Broadhoof Files: Dr. Humors

by TypewriterError

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 13969

Broadhoof Asylum: Where things rarely happen as they should.

Broadhoof Memorial Psychiatric Hospital: the goal of many prestigious psychiatric doctors all over Equestria. Where countless ponies are treated and cured daily of debilitating disease through careful study and progress.

If only it was that easy...

Cover art by Daemon of Decay
Editors/Prereaders: Balmas, Csquared08, Daemon of Decay, and ZeroOmega

Published 2013-02-27 00:20:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-02-27 00:20:02 UTC

Excerpts

A stack of papers rests atop the table before you, the multi-colored sheets forming a kaleidoscope of hues and patterns, but out of all of them, a plain square of tan paper is slid out by a pastel yellow hoof. This task would be easier with magic, but magic isn’t allowed here, not even for a unicorn. You glance up at the dampener on her horn instinctively. Unsurprisingly, it is still firmly locked in place. You return to watching her as she folds the sheet in half, her hoof shushing the paper as it slides across the surface to crease the sheet into a triangle. Her dark green eyes turn on you suddenly, behind the square frames that match the green in her eyes and hair. You’re used to this. It’s normal for patients to be defensive. You sit up straighter.

“It’s quiet now. Do you like it?” you venture. She nods. You slide another square of paper over the wooden table towards yourself, this one blue with yellow vines swirling over it. She watches you until you stop to return her look, which instantly restores itself to the task at hoof. She folds the paper diagonally the opposite way.

“I’ve read over your case file from Dr. Hearth. She says that you never spoke to her outside of sign language or writing.” She looks up at you condescendingly, “I’m only letting you know what I’ve been told. I won’t keep things from you. I won’t lie to you.” She brings her right hoof to slice across her throat: an automatic negation of what was last said. She’s calling you a liar. Her forest green eyes turn back to the object she is folding.

“I know, it must be hard to trust anyone—” she bring both of her forelegs up to make a cross in front of her chest.

Stop. I don’t want to talk about that.

“Alright. We won’t discuss trust then,” you concede. She looks back down to her object. You mimic her actions and the air is filled with the creasing of thin paper. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and you see her glance up towards the window.

“Do you like thunderstorms?”

She slowly shakes her head.

“I love them, personally. At least I do now. But when I was a filly, they used to terrify me. The sounds seemed so loud and threatening. Is that why you don’t like them? The noise scares you?”

She sits there, stopped. Her eyes stare into the emptiness next to your chair. You’ve said something meaningful and make a note of it in your folder. She isn’t watching you when you turn back to her. After a few moments she returns her attention to her origami and folds a part of the structure down. It looks like she is making a crane and forming the wings. The crisp edges of the paper are perfection, derived from concentration and practice.

“May I call you ‘Type’?” you ask her. She doesn’t look up. Eventually, she nods, taking her glasses off and setting them down.

“Let’s finish our origami then. We can talk later,” you say. She probably needs time to get used to you. The next moment you look up at her, the crane is finished and sits in front of her while she stares at the rainstorm outside. All of her black and green hair is swept over one shoulder and she absentmindedly runs her hooves over the shiny tresses.

She looks normal. Yes, perhaps she’s more pensive than most ponies her age, but she doesn’t look like the kind of pony likely to cut somepony else’s tongue out. Then again, no one is quite sure how she removed the other mare’s tongue. The thought does make you somewhat queasy when you dwell on it. She looks at you when you shift. You smile at the mare, to reassure yourself as much as her. You can almost see the wall in her mind where she has blocked you out.

“Anything you’d like to say?” you ask her, removing a notebook and pen from your saddlebag next to you and sliding it across the table to her. She stares at it blankly, then picks the pen up in her mouth. Her cursive comes in fluid movements, except she constantly backtracks to “fix” mistakes in her letters: the loop didn’t meet, the line is wobbly, all are little mistakes that don’t need to be fixed. She places the pen down next to the pad and then slides the notebook back across the table. You place your hoof on it after she lifts hers. Her hooves shake and she hides them away in the bends of her forelegs. You look down at the notebook where the ink has been pressed into the paper.

I lie all the time.

“Good afternoon, Haven,” you say to a mint green pony. She raises her head to peek out at you from beneath her straw hat. Her smile brightens.

“Good afternoon, Doctor. Isn’t today beautiful?”

“It certainly is. How goes the garden?” you ask her. Haven has such a calming way about her. Despite being at least five years younger than you, talking to her felt like you were spending time with a beloved aunt, one always ready with a quirky smile and a comfortable hug. The smell of dirt is released from the soil as she shoves her trowel into a bare patch of ground.

“Going quite well. I’m glad the storm ended so quickly. There aren’t any puddles to worry about. Doctor Applejack gave me some new seeds to plant and the soil is perfect now. I’m not sure what they are yet, but we’ll see when they grow. Look at these tomatoes, though!” she says, poking her hoof among some hanging leaves to pull a healthy crop out. They’re still green for now, but their skins shine, stretching over sizable fruit. Your mouth waters just by looking at them.

“I’m always fascinated how you earth ponies can make things grow so well.”

“Well, earth ponies have a magic all our own,” she says, tucking the tomatoes back with a gentle pat, “It’s not powerful, but it’s always there. Do you think the kitchen could use these when they’re done?”

“I’d imagine so.” You take a slow breath, to indicate the change in tone. “Now, I heard about your incident with Water Lily.”

“Oh.” She sits back and looks at her tomato plants.

“What did we say about that sort of behaviour?”

“I’m sorry. I did try to help them carry her out.”

“Haven, these outbursts have grown more frequent lately. Are the therapy sessions bothering you? You were making significant progress.”

“I know... I don’t know why I keep...” she sighs and hangs her head. Only the tips of her vanilla and chocolate mane are visible beneath the rim of the straw hat.

“I do believe you’re getting better, but it’s not going to be easy. Now was Water Lily going too far? Maybe. That doesn’t change anything on your part. You didn’t have to react so strongly.”

“I told her to stop talking.”

“Did you explain to her why?”

“Yes, I did! But she didn’t listen.” You gently make a shushing noise and hold out a hoof towards her. She looks down again with her dark chocolate eyes.

“What have I told you to do when somepony is bothering you, and refuses to leave you alone?”

“Talk to an orderly.”

“Yes. We’ll be careful to seat you next to a different pony from now on.” She nods her head, still staring at her tomato plants absentmindedly. “Haven, look at me.” She obeys. “I do trust that this will not happen again,” you say with the most reassuring smile you can give her. She hesitates, but then finds truth in your expression and returns the smile, lighting up.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she says, returning to her precious tomato plants. You give her a slight nod as you turn away, leaving to prepare for your next patient.

He’s shaking. This is your second session with him and so far it seems no different than the first. Dust Storm—“Dusty” for short—holds the pillow close to his chest as he faces into the couch. His feathers shiver with him. An orderly stands directly beside your chair, her mane tied out of the way and her gaze a steady bead on the patient.

“Dusty?” you ask and the wings shudder, wrapping closer to his body out of instinct before he lifts them off again with a nervous yelp. He’s too tense. You can’t talk with him like this. The orderly glances at you when you turn to her. She’s a fit unicorn, with a case strapped to her back leg.

“Anesthetic?” she asks.

“Yes, the usual dose in each wings. It might help if he can’t feel them.” She nods and unlocks the case with her magic signature. Soon, a needle appears and fills with a sluggish, yellow liquid. You can’t help but wince as you feel the noise of the needle plunging into his wing. He yelps, but doesn’t move, except to hold the pillow even tighter as he shrinks into a fetal position. You watch his wings go numb as the orderly wraps the needle in a red “Biohazard” bag to return to the case. Numbness creeps along the muscles of his wings and back. The feathers rustle involuntarily as the nerve reactions are stifled. His breathing slows as his wings fall behind him limply.

“Does that help?” you ask him. His head nods into the couch, “Can you sit up? I’d like to talk to you.” He turns his head to the left slightly and you catch a glance at his parchment-tan eyes before he begins to push himself up. After some shifting, he is seated on the couch, facing you. He looks down at his hooves for a moment, before taking the pillow up again.

“How are you feeling today, Dusty?” you ask him. His eyes are tearful when he answers,

“My name isn’t Dusty. It’s not Dust Storm either. Please... please arrest me. I have to be locked up. I have to be alone. I can’t be around other ponies.”

