiatrist meant. I had to face responsibility, sooner or later, and so I did. But it didn't feel half as bad as I had thought. If anything, it felt rather good.

Looking at the filly, I realised that one of my problems had just melted away; a drop in the ocean, a grain of sand in the desert - but now I no longer felt hostile towards responsibility. She had just cured me; much like the show she was from (or was she?) had cured me previously.

I smiled, not really paying attention to what she was saying - a grave mistake, because she would always ask me later, just to check if I was paying attention. But now all I could do was to stand dumbly in the middle of the room, smiling and looking at her. At my Tavi. My little Tavi.

***

I cleaned the dust off the old MIDI keyboard and sat down on the stool before the desk that was currently hosting the instrument. My limbs still ached a little now and then, and one of my ribs was knitting (yes, it had been broken during the unpleasant encounter with thugs, around a week ago), but I was eager to carry on with my duties as a tutor. And, while I suspended my own Music studies for the time of the exams session, I knew pretty much about the subject, and was ready to share my knowledge with Octavia, who, by the way, was sitting in the chair, holding a pencil in her mouth, music paper lying before her. I wondered why she was holding the pencil in her mouth when she could easily hold it in her hoof (Don't ask how. Just... don't ask), but I assumed that she'd been taught this way. Maybe it was the reason why her hoofwriting was so clean and beautiful.

I couldn't say the same about my handwriting. I was taught to write differently than my mind wanted to; my hand wasn't obeying the rules that had been laid upon me, instead succumbing to the impulses my brain sent to it. I held the pen in my own way, all be it a little strange.

Subject. Only now had I realised how painful that word sounded in my head, used to describe music. To tell the truth, I missed the days of Music. And I didn't. I missed them in the way that I would gladly welcome them back; and I didn't in the way that I didn't want to contribute anything to it. I was perfectly content with music being just that, music. I would've been happier if Music (yes, the capital letter, that wasn't a typo) had returned... but if I did anything to help it return, that would mean changing my routine, and that was a no-no. ...On the other hand, Octavia's presence was constantly lowering my devotion to routine, and my current state surely changed the routine very much. For one, the doctor insisted that I stay at home for at least half a month. Of course, I would still come to uni to take exams, but all other activities should be suspended. Well, it didn't seem like I had anything else to do, anyway, apart from playing with Octavia and tutoring her; most of my friends were gone, gone to the States, gone to the Land of Freedom.

West. They always headed West. Why? I couldn't say for sure. People escaped from Eastern Europe to Western Europe; Western Europeans left the continent to settle down here, sometimes; we flew across the ocean to America, making New York our new home. Then people would move West, from New York, all across the country, and finally settle down somewhere in Nevada or California; San Francisco or Los Angeles. And then they would find themselves in the city of Lost Angels, if you pardon my terrible pun, or 'Frisco', and suddenly realise that they had reached West. Nowhere to head any more. What would they do then?

I sighed and pressed my fingers against my closed eyes, massaging the eyeballs - a technique that my psychiatrist had taught me, originally used in China, if my memory serves me right. Maybe it was the East we tried to reach, through the prism of a whole giant country?

"Well, let's begin." I would always start a lesson with this phrase, regardless of the subject, just so the filly would see it was 'study time'. I shifted uneasily, thinking about what to begin with, in the first place: I had long forgotten what my own Music education had begun with, and, needless to say, I didn't keep any books on the subject, save for a short reference book with all the chord patterns, just in case.

"Music," I said dumbly, noticing, out of the corner of my eye, that the filly had written ~Music~ on the paper. Always the hardworking one, she would never miss I single word I said, she would always jot everything down, even if it wasn't directly related to the subject. Music. What could I tell her about it?

Music is the epitome of everything that a person holds dear; everything that makes it worth living in this grim reality. Music is more than love, and life, and death, and it is love, and life, and death, - all at the same time. Music is the last frontier of mind, the last boundary a soul has to cross to break through. Break through - where? How? That didn't matter. What did matter was the wonderful, inspiring similarity between Music and Freedom.

