//------------------------------// // Her Name // Story: From the Desperate Struggle of a Mother // by Scootareader //------------------------------// My eyes are fixated on a plain white ceiling above me. A light protruding from a lazily rotating fan is the only decoration currently within my field of vision. It is the only ripple of change in the endless white landscape that is existence. I am the fan. As a younger mare, I used to lie down directly below these light fans and stare directly in them, till my eyes got black spots and blinking would make them keep appearing. I’d watch the blades rotate, often wondering why they didn’t just fly away from the light, falling down and chopping me to pieces. I wondered what would happen if the light was above the fan, instead of below; would the light fall down into the blades and shatter? Would the glass shards fall down and cut me to pieces too? If the fan was moving air, why not solid objects? Couldn’t it suck me up into it and chop me up even where it was? I used to ask Mama these questions when she was home. She would always tell me that I shouldn’t think about such scary things, that I shouldn’t stare into the light for so long and that I should just be happy that the fan and the light are where they are and not hurting me because I shouldn’t want to know what it feels like to hurt like that. I don’t think I ever really listened to her. Here, in the hospital, I see the fan that breaks the otherwise congruently white ceiling. It is an ugly thing, a pimple on the otherwise perfect face. The fan is a whirling blade of death, and it sits there, nopony even noticing it’s there, until all of a sudden it flies apart and breaks the light and the blades and the glass go everywhere and all of a sudden their lives have been disrupted. Then they clean up the mess and they pretend it never even happened, and the perfect white goes on unbroken. The crazed ramblings of an insane pony, clearly. I can’t help who I am, but I can pretend I’m not her. I break my vision of the light, the black spots hovering around while I look down and survey the rest of the room. Lumpkin is lightly dozing in her chair, her boredom post-outburst overtaking her. The male doctor has been replaced by a female unicorn wearing a simple knitted vest with a checkered pattern, who is sitting aside and scribbling some notes on a clipboard with a pen held by magic. I stare at the unicorn for a few moments, uncertain of how to break the silence. I want her to know I am here, but it is important that she know I am awake and didn’t want her attention. I go with the first option to pop into my mind. “Ah-choo!” The unicorn’s head snaps up, expecting me to be looking at her, but I am staring at the ceiling again, seemingly disinterested in her presence. She exclaims, “Ah, you’re awake!” I don’t look at her. “I heard you gave us quite the scare a little bit ago there. Lumpkin told me that some behavior like this is typical, but that you don’t usually go that far. Do you feel like talking about it?” The pieces click in my head. This pony is a psychiatrist. Or maybe a psychologist. I always mix them up. I look at Lumpkin, who is now awake thanks to the unicorn saying something. She smiles at me, imagining some scenario in her mind wherein I only needed some sleep and I would get all better. She betrayed me. The unicorn asked me a question, though, and I need to answer her. “Oh, no, not usually! It was probably just nerves, I had a lot of emotions and the hormone treatment and—oh, I’m rambling, aren’t I?” I laugh nervously. “But I’m not that crazy! Oh, and where are my manners? What is your name, Miss?” “Doctor Heartwell,” she offers. She smiles broadly, visibly encouraged by my normal-seeming behavior. “Are you feeling all right now, then?” “Oh, very much so!” I respond jubilantly. “I can sometimes get myself in a tizzy, but never anything major. My emotions just get the best of me sometimes, right?” I grin as naturally as I’m able and try to prevent the creeping sneer from appearing. “All right. Just ignore me over here for now, then. I’ll just observe your behavior for a bit and make sure the restraints aren’t necessary.” All too abruptly, I am aware of leather bandings pinning my four legs to my hospital bed. I blanch internally, feeling the sharp spike of panic strike my heart, but I quickly master myself, hoping Heartwell didn’t see it. “That’s fine, I totally understand your reasons for wanting to do that. I nearly hurt somepony earlier. We don’t want a repeat of the situation.” I pause