“What is your name if it’s not Dust Storm? That is the name that was put on your file when you came here.”

“I don’t know where the real Dust Storm is,” he insists, shaking his head in short twitches, “I swear, I don’t know.” He stretches out slightly then curls up again. “Wish I knew. Did I kill him? What happened to him? Where is he?” His eyes dart around the corners of the room. The orderly shifts. His lips flutter open and closed a few times before he speaks. “I don’t remember anything... Did I kill him?” he asks you, starting to breathe a little more quickly.

“Listen to me: you have not killed anypony. Do you know why you are here?”

“You...you think I’m Dust Storm. You think I can be fixed. I can’t.”

“Who else could you be, if you’re not Dust Storm?” This is significant progress. Your hypothesis about his wings is correct. Nurse Rachet will be pleased to hear about this. Maybe.

Dust Storm sobs, his eyes turning red with the tears falling down his sandy face. He gives a long sniff and shakes with a choking cough. You lean forwards in your chair.

“I’m a changeling,” he says, before biting his lip to keep his mouth closed.

“So you can change at will?” you say, humoring him.

“No, I was banished from the changeling kingdom. The queen put a curse on me, so I can’t ever return.”

“What is your name, then?”

“I can’t remember.” A twitch in his neck creates a loud crack. You shudder at the sound. “That might be part of the curse. I... I forgot for years... It comes back in small pieces.”

“I see. What do you remember before that, though? When you still thought yourself a pony, so to speak?”

He struggles. His face contorts as he either tries to remember, or tries to forget. He can convince himself of anything if he wants to. He looks up at you.

“Nothing.”

“Not even your family?”

“Well, I can remember them, but not that much.” His eyes follow the patterns of the carpet. “I might have made memories up just to convince myself I was a pony. They don’t know I’m not their son.”

You write down that last sentence of what he just said. That might be a hint to the true problem. The orderly’s head snaps back to look at the patient as soon as you finish. You cast a sideways glance at her before returning to him.

“Well, let’s go back, then, to the first thing you can remember. What was it? Is it an object? A word? A smell?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have plenty of time here. Go ahead and think back. The first memory you have to remember...”

Silence stills the space between you and him. This is one time where the silence doesn’t feel oppressive. He closes his eyes, but you can see his heart really isn’t into remembering. He sighs after a few ticks of the clock on the wall.

“I can’t... I just can’t think when I have to. When my mind gets close to a memory... They get blurry... They run together the closer I get.”

“I want you to try. At least tell me when you started believing that you are a changeling.”

He nods. That seems easier to him, apparently.

“I realized it after I heard about the attack on Princess Celestia. It just made sense. I feel stronger when other ponies love me. My fillyfriends keep changing and breaking up with me. I must be eating the love from them.”

“You mentioned that you believe you were banished from the changeling kingdom?”

“That’s right. I’m not sure what I did. That’s what’s been blocked out.”

“Changelings don’t have kingdoms. They live in hives.”

“I meant that,” he claims, but you can see that this is new information for him.

“Dusty—”

“Don’t call me ‘Dusty!’ He’s dead!” His shriek almost makes you jump out of your skin. His eyes are dilated, and you can picture steam coming from his nostrils.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s what they all say!” he hollers, the last word lost in a cry of rage. You only have to glance at the orderly before he is pinned underneath the mare. A tranquilizer zips from the case and plants itself into his bulging neck. He grunts from rage and continues to struggle in short jerks until the drug kicks in. Slowly his eyes close. The orderly climbs off of him.

“Ever have a patient go into rage like that before?” she asks you, an annoying shade of amusement coloring her voice.

“No.”

“At least he didn’t foam at the mouth,” she remarks. The door opens and two guards enter, look at the unconscious patient, and help the orderly to drag him away.

You glance at the clock in the room. It’s time for dinner.

You know only too well that dinnertime at Broadhoof never goes as planned.

“Inkwell, go back to your room.” His face twitches and his eyes burn at the pastel yellow unicorn as she gives him a level, hard, stare.

“I had nowhere else to sit,” he claims, narrowing his red eyes.

“That is a lie. I’ll call an orderly to come take care of you.”

“Maybe I need to talk with Typewriter here.” You don’t have to look directly at her to see she’s shaking her head.

“You have been told to stay away from her. You do not need to talk.” You raise your hoof to stop the two orderlies who are about to grab him, “He’s about to leave. Just lead him away. Don’t force him.” Inkwell’s eyes open fully and he turns his head to see Blaze and Crank ready to pounce if necessary. He turns back to you with a smug curl of his mouth, daring you to attack him first. He turns as if to leave. You roll your shoulders to release the built-up tension as a sharp breath leaves your nostrils.

His hooves strike your chest, knocking you backwards. You turn your head in time to see the tile before it delivers a cracking blow to your right temple. Inkwell’s hooves barely touch the table as he dives at Type. You take a moment to close your eyes and fight the nausea spreading from where the floor struck your face. Type’s own head hits the floor, and you can see her silent scream before Inkwell brings his hoof down on her muzzle. She swings her foreleg to block him, but he knocks it away and brings his free hoof crashing down between her eyes. You hear a loud snap, and his white hoof comes away with red on it.

He has no chance to deliver another blow before Crank dives at him, tackling Inkwell from behind. The crack of his body hitting the floor echoes around the room. Before you stand up, you see Type roll over onto her side, her hooves covering her bloodied face. By the time you limp around to where they are, Blaze and Crank are both on top of Inkwell, who is struggling to get free. Type props herself up on her front hooves. Her eyes are closed and you can see where the bridge of her glasses cut into her muzzle, pushing some of her skin back. You kneel in front of her, ignoring the pounding in your ear.

“Type, open your eyes.”

“What is going on here?” a calm mare’s voice asks with a chill that increases the throbbing in your temple. You look up at Nurse Rachet. Silas, her dutiful shadow, stands barely a hoof separate from her. They stand on the other side of the three stallions, who no longer feel the need to struggle. Her gold eyes turn to you, and you sit up a little more stiffly.

“Inkwell Strike attacked Typewriter Error,” you explain, trying to appear professional.

“That’s not supposed to happen, Doctor Humors.” You nod respectfully. Nurse Rachet turns her attention to Inkwell.

“I thought I told you not to talk to Miss Error.” Inkwell didn’t reply. “Put him in solitary until I fetch him,” she says to Blaze and Crank. Inkwell begins to struggle again, crying out as another orderly walks over with a straightjacket: two foreleg holes to tie his front hooves down, and a thick strap to tie his posterior legs up against his torso.

“No, please! Nurse Rachet! I’ll leave her alone! I promise!” he protests as they force his hooves into the sleeves. They press his forelegs down across his barrel, then quickly pull the band across them once before running it through a metal loop off to the side of the jacket front. Nurse Rachet coolly watches them wrap the strap behind his legs, tightening it so the edge bites into the flesh until he cooperates with his legs collapsing to fold up against his body. They then loop the strap through a metal ring in the back of the jacket and pull it even tighter. Inkwell begins to cry, but Nurse Rachet walks around him as if he has disappeared.

She sits next to Type, who has still not opened her eyes, and reaches towards the other unicorn’s face.

“Oh dear, Sweetie. That earth pony went and hurt your muzzle.” Type jerks away as Nurse Rachet touches the scrape tenderly. Nurse Rachet places a firm hoof under her chin and forces her to turn her injured face back towards those golden eyes.

“He jumped over the table at her,” you say, seeing her glasses and picking them up with your magic. The green frame is twisted, snapped in half, but the glass is unharmed.

“Will you open your eyes for me, please? I want to see if you’re hurt.”

Type’s eyes are full of tears as they open. Nurse Rachet tsks and examines the red impact lines that the frames left across her eyeballs.

“Oh dear, that probably hurts quite a bit. Did you finish your dinner?”

Type nods.

“Good girl. I’m going to take you to your room then. Inkwell can’t hurt you now. He’s going to be in solitary for some time. Come come,” she says, rising. Type squints as she stands. She glances at you. Her hoof points at your pounding head.

Is he coming too? You can almost hear her ask as she looks back to Nurse Rachet.

“No, Doctor Humors is going to take care of your tray. I can walk back with you to your room so you can have a lovely little nap and you can forget this happened. I’ll get you a nice band-aid once we’re there. How does that sound?”