That's what music used to be, to me. Believe it or not, at that exact moment, just as I thought about it, I could feel the long lost connection to music; maybe for a mere second, but it was there, like a fleeting dream that you will try to catch by the tail but always fail.

It may seem strange to you, really. I mean... Well, I'm talking about my connection with music as if it wasn't subjective and totally dependent on my own actions and will. But it wasn't. It's hard to explain; but I just couldn't feel the music anymore. I wasn't part of the music, and it was no more a fundamental need to me, like breathing on consuming water. But it used to be. If I hadn't felt so involved in Music before, I probably wouldn't have been so broken about the fact that the feeling was gone. Sometimes I think it's better, for all of us, not to try anything, or to try as few things as possible; just because when you stop getting a kick of something, a part of your soul becomes black, scotched and dead, just like the ash that I would shake out of my pipe every evening.

"So, let's begin with notes," I finally said, having decided on what to start with. Notes. Of course. You start learning how to write with letters, so it's only obvious to start Music lessons with learning notes. I wrote down a simple C scale, showing the paper to Tavi. "Here, copy this, and I'll tell you what these little dots are called."

To my surprise, the filly didn't write down anything, but instead just frowned and shook her head so fervently that I was afraid it would fall off. "Those are notes, a C scale." She eyed me indulgently. It's a strange feeling, when a child looks at you as if you are a kid who can't understand a simple thing. But then again, hasn't someone said that children should be indulgent towards adults?

"Well, um, yeah." I scratched the top of my head in embarrassment. Surely she had received some basic Music education; the thought just hadn't crossed my mind before. "Well, let's go straight to modes, then..."

But, before I could speak further, Tavi interrupted me in irritation - something she wouldn't usually do, being the polite and refined filly she was. "I know about modes: Ionian, Dorian and so on." Her pencil was lying on the music paper idly, and I put down mine. "Mama and papa have taught me Music theory."

Wow. My jaw may or may not have hit the floor when I heard the grey filly pronounce the names of modes perfectly, which was even stranger, considering that she was still having trouble with pronoucing some of the longer words in the English language. Well, it seemed that her parents have really put her Music education above everything else.

I blinked and smiled sheepishly. "Then, um... What would you like to do?" Yes, when I'm confused, I always ask the stupidest question ever, 'What would you like to do?' Funny thing is, it works in most cases; moreover, this way, you trasnfer the responsibility for any kind of talk to your interlocutor, and that was a very pleasant touch, to me.

She eyed me again in a way that almost screamed, 'Are you dumb?' Well, maybe I was. I was intelligent when it came down to some aspects of humanities and social subjects, but when it came down to something practical, I could be just as stupid as the next man; maybe even more. "I want to make music, silly!" she exclaimed, and the way she said, 'silly', send my heart aflutter. It was so cute to hear it from her; hell, I would unleash my whole stupidity just to hear her say it again! "I don't mean you're really silly," she quickly added in an apologetic tone. "But I know Music theory!" She jumped up a little on the sofa. "I want to play music!"

But of course she did - I could see it in her eyes; the way her big, round lavender eyes shone with tiny rays of hope and happiness at the mentioning of making music gave away her desire, and, to be honest, made me a little envious, reminding me of the time when my own eyes would react to the same subject. Why didn't they shine anymore? What have I done to ruin my perfect relationship with Music?

Suddenly, I noticed a hint of despair in my thoughts. That was new; previously, I would think about my lost connection with music with a little sadness, but that was accepting sadness. Now, it rebelled; it urged me to find the reason why, and make amends; it begged me to return to Music, and, strange as it may seem, that scared me. I didn't know what to do; I had listened to so many old records, but the feeling just wasn't there anymore. What could I do?

Apparently, the only thing I could do was to at least make sure that Tavi could fulfil her desires, and never lose her own very special, very individual connection with Music.

