Cider

by The philosopher

Rating: teen
Tags: Apple Bloom, Applejack, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad
Length: 1017

One more glass passes my lips, washing away the pain I felt. But it would return as soon as the numbness of the drink faded.

One more glass passes my lips, washing away the pain I felt. But it would return as soon as the numbness of the drink faded.

Another glass, maybe this one will make me forget how to think. Let this golden morphine pass my lips and tickle my tongue as the glass slowly lowers itself to the table and maybe let me escape painful memories.

Published 2013-03-20 04:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-03-20 04:30:02 UTC

Cider

To good health, I think as the glass cider tips above my head. I feel the glass kiss my lips as its golden contents poor into me, parting only when every drop of cider had vanished.

Slamming the glass onto the counter, I reach for another bottle. Soon the healing kiss of alcohol would return to me.

There was something mystical about cider. It heals. I think that's why Granny Smith had a glass of cider at Mom and Pa's funeral, and why I had one at hers. One sip seems to take a bit of the pain away, like a reassuring friend.

But no amount of this glowing morphine could heal my wounds.

My heart was bleeding from the inside by painful images of the past. I sipped more cider, praying to soon fall under its spell of healing- or even amnesia if necessary.

One more glass passes my lips, washing away the pain I felt. But it would return as soon as the numbness of the drink faded.

Another glass, maybe this one will make me forget how to think. Let this golden morphine pass my lips and tickle my tongue as the glass slowly lowers itself to the table and maybe let me escape painful memories.

But there is no escape. The somber memories return, somber memories of an innocent yellow filly, mane red as a ripe apple tied by a red bow that smelled of sweet strawberries in the summer. An innocent, lively face with a crescent moon smile that would hum like a bumblebee when it giggled and eyes made from the gold of a sunset.

Memories of my sister, my beautiful sister, Apple Bloom.

Such a sweet thing, so full of life, making every day an adventure. She was so full of dreams and hopes, that she was impatient to wait for her cutie mark. She wanted it now.

She was always ashamed of her blank flank. It was the cause of countless jeers from two snot-nosed brats at her school. She felt discriminated, alone. That's why I was so happy when she met Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo.

Sweetie Belle was such a happy filly, and that white unicorn's optimism would spread to Applebloom. Her voice, as sweet as her pink and purple mane was soft, strengthened my sister in the face of doubt.

And Scootaloo, that orange Pegasus had as much spirit as my sister. She was a mare of action just like her, seeking the thrill of adventure.

The three fillies connected like a puzzle.

They called themselves the "Cutie Mark Crusaders", a name well deserved. They were warriors in my eyes, indomitable spirits, undaunted by doubt. Legendary heroes, the stubborn kind you hear in stories who always persevere in the end because they refuse to back down.

But they were more than just heroes, they were adventurers. The whole world was their playing field, and they eagerly explored every corner of it. They were happy, they were determined.

They were alive.

It frustrated me that she wouldn't listen to me as I told her that her cutie mark would appear in time, but there was also a sense of pride. I was proud of my sister for seizing life every day. One day, she was a geologist, searching for the precious riches of hiding beneath Equestria with her crusaders. The next day, they were zoologist discovering new and exotic life in the Everfree Forest. The next day, they were carpenters, then engineers, then sky-divers, dare-devils.

Every day, they were heroes.

But then she turned thirteen, they all turned thirteen. One day, her friends discovered their cutie marks. They realized their destiny, and embraced their talents. One day they move on in life to follow their dreams.

Apple Bloom stayed behind, and the loneliness returned to her.

One day she adventured by herself, a single crusader. A straggler, an abandoned. She retuned home disappointed and silent. She adventured the next day, only to kick the ground in frustration. Then one day, she decided to be an artist. Her painting was casted into a river by its creator, blinded by rage and stress. One day, she adventured and cursed the sky. One day, she adventured and cried.

She was alone again. At her school she had a different schedule than Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo was going to a different school altogether, one for pegasi only. Apple Bloom had no refuge from the bullies. And the bullying was worse, oh, it must have been! I didn't realize it then but i know for a fact now. I...was so blind..... Now it's so clear.... She stopped wanting to go to school... She would avoid the subject too...why didn't I realize it before?

Then one day, she got tired of adventuring, tired of the jeers at school. one day she gave up. And one day she silently slipped into the barn, rope in her hoof. Without a word, she tied one end of the rope a wooden beam on the ceiling. On the other end she braided a noose.

And one morning, the next morning, I opened the barn door.

The body of my sister was suspended in the air, cradled by the cold lanyard, orange sunsets long closed.

Her face, such a sweet face, had so much life in it... To see it all gone hurt. The image still haunts me....

I guzzle voraciously more cider, but the image of her smiling face is branded in my mind, even as the liquid seeps passed my teeth and rolls over my tongue.

Strawberry ribbon wrapped around one hoof, another glass of gold medicine in the other, I poor more cider down my throat, hoping to wash away the heartache. All in vain, I still see the yellow filly, smiling and laughing in her childhood crusades.

Another sip, I hear her bumblebee giggle.

I poor more cider down my muzzle. The body of a filly, hooves dangling inches above the ground, fills my vision again.

I fill the dry glass once more with cider, this time praying that I may drown myself.