Type gives her a pained look. Are you seriously asking me this?

“Let’s go,” Nurse Rachet cheerily quips and Type obediently walks next to her. Silas follows just on the other side of Type, like a guard. You place her glasses in the pocket of your coat and pick up her dropped tray.

Dr. Hearth stands where Crank and Blaze wrestled Inkwell a few moments ago. She stares after Nurse Rachet, Silas, and Type with an odd expression. You can’t tell if she’s concerned, or scared. Her orange eyes turn to you and she straightens up, leaving without a word.

Dusty might have been given a little too much anesthetic this time. He’s collapsed in an apathetic puddle in front of the therapy couch. He still has his forelegs wrapped around the pillow. He doesn’t even acknowledge your existence, much less your questions.

“Dusty, you are not leaving this room until you respond.” He finally looks at you. "That’s better. Now, may I ask you why you’ve stopped eating?”

He pulls the pillow closer.

“Dusty, you have to eat. Either you choose to eat, or we will have to start feeding you through a tube we stick down your nose until it reaches your stomach. Does that sound pleasant?”

He makes a face. You’re growing accustomed to patients who do almost all of their communication nonverbally.

“You used to love oatmeal. Why can’t you eat it now? The oatmeal for lunch was that best we’ve had in a while and you refused to eat it.”

“I’m just not hungry.”

“Do you mean to tell me that for the past five meals you’ve not been hungry?”

Shrug.

“Dusty—“

“My name is Skitter.” In this situation, this could be considered progress.

“Well, no matter what your name is, you still need to eat.”

“There’s no love here. That’s why I’m starving.”

“What was your last fillyfriend like?” He hugs the pillow even tighter. “What changed about her?”

“She called me abusive one day. I must have been eating the love she had for me without realizing it. It was just food to me.”

“What did she say was abusive about you?”

Shrug.

“She said nothing?”

“She said I made her feel like she couldn’t talk to me. I told her I was so exhausted from her complaining. She was so manipulating.”

Your quill flies over the paper. “What did she do that was manipulating?”

“She cried. She said I was a monster. She hurt my feelings, and then she called me abusive.”

“When would she usually start crying?”

“Are you on her side?” he explodes.

“No, I’m just trying to find the truth.”

“The truth is: everything was fine until she started nagging me to spend every second with her. I shouldn’t have to spend every last minute wrapped around her hoof! It’s exhausting. All she cared about was herself.”

“You said she called you abusive without a reason—”

“Yeah! No reason! I was even going to buy her a ring, and she had the nerve to say I was hurting her!”

“Is that when you decided you were a changeling?”

He fumbles. “No. No, not that. She just never listened to me.”

“So, you said it was you being a changeling that broke you up... Now you’re basically saying it’s all her fault.”

He pushes himself up on shaky hooves and the orderly places her hoof forward, ready to spring.

“Dusty, calm down.”

“Shut up!” he shrieks so sharply you wince. Within moments he is subdued.

So much for progress.

You look up as Haven opens the heavy door to the therapy room. She returns your smile as she sits down on the other side of the table.

“Good morning. The tomatoes are almost ripe.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Haven, I was speaking with Nurse Tenderheart the other day.”

“Oh?” she asks, her eyes opening wide.

“She said you took a shower yesterday.”

Haven blushes deeply above a sheepish grin. “She had to help me a lot.”

“Haven, I am so proud of you. I mean, last week I was concerned, but now I hear you were able to stand under falling water without having a panic attack.”

She shrugs and blushes an even deeper shade of pink, but her eyes sparkle over her closed-lipped smile. “I don’t know what was different yesterday. I guess I just thought ‘why not?’ since Nurse Tenderheart suggested it. She had to help me a lot.”

“True. Still, maybe this will help you sleep at night when there is a rainstorm.”

The blush leaves and her pupils shrink. Her smile is gone. “I won’t have to go out into one, will I?”

“No, not yet. But, it’s no different from a shower. It’s even better because it’s a shower outside.”

You’ve lost her. She hugs herself tightly and buries her muzzle in the folds of her forelegs.

“Haven, will you look at me?” you ask her gently. She hesitates, and then looks you in the eye. Her tears are already beginning to crawl out onto her long lashes. You bring your chair closer to her, accidentally scraping it on the floor as you sit down and re-establish eye contact, “Listen to me: I will not force you beyond what you feel safe doing. You’re not ready to go outside into the rain.”

“It kills things.”

“It also helps things grow. Your tomato plants would be nothing without the water the rain feeds them. You need water to stay healthy. Everything needs water to live. Yes, too much can kill, and your fears are understandable, but your fears should not control your life like this.”

She looks at her hooves pensively.

“Think of the progress you’ve already made: now you can drink water out of a clear glass. You can drink soup broth. You took a shower yesterday and, according to your report, when you first came here, even the thought of getting damp made you shake.”

She slowly nods.

“Don’t forget that you’ve come a long way. You have a lot to be proud of.”

She looks back up at you. After she searches your eyes for a bit, the ends of her mouth begin to curl.

“See? You’re getting better. Soon, you won’t have to be afraid.”

Her smile fades slightly.

But it doesn’t disappear.

You finally have a chance to eat today’s breakfast in the staff dining room. With all the patients here, the staff members rarely have meals to themselves. In front of you, next to your bowl of cereal made from everything healthy and bland, Typewriter Error’s file lies open.

“Excuse me?” You jump at the voice and blush involuntarily. Dr. Hearth stands in front of you, her bright orange and red hair standing in stark contrast to her cocoa colored coat. She’s set her tray down in front of you and looks apologetic. “Might I sit here?”

“Sure! Let me just clear this off...”

Dr. Hearth places a hoof softly on a picture of Type and slides it towards herself. “Such an odd case...”

“That,” you say with strangled laugh, blushing even more, “that needs to go in the file. I was reviewing the last session I had with her.”

The photograph whispers across the table as Dr. Hearth pushes it back towards you. “How is she?”

“I’m not really supposed to discuss...” You look at her and your professional resolve fades. “She’s still using sign language.”

“I see. There are definitely days that I miss her.”

“If it’s not too... unprofessional, why was her case moved?”

“Nurse Rachet never really explained.”

“So it wasn’t you who asked to be moved?”

“Well, I didn’t fight it. I just didn’t start the whole process.”

“I see.” You return to your bowl of dry healthiness. But, this question has been bugging you. “Dr. Hearth?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think she did it?”

Her spoon balances on her hoof. Dr. Hearth is a true rarity: an earth pony doctor. You know she worked hard to gain her reputation and maintain her credibility. She places the full spoon in her mouth as her eyes stare at the file folder. The spoon leaves her mouth empty.

“What do you think?” she asks you after swallowing. Your only hesitation is a deep breath to calm your nerves.

“I don’t think she did it.”

Dr. Hearth lowers the spoon. “What makes you say that?”

“I’ve been talking with her for almost two months now. I don’t think she did it.”

“She said she did it.”

“She also said she lies all the time.”

“She does that to mess with you.”

“What if—“

“Good morning,” Nurse Rachet says, appearing behind you without warning. Her usual shadow isn’t following her for some reason. How could you have missed her before?

“Good morning, Nurse Rachet. I was just finishing up,” you say, taking the last few spoonfuls of what you’re almost convinced is sawdust with bran added to it.

“I see. May I sit here, then?”

Dr. Hearth and you exchange a quick look.

“Of course. Have a good day,” you say, picking up your tray and Type’s file.

“Leave that here,” Nurse Rachet coos. You turn to her.

“What?”

“Miss Error’s file. Leave it here.”

“I’m meeting with her—”

“I know. I want to review your notes on her. You’ll get it back.”

If you hesitate too long, she’ll only make it worse. The file floats in a white aura to lie at right angles next to her tray.

“Thank you. Have a good day," she says with a final grin.

You’ve only seen her smile like that at patients.

His name was Dust Storm. He would have met with you this hour. You might have made some progress. Instead, you sit at your desk and transfer your rough notes to his file with a careful, steady quill. The scratching tickles in the back of your head as the metal nib glides over the paper.

You couldn’t save him. Nothing you did could have forced him to change. You dip the quill into the ink jar and knock off the excess before returning to start the next sentence. You can’t blame yourself. Even with all you’ve done, he just didn’t want to change. The patient has to be willing to change. It’s not your fault.

