Scootaloo Wooded
********************************
Scootaloo sat in her memory of what felt like yesterday, as if it was water and she was a stone, sinking deeper and deeper. She sat in a large oak tree trying to rest.
She let the wretched memory envelop her mind.
She was back in her old home, a secluded cave where she had grown up. It was cold and damp with no electricity, meaning no heat except a tiny fireplace next to her. Scootaloo sat on a pillow of tattered rags, huddling under a small blanket. She clutched a small cyan pegasus plush, her purple eyes welling up with small filly tears, listening to the hollering ponies.
She hated it when her parents yelled at each other. Her mother, a gray pegasus with autumn orange hair, cowered as the white unicorn with a magenta mane screamed at her at the top of his lungs. She caught words like ‘stupid’, ‘lazy’, ‘fat’, ‘insane’, and a few words she dare not speak of. Scootaloo knew her father was drunk because he always was. But the few times he wasn't, he was the most caring pony ever. She loved looking into his deep, blue-green eyes. He himself used his magic to make Scootaloo her blanket, and plush.
Scootaloo was only 10 months old when her dad died. Her dad was drunk as usual, and he took off into the woods after screaming at Mom. I heard him mutter something about not being able to take it anymore before he tore off into the night. I clutched my mother as hard as I could as we heard screams of the timber-wolves and shrill, blood-curdling whinnies of pain.
Her mom was shuddering, her tears like a river, pouring down her face. After a little, she abruptly stood up and told me to stay where I was. She left the room and Scootaloo heard a drawer open. Scootaloo was clueless that her mother would soon leave her. The last thing she heard of her mother was, “I love you Scootaloo, and I always will.” Scootaloo froze as she heard two clicks, and a gunshot.
***
Scootaloo started at the loud bang in her memory, she realized she was crying. She had traveled about a mile on her tiny legs. She sat up and clutched her belongings, a small, rainbow colored necklace in the shape of a heart from her mom and also a little journal. From her dad she got a blanket and a plush.
Scootaloo tried to tie the blanket around her, fumbling with the knot since her hooves were shaking from the memory. When it was secure, she put on the necklace and held onto the plush and book in her mouth. She was too close to the ground to sleep in the tree carelessly.
She looked up the tree, deciding what way was the best way up. She thought shimming up it was the best, at least she thought that. She started up it slowly but surely making it about a foot, and then perching on a branch. She sat for a moment and continued. This time about two feet or so until she felt a slight pain in her left front hoof. When she got to the next branch, she studied her pained hoof, she realized that there was a stick in it. Scootaloo pulled it out, and continued, shaking off the pain.
She went at it again, also using her wings as propellers. It worked faster, but was still painful. Scootaloo fought the pain and went up as far as she possibly could before scream in agony. She looked at her four hooves and stomach. Sticks pointed out every which way. Tears streamed down Scoot's face as she, one by one, pulled out each and every splinter.
"Oh my god, ow ow ow. Ow...OW!" She couldn't help but scream in pain as the last, deeply embedded, splinter was removed slowly out of her abdomen. Scarlet blood rushed from the hole in her belly area, staining her autumn orange fur. She sat there for a while, holding the wound until the blood-flow stopped, and the puncher clotted. Scootaloo decided to move to the fork in the tree above her and rest there for a long night.
***
The melody of the birds songs woke Scootaloo slowly in the morning. She heard the robins and blue-jays, goldfinches and sparrows, woodpeckers and crows. They were a harmony of song, complementing each other like a guitar complements a singer. Scootaloo raised her petite head off the rough, scratchy bark of the oak tree she was sitting in.
It was a perfect morning, almost too perfect. The winds light breeze lifts a certain filly’s magenta mane off her neck, and it tingled at the funny feeling. Then something hit her mentally, How the hay could she get down?
Her lavender eyes traveled down to the green grass below. She was stumped on the predicament. The filly looked over her shoulder and flapped her small wings a few times, seeing if they were strained at all. She felt no slight pain anywhere, so she made up her mind, her game plan.