"What instrument would you like to play, then?" I asked, turning round on the stool and facing the filly without having to turn my head. The question came out differently than I had expected; it was not a simple question, but an invitation, as if I were a shop assistant at a music shop, asking her what her next purchase would be. And, given that it would be her first 'purchase', I had to do my best.

"The cello," she replied simply, but at the same time firmly, leaving no room for discussion. The answer was obvious to her, and so it was to me. I judged by what I knew from the show, and she judged by her heart's desire; and, this time, our judgement was the same.

"Tavi," I began carefully, not to offend the energetic filly. "I'm afraid the cello would be too big for you to handle." I didn't want to crush her dream; but reality was stomping on it, bringing about its stupid facts that we took for granted, its precise measures that by default prevented a little filly from playing the instrument of her choice.

She frowned, thinking over my words, wrinkling her forehead. "Don't they make custom cellos?" she asked, looking at me with dying hope in her eyes. "I can have a little cello, just for my size," she offered; and how could I ever say no to that offer?

They did indeed make custom pieces, and I knew just the place, and just the master. All I had to do was to take measures, and bring them to him; and, in a couple of weeks (or less, if I paid extra), it would be done. Of course, it would hit my budget pretty hard; but then again, I had some savings; and what else would I spend them on if not a special present for my little Tavi? I couldn't imagine my life without her anymore, and it would be only fair that I repay her kindness, and the way she made me happy, and the way she snuggled up to me on cold nights, and the way she wrinkled her nose, and the way she looked into my eyes, pouring meaning into the empty vial that my life had become.

"Well, I guess..." I smiled, happy that at least that issue could be solved. "That can be arranged." I could have said, 'done', but I had taught her the word, 'arrange', and I paid utter attention to using the new words she'd learned as often as I could.

With a gleeful cheer, the filly took a running start and leapt at me from the sofa. I was prepared for this, however, and embraced her, chuckling at how she rubbed her nose against my cheek in a genuine show of gratitude. There are so many genuine, pure things in the world that you learn to cherish them, and, most of all, I cherished my little Tavi.

"Thank you thank you thank you!" she exclaimed, showering me with little pecks all over my face, pure, divine touches that were a clear example of what true emotion should be, little notes that made the symphony of my life complete.

"Now, now." I patted her back, smiling in content, and she calmed down immediately, resting in my hands. "Making a cello for you will take some time, though; I'll get in touch with the master tomorrow." I shifted a little as Tavi's weight pressed against my rib, sending a shard of pain through my chest. The smart filly understood me perfectly, and jumped off me, landing on the floor gracefully. I marvelled at how she managed to make her each and every gesture so refined, so royal, so exquisite. She was Octavia, after all, I mused. "Now, if you really want to make music, I can teach you how to use a music programme and the keyboard."

"Keyboard?" she reiterated as I ran Mixcraft on my PC, making sure that the keys were properly connected. "The thing you type on?"

"Not in this context." The programme was loading, and I tried to lean back when I noticed that there was no back to lean on. Damn stools. "I mean the MIDI keyboard." I tapped the keys, and Octavia's mouth formed an 'o' of understanding. "You can play it like a piano, or you can use it for writing music for other instruments," I explained as Mixcraft had almost finished loading. This wasn't the best music programme, but I liked it for its simplicity: I could simply plug in my guitar, work with the effects or connect a hardware processor, and make music, without any hardships that I had encountered while using other products. Yes, I'm very bad with software, any kind of it. One might say I'd better stick to Logic, but then again, I didn't want to spend my savings on a Mac, especially given that they were to be spent on Tavi's custom cello.

The programme greeted me with a tabula rasa, a clean project page to be filled with notes, or recordings, or samples, or everything at once. I took a quick glance, remembering all the features I was going to show Tavi, realising that I hadn't loaded the programme for ages. How long had it been since I had stopped composing music? I couldn't tell.