“How is the file coming?” your overseer asks, poking her head into your office.

“Almost done,” you say, not looking up.

“It doesn’t matter how neat it is.”

“I know. I still want Dr. Pip to be able to read it.”

“It won’t really change anything.”

“I like my notes to be neat.”

“You could use the typewriter—”

“I prefer writing it myself,” you say. You need to refill your quill before she speaks again.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks.

Somepony loved him. Somepony loved him enough to try again and again. Then, she couldn’t take it anymore. She told him she couldn’t try again. She couldn’t take it.

“Of course. I have plenty of patients to attend to.” You close the folder and hand it to your overseer.

“Thank you,” she says and walks away.

Yes, Dust Storm was going to be transferred. Suicidal cases were for more specialized doctors. You sit there and rest your damp cheek on your hoof. Thankfully, your overseer hadn’t come a few moments earlier when the page you worked on had to be thrown out. You like to leave your files neat and drop of water will obscure the writing.

The patient has to be ready to change, to trust, and to open up. Dusty wasn’t ready for any of that. He’s stubborn. Stubbornness will destroy a patient here. Stubbornness doesn’t allow hope. It doesn’t allow change, growth, and maturity. It doesn’t allow love. It refuses to allow love.

You open the folder with your new patient: a unicorn stallion named Berry Puddingstone.

Time to try again.

The smell of damp earth sneaks in the open doorway on the chill breeze. Haven trembles next to you.

“If you’re not ready...”

“I want to at least see if I am,” she says through her trembling lips. “You’ll walk out with me, right?”

“That’s why I took my coat off.”

The wind beckons you again. It’s not time yet. Haven has tied her straight hair back but tufts of it sneak out to play against her cheeks and neck. Her face is so young. She’s too young to spend her life locked up in Broadhoof.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to wait outside? The transition would be more gradual...”

She shakes her head.

“I might be able to prepare myself if it’s all coming at once. A single drop can spook me if I’m not expecting it.”

“All right. Well, I can smell it getting closer.”

“So can I...”

The trees hiss at each other and swagger in the wind. Haven steels herself. Here it comes. You watch the rain darken the ground before you. Circles of dark brown multiply and join before your hooves. Haven breathes deeply. You look at her. Her eyes are closed. She slowly inhales, as if testing the air to see if it’s enjoyable. She shivers with the next brush of wind, then places a shaky hoof at the edge where the floor meets the ground outside. She completes the rest of the step to stand at the edge of dry and wet. A swirl of wind dampens both of you. She opens her eyes and you can feel your heart beat faster. She’s so close. Just one more step and she’ll be even closer to freedom.

She hangs her head and steps back. You harden yourself against disappointment. She’ll try another day then. Her lips part as she lifts her head to look at you. Then, she’s stopped. Her mouth remains open slightly but she says nothing. She turns again and takes another step forward. Then, she draws back again and throws another nervous glance at you.

She wants you to help her.

“Follow me,” you say and walk around her to the door. Without hesitation you enter the rain, becoming soaked in a matter of minutes. You stop directly in front of her and smile. She shakes her head and steps back.

It’s mean of you to consider manipulation. She’ll probably remember this moment for the rest of her life. She’ll probably give herself a guilt complex over it. But, it can give her the chance to leave Broadhoof. You don’t hide your disappointment from her. Your eyes drop and you look away to the soaked tomato plants.

A short gallop of hooves brings her outside to stand with you. As you look up, you can’t help but laugh with relief, ecstasy, and excitement. She shudders as soon as she stops, standing by her tomato plants. One eye sneaks open and looks at you, still standing by the door..

“What do you think?” you ask.

The corners of her mouth lift.

“Not that bad,” she laughs slightly, shaking. You trample through the small mud-puddles that are forming. As soon as you reach her, your foreleg wraps around her neck and you hold her. She’s no longer shuddering.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper before letting go. Her mane is becoming a soggy mess.

“I remember this.”

You look at her, confused.

“When I was young,” she explains, “before I almost drowned, I remember this: rainstorms. I used to go into them with my dad and sister. I hated thunderstorm, but I loved to go out into the rain.”

You nod. Go on.

“My dad tried to teach me how to swim. I thought I had it, but then I swam out too far. I kept having nightmares.” She looks towards the dark grey sky. “I wanted to erase that memory forever. I kept remembering the feeling of water blocking air from my lungs. I was scared... I was scared.”

You step towards her as she hangs her head and touch your horn to her forehead as an act of comfort. “You’re okay now?”

She looks up. She’s crying. Her gaze turns to the sky again. The billows of gray cotton are reflected in her large, dark eyes. She nods. “Yeah. I’m going to be okay.”

And then, she smiles as she closes her eyes to raise her muzzle towards the storm.

“What have you been doing since last Thursday?”

She points to her cutie mark. Writing.

“What do you like to write about?”

Not sure.

“Do you need the pen and paper again?”

Yes. After writing something, she pushes the pad back to you: I like to make stuff up.

“That sounds like fun. Could I read any of it?”

No! She looks somewhat embarrassed and crosses her right foreleg across her throat again before waving the pad back.

“They’re somewhat personal?” you guess and she nods defensively. “Is it an escape for you?”

Perhaps? Maybe?

“One thing I would like for you to tell me: why do you refuse to say anything? Dr. Hearth said you hate speaking but are fully capable of speech.”

Her forelegs rise as if they’re going to cross again... but stop. You say nothing and watch her eyes run back and forth across the tabletop. You almost suggest the pad again, but she taps on her neck with her right hoof.

“Your throat hurts?”

No. She gives the sign for hate.

“You just hate talking?”

Yes, but there’s more.

“You—“

My ears? I don’t like hearing? You can’t quite figure it out.

“You don’t like the sound of your voice?” you guess.

Correct.

“Type, nopony thinks about the sound of your voice. I’ve heard recordings of your voice before you stopped talking. You sound completely normal.”

I hate hate hate it! It makes me sick! I hate it. It’s ugly.

“What makes you think it’s ugly?”

I hate my voice. Is she trying to say something else?

“I can’t understand what you’re trying to say.” Your hoof reaches towards the notepad.

I don’t want the pad of paper! I don’t want to talk! The pad slaps the tile as she shoves it off, disgusted. Her forelegs cross in front of her chest again. She’s trembling. The clock in the room scratches its tick tock out.

“I will see you next Friday. Please think about what we’ve discussed.”

Wooden legs scrape the floor as her tail whips the chair in her exit.

“Berry... why are you lying on the table?”

Silence. He keeps his forelegs crossed over his chest and his eyes closed. You can see one half of his wrinkled nose but can almost feel his prominent sneer.

“Berry?”

First interviews can always be awkward, but this is ridiculous.

“Berry, I know you can hear me, so playing dead won’t keep me from talking.”

Stone silence answers.

“Berry, if you do not move, I will have to zap you.”

Still no response. You lean over to him and give him a strong zap.

“YAH! That hurt!” he whines, giving you a reproachful glare.

“I had to make sure you weren’t really dead. I did warn you.”

“I’d rather be dead.”

“That is a dramatic statement.”

He folds his forelegs back over his chest and closes his eyes.

“This isn’t the way you get attention,” you remind him.

“I’m not trying to get attention. Leave me in peace.”

“Well, it is obvious that you don’t really believe you’re dead.”

“How do you know I’m not dead?”

“Because you respond when I zap you.”

“You’re only tough because you have no dampener on your horn!”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m not trying to be tough.”

“Yeah, well beating up a dead pony won’t make you a bigger stallion.”

“You’re not dead.”

“Well, I wish I was.”

“Berry...”

“Oh, so you’re going to try to be tough on me now?”

“I just said your name. For a dead pony, you really are sensitive.”

“At least I don’t gang up on ponies!”

“How do I ‘gang up’ on ponies?”

“You’re a bigot who doesn’t even care what I’ve been through! Don’t you know I’m dying already? I can’t wait to die so I can get away from all that I have to deal with.”

“Berry, everypony is dying.”

“You probably think it’s funny that I have cancer.”

“You don’t have cancer, Berry.”

“What do you know? You just judge me and hate me and you don’t even know me.”

That’s it. You rise from your chair and leave the office to approach his parents standing outside.

“Can you cure him? We’ve tried everything!”

“If he was mentally ill, I could cure him, but, I’m afraid he’s perfectly normal. I’m sorry I can’t help you,” you say curtly and walk off to declare this case closed.