She would vigorously flap her premature wings until landing, also using her blanket as a parachute. She didn’t know how this would go, or end, but she had to try. Scootaloo stood, she stretched her small wings and tightly gripped the baby blanket, readying her stance. Scootaloo bent her knees, springing off with as much force as possible.
The first few seconds weren't so bad, she was out of control or anything, just steadily dropping. She flapped her wings, harder and harder as she so started plummeting at a rate that was very uncomforting. She soon spun out of control, flipping violently. Scootaloo shut her eyes, if this was the way she would die, at least she wouldn't see it coming.
Scootaloo, all of a sudden, wasn't falling, more floating. She, at first, was afraid to open her eyes. Finally, a purple iris was visible, and then the other. She looked down, for what she was sitting on, was not one, but multiple. Maybe hundreds, of graceful, dancing, brightly-colored, butterflies aided her to the ground, slowly but surely.
One orange and purple butterfly fluttered up to Scootaloo. It circled her head and land on her nose. Scootaloo felt the small legs tickle her snout as the butterfly folded it’s wings. It rested there for a moment until perching in the filly’s mane. Scootaloo giggled as it nestled down. Much too soon the joy ride was over. Four orange hooves gently landed on the ground without a sound. The massive swarm of butterfly rose and tickled her body with an eerie sensation. Scootaloo shiver at the movement.
The orange butterfly stayed in her mane, as if not wanting to leave. Scootaloo waited for a moment, in case the butterfly was not aware that it’s pack was leaving, but must have not been a concern to it. It just nestled down even further. Scootaloo grinned softly and walked forward.
The orange filly was not so alone after all.
Small orange hooves tapped the ground swiftly and softly. A magenta mane followed in unison, bouncing with her beats. Scootaloo trotted quickly through the woods, looking for an open cave or hollowed out burrow, something, even anything to live in. As she went on, her mane begin to tingle, her new pet butterfly emerged from Scootaloo's entangled mane. It danced around her and flew and it fluttered, as if it was a magical dancer. Scootaloo followed it's dancing path.
"Where are you taking me?" Scootaloo asked to the orange butterfly. She realized it was pointless, butterflies can't talk, what was she thinking?
"A suitable home for us." Said a small, fairy-like voice. Scootaloo stopped dead. She looked around expecting some random pony to be standing there, but there wasn't. It was just an empty, wild, forest inhabited by only Scootaloo and wildlife. The voice spoke again.
"You should know who I am by now." Scootaloo stood there, astonished. Who, or what, was talking to her? There wasn't a talking thing in sight, all she could see was the butterfly. A new thought popped into Scootaloo's head, could communicate with butterflies? Her purple eyes were now fixed on the orange butterfly, her mind pondering the question. It was technically impossible, no pony could talk with animals.
"Have you even bothered to look at your flank?" The voice came again, more irritable this time. Scootaloo turned her head to her hindquarters, and there was an imprint. A butterfly, which looked almost exactly like her pet one, was stationary on her flank with a small flower on each side of it.
"What is this thing? And who are you?" Scootaloo yelled desperately into the forest, as if a pony would pop out and tell her. The butterfly landed on the filly's nose. The voice came again, soft and soothing now.
"It me, the butterfly, I'm talking to you," Scootaloo's eyes almost bugged out of her head when she hear that. She about screamed, disrupting the forest's quiet, but waited for the butterfly to finish, "And it's called a cutie mark. It spawns onto your flank when you discover your special talent."
Talking to butterflies? Special talent? Is this even real life? Am I dreaming? More and more questions burnt on Scoot's tounge, but she didn't ask them.
"So talking to butterflies is my special talent? Is that why the butterflies saved me?" Scootaloo decided to ask the more logical questions.
"Yes, it is. Talking to animals, butterflies none the less, is a rare talent. Only few know it. And also, yes that is indeed why my pack saved you." Scootaloo sat hard. The only thing she could think to say is,
"Wow."
Author's Note
Sorry for the SUPER short chapter everypony! I can't get in a lot today.