Suddenly, anger boiled within me, anger at myself, at my current self. I used to be different! I used to be creative! I used to spend hours writing music, and listening to music, and playing my guitar to the old jazz records, a pipe hanging out of my mouth, in the best traditions of bebop. I used to love music. No, I used to be one with it; not a beneficial relationship, but a single body and soul; my hands the hands of Music; its soul my soul. Where had it gone? What had I become, stuck in my convenient, cosy routine?

I gritted my teeth in irritation. Maybe I had to take action. Maybe I had to do something. But right now, I had a filly to teach. Who knows - maybe I could restore a little music inside myself, teaching it to her?

I smiled and let the filly occupy my position, standing up by the desk, holding the mouse in my hand. Yes, Tavi's hoof would fit both the mouse and the MIDI keyboard, I noted satisfactorily. She would be able to compose her very own music...

"Now, first, you open up the stave..."

***

"What?!"

I leaned back in the chair, astonished and utterly confused. That was a painful blow, much harder than anything else I had ever received. The news struck me hard, and crushed the very pillars of my life, sending me down in the dark abyss, hopeless and weak before the painful truth.

The doctor frowned and placed the radiograph onto the desk, among countless disordered papers and folders. One could have assumed that a doctor would keep his stuff in order, but this one, apparently, had neither the desire not the time to organise his documentation. I glanced at the photograph on my lungs, delivered by the X-ray technology.

"Mr O'Ra-" he began, but I waved my hand before his face, cutting him short.

"Just Josh," I said, my eyes fixed on the photograph, inspecting two little dots onto it, dots that naturally shouldn't have been there.

"Josh," he corrected himself, without arguing. I guess it's a natural rule of all doctors: never argue with the patient. "I hate to say it, but you do have lung cancer."

Dropping the bomb like that so suddenly, and now repeating it, he was still maintaining the professional voice that people of his profession possess; I assume that they eventually get used to informing people of terminal disease, and it no longer tugs at their heartstrings. My heartstrings? They practically had broken the very moment he said that.

Such information is something you do not usually receive well. Sometimes, you protest against it, but I didn't feel like protesting. I just wanted clarification, although the evidence was visible to me, provided by the photograph.

"This two dots, here and here." He pointed at the dots on the photo, so that I could see them; but I had found them already. "Those are tumours. It may sound ironic, but you are rather lucky to have broken your rib; without this X-rays, you would have never found out about your condition."

Condition. The word sounded like a verdict, the kind a judge would announce in court. I didn't like his phrasing. Hell, I didn't like the whole situation in the slightest, which, as you have probably already understood, was far, very far from pleasant.

"I guess I'll need an operation?" I asked, without much hope in my voice. I knew the answer. I knew the answer already, but I wanted to hear it. You may call it masochism, but I wanted to hear it from him.

He shook his head and leaned back in his own chair as well. "No. I'm afraid it won't help. You have encountered the terminal stage," he explained, but that announcement was sand to me. I just stared dumbly at the X-ray photograph, eyeing the two ever so little, but oh so insidious dots.

"I see," I said. It felt strange, really: I had just been told that I was going to die, and I didn't feel any anger, or disbelief, or anything at all, for that matter. I guess what they said about 'stages of accepting death' or something was a lie: I didn't feel any of them approaching. There was no doubt, no anger, no denial. There was only acceptance, and immediate acceptance at that. "How long do I have?" I wondered, not diverting my gaze for a second.

It took him some time to reply. I didn't see his face, but I assumed he was a little surprised at my idleness, and calmness. I was surprised at how calm I was; and that was scary, to be honest. Lung cancer. I was going to die. Then why didn't I give a damn?

"A few months. Three to six, to be exact. I would have advised chemo, but I will be honest with you: it won't help."

"Thank you for being honest," I said dumbly. Honesty. A virtue, according to MLP; a vice in real life. Honesty was painful; but I was really thankful to him for being straightforward, for not beating around the bush. Who knew a simple X-ray check would turn out to be so cruel? At least I knew how much time I had left, and that was soothing me a little, if such a word could be applied to my state.

"Josh..." he tried to say, but I shook my head in disapproval.