“Doctor Humors?” You look up at Dr. Hearth and close Haven’s file.

“Yes?”

“I...“ She walks into your office; her coat is gone. “I just wanted to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye? What do you mean?”

“I got my two weeks notice awhile ago. Today is my last day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss about it.”

“So that’s why Type was transferred?”

“Part of the reason. Is that her file?”

“No, this is a file I’m about to turn in. She’s heading back home tomorrow.”

“Good for her.”

“Yeah.”

“How is Type?”

“She’s been... difficult. Still refuses to speak.”

“I was thinking about what you said the other day. Do you still think she didn’t rip the other mare’s tongue out?”

“I still think that, yes.”

“Have you told her that?”

“No, I haven’t talked about it with her yet.”

“Just got a hunch last night. Maybe tell her upfront that you don’t believe she did it. Couldn’t hurt, could it?”

“I suppose not. Why are you being fired though? We need more doctors, not less.”

She gives a shrug, but you’re pretty sure she knows why.

“I’m not going to speculate. I’ll keep in touch, okay?”

“Sure.”

After she leaves, you look back at the closed file. It couldn’t hurt...

She sits across the table from you, waiting patiently for you to speak. Sometimes you have to wonder who is examining whom. She tilts her head when you struggle with how to start the conversation. She waves her left hoof in a circular motion over her stomach.

“No, I’m not sick. I’m just trying to think of how to say something.”

What? Is something wrong?

“Nothing’s wrong. I just... I’m not sure if I should ask you first, or state what I think.”

About what?

“Well, your file includes what actions led to you being sent here.”

Go on.

“I know what you’ve been accused of doing.”

She hides any emotion and keeps her eyes on you, her mouth a straight line, as if resigned. “Type, I don’t believe that you’re the reason that one pony is missing her tongue.”

Her mouth drops slightly. She leans forward a bit, confused. Why don’t you believe it?

“Type, I don’t know why you’re keeping silent, but I don’t think you’re the sort of pony who would cut another pony’s tongue out. You don’t strike first and you don’t strike hard. You’re not brutal. If you were to tell me that you did it, I still wouldn’t believe you.”

She pointed to herself emphatically and waved her hoof across her throat multiple times. But, I did do it! I did do it!

“You lie all the time. You told me that your first day.”

Panic. Panic enters her darting eye. Her breath quickens.

“You know who did it.”

No! You’re wrong! Me! Me! Me! I did it!

“I don’t believe you.”

I did it! I did it! You’re wrong!

“Type, you can’t keep lying like this.”

She shakes her head. For the first time since you’ve been treating her, you see her begin to cry.

“I don’t believe you. You are protecting someone. I can see it.”

“But, I didn’t tell you anything,” she sobs. It is your turn to let your jaw drop.

“Type...”

“I didn’t say anything. I didn’t. I didn’t say anything.”

“Type, take a deep breath.”

She does, but her crying resumes almost instantly. “I didn’t say anything. I don’t want to say anything. I don’t want to hurt anypony...”

“Did you say something that hurt somepony once?” She starts violently shaking her head. You lean over the table towards her. “Type! Look at me! Don’t keep hiding it! Talk to me!”

“I don’t want to hurt anypony.” she whimpers, running her hooves through her mane, frantically trying to cover her face.

“That’s why you hate the sound of your voice. You said something once that you still haven’t forgiven yourself about. Type, you can’t keep feeling guilty about this!”

“No. Please, just... no.”

“Type, look at me.”

She keeps trying to turn her face from you. Her mouth contorts like it’s fighting itself to speak. Somehow her eyes stay on you.

“I don’t want to hurt anypony...”

“You loved somepony, didn’t you? You wouldn’t care about hurting somepony if you did not love them.”

“Stop it! Nothing happened!”

“Is that your fault? Is that what you feel guilty about? Something you said prevented them from loving you?”

Her head still swings back and forth, but not to negate my last statement. She keeps closing her mouth hopelessly. She wants to tell you. She wants to tell someone. She’s so close.

“But, everypony is happy. They can stay happy.”

“What do you mean? Are you suggesting that your talking would make them unhappy?”

She nodded emphatically. “Writing is safe,” she says, holding her hooves out to you in a pleading fashion. “You don’t have to say what you write at first. You can throw it away. You can burn it. It doesn’t have to hurt anypony.”

“But it doesn’t get rid of your guilt.”

“You can’t tell anypony else, though.”

“What do you mean?”

She stares at you for a long time.

“Nopony understands,” she says simply, as if reminding you that the ticking sound you’re hearing is from the clock on the wall. “It just doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not true. I’m sure you must have had friends who cared; friends you could talk to.”

She leans over the table to challenge your gaze. “Do you really believe that I didn’t rip that mare’s tongue out?”

“Yes.”

She sits back and looks at the edge of the table, truly puzzled. “But, nopony else believes me.”

“Then it’s about time somepony did.”

She still doesn’t trust you. It’s obvious. She looks at you out of the corner of her slightly narrowed eyes. But then again, her eyes are not harsh. She wants to trust you. Her mouth wavers between a straight line and a frown. “I didn’t touch her. I never would have cut her tongue out. No matter how harsh she was... she didn’t deserve that.”

You nod. “Do you know who did though?”

“It’s... my fault. If I had not.... It’s my fault.”

“If you did not cut her tongue out yourself, you are guiltless. Keeping silent will not make you guilty, no matter what other ponies think. It also won’t make the pony you are trying to protect innocent.”

She scrunches her eyes closed. “I can’t. ”

“Type, it will help nopony to keep it a secret.”

“I can’t... he...”

“He?” She berated herself mentally but nods.

“The last time I gave up on him... he went crazy. Not again.”

“You have to let him go.”

“I can’t. I can’t abandon him again. He’s been hurt and betrayed so many times. I can’t.”

“You can’t save him yourself. No matter how much you love him, you can’t save him.”

“I can’t give up on him.”

“What about your family? Because you refuse to give up on this one stallion, your family had to send you here.”

She hugs herself and covers her head in her hooves. It’s as if the guilt is literally pushing on her.

“Can I go now, please? I’m really tired.”

“Of course.” She rises and ponders her way out of the room.

You have to remember to get in contact with Dr. Hearth to thank her.

The pegasus in front of you patiently takes the tomato soup you feed him. The kitchen didn’t do justice to Haven’s hard work. At least she didn’t have to stay here to taste the results.

“It’s good to see you again, Dusty. I miss seeing your progress.” He nods, numbly. You wonder if he has been injected with something. “How are you being treated?”

“Carefully. They watch me all the time.”

“Suicidal patients need to be watched all the time.”

“Are all the ponies with me suicidal?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

He sits pensively for a moment. “There’s a pegasus girl there I talk to. She likes birds.”

“I see,” you say, troubled by this news.

“Do you think she could like me?”

“Dusty, you’re not here to get girls to like you. You’re here to work on yourself.”

He must be under the influence of medication. He placidly takes your words and accepts the next spoonful of soup you offer to him..

“What if she gives me a chance, though?”

“You are not allowed to take ‘chances’ like that while here.”

“It’s just... girls normally never even give me a chance, but she’s so sweet and—“

“Dusty, the last time a girl gave you a chance you ignored her, manipulated her, and then called her desperate and pushed all the blame on her when she ended the relationship. I don’t want you doing that to somepony else.”

“But I wasn’t abusive! I never hit her.”

“Sometimes the worst abuse isn’t visible,” you say sternly and give him the last spoonful of soup. When you catch the sight of an orderly, you signal for him to come over.

“Yes?”

“Can you please escort him to the Gamma wing? Please make sure he gets to his room.”

The orderly helps Dusty stand up and leads him out of the cafeteria. Inkwell enters with a few other patients and you look for Type. She sits across from a female unicorn and feeds herself. You don’t see her move her mouth, but she doesn’t seem unhappy. Why is it that Inkwell and Type can’t seem to get along? Is he the stallion she’s protecting? Then why does he constantly try to hurt her?

You spoon the rest of your tomato soup into your mouth. Well, at least it’s better than the normal stuff they serve here. By the time you’re finished, a young earth pony mare is seated in front of you, already talking about her conspiracy theory involving the statues in the Canterlot Statue Gardens. She swears that one of them talked to her when she visited the gardens on Nightmare Night.