in feigned thought for a moment, then ask, “May I see my foal?” “As soon as I no longer see you as a potential risk, sure.” I can tell that Heartwell has been reassured by my request; she lapses into silence, then begins idly scribbling on her clipboard again while keeping an eye on me. My hunch is that she has some kind of incident report of my earlier actions and is writing follow-up notes on what she’s observing. I shift my attention to Lumpkin, who has watched the entire exchange in silence. I know the truth, but I pretend I don’t realize it. “Sorry about... all that.” Lumpkin grips my hoof between hers. “No, no, no need to apologize. I know you’ve been going through a lot. Ever since Apple Cart—” Apple Cart. “I don’t really see the appeal that Sapphire Shores has, honestly. She’s just really flashy and overrated. All the mares my age are just swooning over her, though.” Apple Cart rolls his eyes. “A little younger than you, I think. The fillies who grew up with the new electro music, not traditional orchestral. Keep in mind that most of our musical numbers tend to be orchestral still; Sapphire Shores is a real stage musician, so she influences future musical numbers in some way. I figure the colts and fillies raised now will do more electro numbers. Still, it’s not meant for us to enjoy it.” “Why is she on TV, then? If she is only liked by young fillies with no money.” I feel a little flustered by how dismissive he is of what I said, but maybe he’ll sound better this time. “Well... it’s tough to say.” He grins sheepishly. “Maybe media’s got it all wrong, but I figure they’re making money somehow.” Wrong again. “You just like telling me I’m wrong, don’t you?” Silence. Apple Cart’s smile fades and he looks thoughtful for a moment. “Have you ever thought of having your own foals, Fuji?” “Foals? Why?” He isn’t caring to defend himself from my accusation, it appears; I’ll see where he’s going with this. “I’ve always wanted foals, is all. You and I have been close for so long, I figure I oughta ask.” “I...” I never really thought about it, but I won’t admit it. “Never really thought about it?” As if he read my mind. I nod silently. “I always worry about the name. I can’t think of a good name if it’s a filly. I can only come up with a single colt name.” “What is it?” “Tell me what names you want to give your foals first.” I shrug. “I never thought about having foals—not seriously. I never thought of a name.” “Oh. Right.” He rubs the back of his head with his hoof and smiles again. “Well, the only name I could think up was... oh, it’s a little silly. We Apples aren’t very imaginative folk, see. I thought you’d have lots of ideas of names.” I sigh. “Just tell me.” “All right, fine. It’s, uh... it’s Jack Apple.” I snort a little. “You Apples and your names.” I approach him from across the room and kiss him deeply. “Not that I’m complaining. Jack Apple it is, for a colt.” “I swear I’ll think up a name for a filly, too—just in case she’s not a colt. Just give me time to think up more apple puns.” He grins, then kisses me back. “Speaking of which, how about we work on that foal now?” All too abruptly, I realize that Lumpkin is still talking. “—not that I’m really that shy, but you know, going out shopping with a pony I don’t know? I still get the feeling that Sweepy was trying to hook us up, but I never got a straight answer out of her. I’ve always wondered about that.” She pauses before continuing her story. I interrupt her. “Lumpkin?” She realizes that I’m still there. “I want to go home.” Lumpkin looks over at Heartwell, who shrugs. “They don’t know if you’re well enough to go home yet, hun. Otherwise, I’d take you home myself.” I sigh sadly. “I don’t like the hospital. I want to see my foal.” My foal... my foal! “Doctor Heartwell, do you know anything about my foal?” “Um... no, I don’t work in any departments relating to infants, sorry.” Heartwell continues scribbling. “Get someone who does?” I ask with as much urgency as I can muster. “I guess so, sure.” Heartwell gets up and leaves. Lumpkin looks at me in concern. “What are you trying to figure out?” “I need to know if it’s a colt or a filly.” “Oh, I know that. The doctor said it’s a filly.” A filly. Jack Apple is a colt’s name. Apple Cart never gave me a filly name. I miss him. “Jack... Apple.” I say the words out loud. “Beg pardon?” “Her name is Jack Apple.” “Jack Apple? Isn’t that a colt name?” “No, it’s her name.” “Oh.” Lumpkin seems confused for a moment, then she once again accepts what she doesn’t understand. “Jack Apple it is.”