"No. Please. Don't say anything." Damn it, I needed to have a smoke. Rather ironic, considering that it was smoking that had driven me to such a state, a state of a dying person. I was dying, and I couldn't do a damnest thing about it. I was seriously dying, and I didn't give two shits. I'd just accepted the news as if it were an invitation to a tea party. Believe it or not, but that was true. I could write more elaborately, had I thoroughly inspected my feelings; but I hadn't. And I didn't feel the need to: it was my psychiatrist job, the meeting with whom was scheduled for the next hour. Exactly one hour - that's how long it would take me to get to him from the hospital, which I'd visited for a quick check of my recovering rib.

He remained silent, and so did I. There were no words to say, no feelings to express. He'd informed me of my condition; I'd accepted it. Simple as that. Life really was much more simple than what you may read in books. Were I a novel character, I'd probably yell, or try to clarify the information for hours, and days, until I finally came to terms with the fact I was dying. But I was just a human being, and that was how I acted.

I got up and headed towards the door. "Thank you," I said, turning the knob, and leaving the room. He didn't reply. They had knobs here, not handles, I noted idly. I had to leave, now, and think. Think about how I would tell my family about all of this. Think about how I, albeit involuntary, followed in my father's steps, in a way, by having to die from the same disease. Think about what was going to happen to her - to my little Tavi.

***

Well, that's it. I have said all that I wanted to say, written all that I wanted to write. The only thing to do now is to submit the story and hope it will pass moderation. I don't know why I have written all of this; now that I read it, it seems less like a story and more like a strange, tangled stream of consciousness. I guess that this story is a way of shaking off the burden from my shoulders, and passing it on to the readers. I will die soon, and that's a bitch; but there is one last thing I want to share. It's rather strange to write in present tenses, but I will do so, given that I'm describing what is happening in the moment.

Right now, I am sitting on the sofa, typing little black letters into the chapter box. Tavi is standing nearby, on the stool, leaning against her cello, a bow in her hoof. I still haven't found out how ponies do that; maybe I'll have a chance to ask Pinkie Pie about that if I go to Equestria when I die. But of course I won't. Those are dreams; but a man can dream, what?

Her cello is beautiful: I never regret spending money on it; and she likes it so much. She has a natural talent, a very special talent with the cello; I thought I would need to find a tutor for her, but, strangely enough, she has learned to play the instrument herself. A damn shame I'll never see her get her cutie mark.

She is standing against her cello, concentrated, running her hoof across the strings. I can't help but smile at her: she smiles back, a little nervous and shy. It's only to be expected: it's her first performance, all be it for the humble audience of one - me. She has spent hours in Mixcraft, composing the perfect backing track to accompany her, and I haven't seen it yet: she decided to keep it a secret.

I have my secrets, too. For one, she doesn't know about my condition yet. I have thought about it, on cold nights, in a prayer for dawn, and I have come to a simple conclusion. I have told my relatives about Tavi; at first, they didn't believe me; I'm not sure they believe me even now. But I got them to promise to take Tavi and look after her, take care of her, as if she were my sister. They promised.

I will tell her later. There will be tears, and sadness, and despair. Or, maybe, she will understand. I don't know. It's not the present; it's the future. And, as some man said, the future is always bright. ...Right?

"Josh, I'm ready."

Obeying her command, I stand up and approach the PC, which is now running Mixcraft. I finally glance at the project Octavia has created: a classical composition, maybe lacking form a little, but following other rules nevertheless. A violin, a double bass, pizzicato strings (I really wish I could get a better VST for those, and one compatible with the programme at it), and... vibes? I blink in surprise. Vibes surely add a little jazz-y touch to the composition, usually.

But she is waiting! So, without overthinking the issue (overthinking, my ultimate vice), I press the button and sit down on the sofa again.

The song starts off with the pizzicato strings, accompanied with vibes. Then, something incredible happens: the violin kicks in, and my little Tavi begins to play her cello. It's a deep, soul-shattering, haunting melody; I've never thought she was capable of composing something so powerful. I look at her in astonishment, but she doesn't notice: her eyes are closed as her bow runs across the strings, delivering the powerful, enigmatic sounds straight to my soul.