“What did the statue say to you?”

“Well, the statue told me I was destined to join them. They’re all real ponies that have been turned into stone. My great aunt is in there! Princess Celestia tricked her into becoming a statue.”

“Why would Princess Celestia do that?”

“To keep us under watch every moment!”

“How can they watch us if they never move?”

“The statues are moved around at night then returned to their pedestals later. One time, they put the statue of Music back, but they were off by a sunflower seed! I measured it myself.”

“Dr. Humors! Hello...” another doctor says, approaching you with her tray levitated. “Sorry, I should have stayed with her,” she adds to you in an undertone.

“Not a problem,” you say and gratefully give up your seat. Time to do your rounds to make sure everypony is eating.

“Come in,” Nurse Rachet’s voice says through her office door. You open it with your magic and she smiles as she looks up at you. That can’t be good.

“You asked to see me?”

“Yes, I did. It seems you finally did something to get Miss Error to speak.”

Perhaps you’re wrong...

“Did she talk to you?” you ask.

“No, I saw her talking with another pony. You are to be congratulated.”

“She’s not cured yet.”

“She’s almost there, though, by the looks of it.”

“Yes. Well, thank you.” You turn.

“One more thing...”

Oh. Of course.

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t help but notice there was something unprofessional going on between you and Dr. Hearth.”

“Unprofessional?”

“You discussed a patient’s case with another doctor, which is not entirely against the rules, but you did it without my permission.”

“I’m sorry. Dr. Hearth seemed concerned.”

“I’m not blaming you. Dr. Hearth has had a pattern of bending the rules. That was why she was dismissed. I’m warning you to make sure that you do not follow her example. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Nurse Rachet.” She smiles.

“Good. Have a nice day,” she says, turning to the open file on her desk.

“Thank you.” You turn to leave again.

“I’m sorry, but there is one last thing: a new case for you. This one is a difficult one but I trust that you won’t have Miss Error much longer.”

“A patient can turn at any moment.”

“Yes, and she did. I believe she will continue to turn for the best. That’s all.”

You keep your protest inside your muzzle.

Two minutes late now. Difficult? Exactly what would be difficult about this pony? And why have you received no file on him or her yet? A knock finally rattles the door..

“Come in,” you say, failing to mask your irritation. A unicorn orderly appeared around the door.

“I’m sorry. The instructions weren’t entirely clear.”

“Not a problem.” Your forehead contracts as he walks in, wearing a helper pony harness.

“Just keep following me,” he says to somepony behind him.

A mare steps into the room. The harness wraps around her shoulders and attaches to the other end of the orderly’s harness by two straps hanging behind his forelegs. A sterile gauze peeks out behind a white strip of fabric tied around her eyes. She’s an earth pony, light blue with purple hair tied back in a braid. The orderly helps her find the chair and she promptly sits, slumping. She looks miserable. The orderly leaves after informing you that he’ll wait outside.

“Hello,” you say nervously. She turns her muzzle towards you. “I’m afraid I didn’t get a file on you yet, so we can spend this time getting to know each other. You may call me Dr. Humors or Humors, if you wish.”

“My name is Shutterlight. You can call me Shutter; most ponies do.”

“What are your hobbies?”

“I used to like painting.”

“Oh. When did that change?”

She paused for quite some time.

“I can’t... explain it directly.”

“Well, why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you want to say. This doesn’t have be formal.”

She bites her lip and her forehead remains contracted as she searches for words.

“I loved to paint... I took scenes from my head that I couldn’t forget and would show them on the canvas. I loved making colors play together to show things how I remembered them...”

You wait for at least five minutes for her to speak again. Her face contorts and twists behind the bandage covering her eyes. She probably was in an accident then. An accident that took her eyes.

“Sometimes I enjoyed what I painted. Sometimes I painted... just so I didn’t have to think about it anymore. I hate those pictures. Everypony asked why I painted them—“

The door interrupted her as it opened. Your overseer walks in.

“Sorry this is so late,” she says and gives you a file. After a quick nod, you take it and lay it in front of you as she leaves.

“Sorry, can you continue please?”

She lets her head hang. Her purple braid dangles next to her cheek. Small twitches jump around the corners of her mouth.

“I tried to tell them I painted just to get the images out of my mind. Sometimes they understood. Most of the time they just told me I was trying to be edgy and needed to paint honestly. I was painting the nightmares out. They wanted me to paint happy things when I painted dark things and they wanted me to paint dark things when I could paint happy things.”

“Everypony is a critic,” you insert into the silence.

“Painting took the images from me. That’s why I kept doing it. I just wanted the images to leave my mind so I had room for more.”

“I see.”

“I remember everything I’ve ever seen. I remember my mother’s face when I first opened my eyes. I can picture all the times I fell when learning to walk. The more I paint the more I can take the images out of my mind.”

“So you remember...”

“Everything. Everything I’ve ever seen stays in my mind on a reel. I have to reproduce an image to get it out of my mind. That why I wear this.” She placed her hoof delicately on the bandage.

“So, it’s not because you’re blind?”

“No, it’s to make me blind. I used to take it off to paint.”

“Used to?”

She hesitates behind the gauze.

“The problem is,” she says, “that it doesn’t work anymore. Painting doesn’t take away the images.”

“Thank you for coming in so late.” Nurse Rachet says, breathless. Silas looks at you silently. Your mouth stretches wide in a yawn as you blink the fuzziness from your eyes.

“What did you say was wrong?”

“Some of the patients from the Gamma wing escaped. We haven’t yet figured how many have gotten out. I have assigned the nurses and doctors in that area to count the patients. Basically, if you find any patients wandering around, escort them to their rooms.”

You nod and separate from her and Silas. The sleep still blurs your eyes slightly. This is one of the disadvantages of living here: sometimes all chaos breaks loose and you have to help sort it out. You walk cautiously in the chill early morning. To save heating cost, the hospital usually lowered the temperature at night when nopony would notice.

Just how did Gamma wing get a breakout last night? Those doors can’t be unlocked without the help of a conscious guard. It’s impossible to break them down. Just how many escaped?

A few of your patients sleep on this hall. You check inside their rooms to see that they’re asleep. Shutterlight rolls over and pulls her blanket closer, dead asleep, as you peek in the window. You check a couple of other rooms at random and see unicorns, pegasi, and earth ponies all safe and asleep.

Typewriter Error is missing.

“Type?” you ask, poking your muzzle into her room. She’s obviously not on the half-revealed bed. Perhaps the bathroom? She does suffer from insomnia, so she might have walked around a bit to stave off boredom. But how did she get out?

A male nurse walks by the hall, sees you and stops.

“Who are you?” he asks, squinting at you.

“Dr. Humors.”

“Oh, okay.” He continues his search. His hoof falls fade away.

Your ears perk up as another set of hooves approaches; this set is urgent. As you turn around, a nurse-in-training skids to a halt.

“I found something. Please, I need help.”

Type.

No, not her.

You gallop alongside the other pony. The distance is short but you’re out of breath when you skid to a halt in front of three ponies. Actually, two ponies; one changeling. That’s how they got past the door!

The changeling is a bloody mess. Blood covers its hooves and one of its wings in snapped. It’s not breathing. But, the Changeling isn’t Dusty. Dusty is shaking and crying, a scratch goes down his temple, right behind his right eye. His forelegs embrace a mare, half protectively, half possessively.

“I’m sorry...” he whispers urgently before burying his muzzle in a tousled green and black mane.

A paper-yellow hoof with a trace of blood on it hooks over his foreleg as a unicorn buries her tears in his shoulder, under his wing. The unicorn’s green glasses are smashed again. A red gash strikes her bruising side from her shoulder to her cutie mark. It’s not bleeding heavily. The dampener on her horn is smashed and you can see the broken horn inside.

“What happened?” you ask, looking directly at her. She turns her head to look at you; her emerald eyes guilty. Dusty looks at you too over her mane; tears continue to flow. He’s terrified.

“Inkwell...” Dusty tries to begin but isn’t able to finish. You continue to stare at the unicorn.

“Type? What’s happened here?”

Her eyes shimmer under a layer of tears. Her mouth trembles. She’s helpless. Dusty holds her even closer. Her cheek rests on his shoulder and her eyes remain fixed on yours. Her mouth opens but she forces it closed and bites her bottom lip.

She can’t say anything.

“And that was all?” Nurse Rachet asks you. Silas stand behind her chair, giving you a level stare.

“Yes. He just said ‘Inkwell’ and couldn’t finish.”

“You realize what this could mean, of course?”

“Of course. How to know which patient was the real patient”

“We don’t admit changelings for that very reason.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, consider the damage on Miss Error and Mr. Storm: she’s all but returned to her previous state and, while no longer suicidal, he’s still suffering from an identity crisis.”

“And also a question remains of where Inkwell is now,” Silas interjects.

“Is there any chance he was a changeling this entire time?” Dr. Rose asks in the chair next to you.

“I’m afraid not,” Silas says. “Being a changeling would have shown up in the blood tests.”

Dr. Rose’s face disappears behind his hooves.

“And we’ve searched everywhere?” you ask again.

“He’s nowhere to be found.”

For his sake, you hope he just found a way to escape. At the same time, you doubt it.

“And of course with him being a changeling, we have next to no clue as to when he disappeared.” Silence followed Nurse Rachet’s statement. She continued, professionally, “Now, I know we don’t like to think of this possibility, but have any of us received a case of... the trots after eating a meal here?”

We all shake our heads. Dr. Rose turns slightly paler but shakes his head.

“Well, if his body was disposed of in that manner,” she says, swallowing back the bile, “we’ll know who his murderer was.”

“There... was some soup we had a few months back, I remember it... tasted different.”

Searching your memory, you realize the true source.

“Those tomatoes were grown by a patient, and were perhaps a little fresher than the normal tomatoes we receive...” The breath you take hisses on your lips.

“What?” Nurse Rachet asks promptly.

“A patch in the garden...”

Rachet pushes herself up by her forehooves on her desk.

“Where?”

“I’ll show you.” the chair screeks against the floor

Nurse Rachet glides around the desk, with Silas in close pursuit. You follow them as she magically seizes her scarf from the rack and flings it around her neck. You lead them into the hall and allow your hooves to clatter towards the stairs. The patients can’t hear you in the staff wing anyway.

“Dr. Humors! Slow down!” Silas calls. Dr. Rose catches up to you all and gestures vaguely with his hoof.

“I’ll catch up. Go!”

You swallow back the vomit rising in your throat and gag at the acidic burn. Silas and Nurse Rachet are on your tail as you turn the corners of the winding staircase down to the ground floor. As the moon bathed outside peeks in the window at you on your last step, you cast your magic on the locked door to the closet where shovels are kept and grab the first one you see.

You hope you’re wrong. There could be any explanation. Certainly the rain would have revealed . . .

The hydraulics of the door whine as you shove against them. In the late autumn air, your breath snaps in your throat as you lift the shovel and plunge it into the dirt where Haven planted her tomatoes. The black sod flies against the moonlit slate of night. Another shovel stabs the dirt and you glance up at Nurse Rachet, her cheeks flushed and her scarf halfway gone. Silas stands by, watching the patch of ground intently. Each inhalation crackles in your muzzle as you force the shovel deeper and deeper into the earth. The cold resists you but it’s not too soon for ice to take the ground completely.

That’s not ice.

“Stop!” you say hastily to Nurse Rachet. She drops her shovel and leans over the hole with Silas bending down in between you. Magically, you reach for a stone-like object in the moonlit dark and slowly pull a clod of dirt from an object that reflects the glow of night.

It’s just a rock. You’re just checking every possibility.

Silas covers his muzzle with his hoof as Nurse Rachet begins to help you clear the dirt away carefully. You can feel the edge of ice sealing dirt around the object and your horn glows softly to let a warming spell seep into the soil, making the dirt slide off a smooth surface.

Dr. Rose peeks over the dead tomato vines hanging on the lattice as you use your hoof to brush a chunk of icy dirt away. Nurse Rachet bends forward and carefully pushes at another clump which slides off.

Everything stops when the whole skull is revealed.

Your magic slowly nudges into the fabric tied behind Shutterlight’s ears. The gauze floats to the floor, and she blinks up at the canvas in front of her. A set of paints lies between her and the easel.

“But, it won’t take the images away.”

“Still, it doesn’t hurt to keep trying.”

She sits down, keeping her eyes fixed on the clean canvas.

“No, I may just create another image.”

“You control what you create.”

“But I can’t lose my memories.”

“Are you scared of keeping your memories or making new ones?”

“All I know is that painting doesn’t help.”

“Think of something you don’t want to lose. Paint that instead.”

“What if I do lose it, then?”

“Then, you have the painting.”

“But what if...”

“Shutter,” you say, sitting next to her, “you cannot constantly ask yourself ‘what if...’ Your mind will create something to stop you if you keep asking ‘what if’ long enough.”

“But, I have to be careful. I don’t want to lose my happy memories.”

“So, paint an unhappy memory.”

“But, I won’t lose it.”

“So, create a new image.”

“What if it’s unhappy?”

“What if you make a happy image?”

“It won’t matter. It’s not real.”

“But, it will do no harm.”

“I just don’t want to lose my memories.”

“Except the bad ones?”

“Isn’t that normal?”

“Yes, it is. But, there is something else I want you to think about: what happens if you forget all your bad memories?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Yes, it is. It’s the point I’m trying to make.”

“I don’t understand.”

“All your bad memories. What good will it do for you to forget them?”

“I want to get rid of the nightmares. They torture me!”

“Is it just bad dreams you want to get rid of? Or mistakes you’ve made?”

“Just nightmares.”

“What was the first memory you tried to get rid of that wouldn’t disappear?”

“That’s not important!”

“Well, it seems to be, if you want to get rid of it so badly.”

She sighs deeply and stands up to retrieve the pallet. She picks the paintbrush up and draws a perfect curve of violet. Another one stands adjacent and in opposition to the other as an almost perfect copy. Her father’s face? According to the file, he’s violet in color except for his pure white mane. More details fill in to make an abstract outline of the features: the unhappy mouth, the arched eyebrows, and the wrinkled muzzle. You lean forward as you’re drawn in, waiting for her to finish. The brush glides over the canvas, swirls among the colors, and forms the anger of the stallion. After it’s done she spits out the paintbrush and faces the blank corner.

Your hoof beats accompany your approach to the canvas. She painted quickly but the picture definitely captured the memory: her father’s anger. Your mind goes back to a note in the file. This memory was a memory both of them would like to forget; the father and daughter. No amount of tears and apologies had wiped away the memory of a few months ago.

“I forgave him. Why won’t it just go away?” she sobs.

“Shutter, some memories can’t disappear. What happened wasn’t a nightmare or a figment of your imagination. Your father yelled at you.”

You lift the canvas and set it down against the back wall. Another blank canvas floats to the easel with the help of your aura.

“Shutter, I want you to paint something else.”

She looks back at you.

“No.”

“I want you to paint the picture you keep destroying halfway through.”

Silence falls heavily in the room. Her coat bristles.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“For the past few months you have painted only two types of pictures: your father’s anger and one canvas that keeps being destroyed. I want to see what the picture is before you destroy it.”

She walks until her muzzle is inches from yours.

“Tie my blindfold on. I’m done with this.”

For a while, you meet the blue and violet stare of the mare in front of you. The wall is erected in her mind. You turn away to take up the gauze and bind it around her eyes again.

At least you made some progress.

“May I join you?”

You look up at Dr. Rose and nod. He pushes his tray in front of you and sits down. You had often admired him for his years of experience and wisdom, written in the grey hairs of his black mane. You look up at him, cautiously. He looks tired.

“How have you been?”

“Doing well. You?”

“Same.”

Nurse Rachet and Silas are absent from the room. You lean forward slightly.

“What did they do?” you ask.

“We put him with the others.”

“And those related to him?”

“Will be informed.”

“And you?”

He looks up at you, sympathetically.

“I’ll be fine. It happens.”

“What do you think?”

“There are many way it could have gotten in. It just needed to look the part.”

“And get rid of the copy.”

“Yes. Of all things, an earth pony. The last pony we would suspect.”

You take another spoonful of beet soup. The warmth is welcome to your chilly throat. The spoon clinks in the bowl as you steadily finish your lunch. The meal finishes with nothing more to be said.

Another Thursday. Dusty sits in front of you, staring at the floor. He’s been transferred back to your care for reasons you’re not privileged to. On the coffee table between you, a light tan crane sits. He glances at it then look away to the floor again with a deep sigh.