Tears are blocking my vision, but those aren't tears of sadness. Those are tears of happiness, if anything. Not only am I happy that my Tavi has composed her very first song, but I am eternally grateful for the gift she has just bestowed upon me: I can feel her music rushing through my body and soul, filling my mind from the inside, running though my veins and penetrating every tissue. I can feel music; I can feel music once more. I can feel her music. I know I will come up to her and hug her when she's done; I'm going to hold her in my embrace as long as I can, to make sure I will remember it till the day I die, which, unfortunately, is going to be soon, really soon.

And I know what I am going to do next. I will take my guitar, and put on Monk's record, and play, and play, and play, until my fingers ache so much that it will prevent me for playing any more; and then I will play some more. I will let Music conquer my soul again, and take me by the hand, and guide me through the dark corners of my mind, towards the light. Just as it is meant to be. As it used to be.

But right now, I have something more important to do. My little Tavi is performing, and I have a symphony to listen to.

***

"Children, I have good news for you!"

The nurse entered the room, a beautiful tall brunette, by no means young, but vigorous, radiating happiness. One ought to have qualities like that, working in an orphanage.

The children were sitting on the floor in small groups, talking to each other, but as soon as she came in, carrying a large brown box, all conversations ceased.

"Looks like Bronies For Good have some presents for you!" she cheered, opening the package, which was full of toys: plushies, and little figurines, and rubber sculptures.

"This one's for you, Jimmy," she said, handing an Applejack plushie to a shy young boy, who smiled politely and carried his present away to the corner of the room, to play in silence, like he often would.

"Layla, this one's for you." A cheerful girl took the Pinkie Pie figurine happily, running off to show it to her friends.

"Tommy, this one's for you."

A teenage boy got up from the floor and approached the nurse, casting his glance at the box. He didn't particularly like such events; but at least those 'Bronies' were contributing something meaningful to the society, something that could be qualified as 'good', even though he, Thomas, or, 'Tommy', knew from experience that there was so very few 'good' in the world.

"It came in a box," the nurse said, handing the package to the boy, who took it silently and left the room at once. No one noticed him leave, and he was thankful for that. He liked to live his life in contemplating silence, and people eventually realised that. He had his own room, and he couldn't ask for more. Family? He knew very well than no one would adopt a child like him: people would adopt young children, but not a teenager. Hell, in a few years, he would be a grown-up! He was already considering finding a job at the nearby factory. Higher education was off his limits, of course.

He entered his room and placed the box on the bed. It had holes in it, as if there was a dog or a cat inside, a living being that needed to breathe. But of course it couldn't be true: no one would part with a pet for the orphans, and, besides, it was against the rules.

Thomas sighed and looked at the marking on the box, reading,

From: Josh and his family

To whom it may concern

He didn't know who this 'Josh' was, nor did he care about his family. In fact, he didn't care about anything. It was easier not to care. Feelings only hindered the ability to survive.

Might as well open it, he thought and opened the box, carefully tearing the upper part apart. Inside, he saw a toy. A plushie, like many others he had received. Usually, he would just give his annual present to some younger boy or girl, He didn't need toys. Life itself was a hard game.

But this toy was different: it was a grey pony filly, with a long black mane and lavender eyes. It was very well made, Thomas couldn't help but notice: the fleece was so fine that it gave the impression of actual fur; and a pink bow tie on the filly's neck was a nice touch. The filly was so little, presumably five or six years old, if toys could be assigned age, of course.

He leaned in to take a closer look. It was so perfect: a product of a very skilful crafter, no less. Suddenly, he noticed the filly blink. He chuckled. His imagination was playing tricks with him; but then again, whose wouldn't, upon seeing a toy so realistic? He was leaving this one to himself, he decided. The filly blinked again. Thomas frowned. His imagination was really running wild, wasn't it? The toy shifted. What the-

"Boo!"