“She was your girlfriend, wasn’t she?”

“Type made this?” he says more than asks as he gestures towards the crane.

“Yes.”

“Without magic?”

“Yes.”

He laughs slightly, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hoof.

“Forgot she could do that.” He stares at the crane with a pained half-smile.

“Go ahead and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I keep doing this. Don’t I?” He bites his lip and nudges the crane closer to his edge of the table, “I just keep trying to bring her back, then...”

The crane tumbles to the floor.

“What makes things fall apart?”

“I thought it was her. What if it is me?”

“It could be both of you.”

“It’s just... this past time wasn’t any different. Even though there was that changeling involved... everything else was the same. It still went the same way. I spent more time away from her and she changed again.” He places the crane back on the table and stares at it.

“What does that mean to you?”

“We’re just doomed to fail.”

“And you’re just going to give up?”

“I can’t be hurt anymore.”

“What about her? Do you think she would say the same thing? She can’t be hurt anymore?”

He continues to stare at the crane with eyes that match its color.

“Why did she have to use tan?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

His body tightens as he leans towards the table; his wings fold close to him. His left hoof runs over his mane and he looks at the floor again but soon looks up with tears finally falling from his eyes. His right hoof extends slowly and touches the perfect crane perched on the edge of the table. His hoof presses on the form. The bird’s ruined.

As soon as he sees the damage, he curls up on himself and lets an honest wail burst from his lungs.

Shutterlight has called for you to be brought to the arts and crafts room. The orderly leading you there has no idea why. You have your hope but you won’t know until you see it yourself.

The door open to reveal the craft room. Ponies sit around working on various projects. One foal looks up at you excitedly.

“I got my cutie mark!” he exclaims and points to his flank. A paper airplane is his mark of destiny. Hopefully his mark has a broad meaning outside of making paper airplanes. You nod to him with a smile and turn towards Shutterlight.

She sits at a table with a folded piece of paper in front of her. Her blindfold sits in front of her, folded neatly. She struggles to keep her hooves tucked into the folds of her crossed forelegs. When she sees you she dives towards the paper and you snatch it from her magically before she can tear it up. As you bring it to your face and unfold it ,your hooves continue a steady advance.

A rough outline makes up a diminutive earth pony colt. His hooves are tucked together underneath him and his eyes are closed. He has a deep green coat with a blue mane to match Shutter’s. So she saw him then. You look up at her and she begins to cry.

“Your son?”

She nods. You look back down at the picture. A paper plane strikes the window and the foal who greeted you cheers.

“Come on, let’s talk about this,” you say gently to her hanging head.

“Can you tie my bandage, please?” she asks, pulling the stack of fabric closer to herself with one hoof. Silently, your aura lifts the gauze and holds it over her closed eyes. The fabric rises and wraps around her head to tie in the back. She doesn’t have her harness, so she walks between you and the orderly as you leave the young colt’s laughter behind iron cold doors. That laughter could only remind her of silence that shouldn’t have happened.

A stack of papers rests atop the table before you, the multi-colored sheets forming a kaleidoscope of hues and patterns, but out of all of them, a plain square of tan paper is slid out by a pastel yellow hoof. This task would be easier with magic, but magic isn’t allowed here, not even for a unicorn. You glance up at the dampener on her horn instinctively. Unsurprisingly, it is still firmly locked in place. You return to watching her as she folds the sheet in half, her hoof shushing the paper as it slides across the surface to crease the sheet into a triangle. Her dark green eyes remain fixed on her task.

Typewriter Error hasn’t talked since the changeling died. You slide another square of paper over the wooden table towards yourself, this one white with silver vines swirling over it. She watches you until you stop to return her look, which instantly restores itself to the task at hoof. She folds the paper diagonally the opposite way. This is so much like that first time, yet her eyes look more tired than you remember.

She drags her hoof across the paper’s crease again and stops. You look up and meet her emerald study of the empty space next to you.

That space isn’t empty.

A trashcan sits in the corner with papers wadded up and shoved into the bin. A bent wing sticks out. You forgot to remove the crane that Dusty smashed. Her eyes remain trapped on the crumpled form.

“Type?”

She drags the pad and pencil towards her and writes carefully with her mouth, making corrections to her letters: the loop didn’t meet, the line is wobbly, all are little mistakes that don’t need to be fixed. She places the pencil down next to the pad and then slides the notebook back across the table. You place your hoof on it after she lifts hers.

Did Dusty smash my crane?

“I don’t think he intended you to see it...” You bite back your own words. It feels like lying. Her eyes don’t see the trashcan even though they stare at it. She turns her head back to the crane, that same color tan. Her pastel hoof lifts itself above the half-folded crane and lowers carefully to drag along the pristine crease of the wing.

You can’t look at her and continue to fold your own crane. It’s nowhere close to being as neat as the one she folds. You lift the head and tail up, then glance at Type. Her deep green eyes look straight into yours. Your hooves stop.

“I can’t save him... can I?” she asks. Your head rises a little more, and you pause to give yourself some thought. You shake your head. She slides her hoof down on the same crease again and stops. You press your own hooves into the tabletop to keep them from shaking.

Her eyes fill up as she looks back at you.

“I... I can’t keep lying all the time.”

You nod in agreement.

“I can’t save him.”

“I think you tried everything you could possibly do.”

The first tear rolls down her cheek.

“I lied,” she says, drawing a deep breath, “I lied for him.”

“I will need to tell me a little more clearly what you mean,” you say, swallowing to push down the lump in your throat.

“They were right not to believe me when I said I didn’t do it. I stopped lying and I said I just cut her tongue out. Just me,” she says. You’re more confused than ever. She continues, “I didn’t cut it out. I made her tongue disappear with magic. I did it so she’d stop choking on the blood...”

“What?”

“He hit her. She bit her tongue or something because she started choking. He didn’t know I was there until I came and took her tongue away. I didn’t want her to die. She had threatened him, pushed him, jeered at him; he just got angry and she kept pushing him. When I stopped the bleeding, he yelled at me. He never hit me but he screamed so loudly.” Her eyes grow wide and she grows pale under her coat, “Please! I don’t want to get him in trouble!” she begs.

You rest your hoof on top of hers. Her eyes clench shut, and she covers her mouth with her free hoof.

“I will do everything in my power to save him,” you assure her. “Nopony is beyond hope. He can be made better again.”

Her eyes open above her hoof.

“Type, you can’t save him by keeping yourself here. You can’t make him better by holding onto him. Blaming yourself will not change him.”

Her eyes close again, fervently.

“Type, I know you love him, and I know this hurts deeper than anything else you’ve felt before. But, you can’t heal him by remaining in your own pain. You have to let him go or this will destroy both of you.”

She lowers her hoof to her lap and pulls her other hoof away from you. Her eyes remain closed and you can see the tears still flowing down her face.

“You can let him go. You’re strong enough.”

As the clock ticks, her head rises and her eyes creep open; they are red from crying. You nod your head, trying to give her any assurance she will take.

“I love him.”

“I know. But, what he’s done to you isn’t right. Type, you have to run. You have to let go of him. Your family loves you. They miss you.”

“They kept trying to tell me. I couldn’t give up on him, though. I couldn’t leave him.”

“Type, look at me now, please.” She obeys. “You can leave him. You’re not abandoning him, and you are not a bad pony if you leave him. By coming back to him without resolving any issues, you show him that it’s fine for him to hurt you. It’s not. Type, it is wrong how he treated you, and you don’t have to live with that.”

“But I still have feelings for him.”

“I know. That’s the hardest part. You will have feelings for him when you know you shouldn’t. During times like that, you just have to tell yourself that your feelings don’t change him.”

She studies the half-folded crane.

“But, he does love me.”

“That doesn’t make what he does right. Love is never a reason to control someone.”

Pain shoots through her face as she fights against an new wave of tears. You don’t say anything. She has to make this choice on her own. She has to be willing and ready to change.

“Okay,” she says, barely above a rueful whisper.

“Come here, you,” you say and, like a brother comforting his sister, fold her in your forehooves tightly. You refuse to let go as she continues to cry into your shoulder. You feel the dampness of her tears seep through your coat.

She never finishes the crane on the table.

The End

Author's Note

This was inspired by "Asylum" by Daemon of Decay, and he's given me a lot of help with writing. Hope you enjoy and be sure to check out the fic that inspired this!