//------------------------------//
// A Simple Story 
// Story: Memory of a Dream 
// by SulliedInk 
//------------------------------//

	My name is Pinkamina Diane Pie, but I am known by many as Pinkie Pie. I’ve earned quite the reputation here in Ponyville. Some even gave me the title of “happiest thing alive”. I chuckle inside upon hearing such words. 

Every morning, After I wake up, I put on a mask. It is as stiff as a plank, thicker than mud, yet thinner than paper. Nobody but me can see it. Nobody but me can feel its rough edges. No one but myself can wipe these dried tears inside. On it is etched a smile. It is my smile. It is a mask I wear everyday. It is a mask I am forced to wear for the rest of my life, for I have learned that sadness only brings more misery. 

Beneath my smile, I cry. Beneath my random nature lies a complicated mare. I don’t know when you came into my life. However, when you did, you turned it upside down, and ruined everything. I don’t want to remember you, yet the scars left behind by your fangs still bleed today. Each night, I cry myself to sleep, trying to convince my fragile mind that one day, you will go away. I pray for us to be apart. I pray for us to walk separate paths. Each time I let go, you stab me to remind myself of the pain. 

No one seems to notice the pain. How could they? All they see is a mask, an object I bear over my face to mask the ugly truth. It won’t break, no matter how hard it gets hit. I won’t break, no matter how much pain. It’s funny though; nobody ever comes to my house. The townscolts automatically assume I live at Sugarcube corner. Those are nothing but lies. I live far from them, so nobody may hear my cries in the silent night.

Why are we still together? Why are you still tormenting me? Hurt me. Stab me. Stab yourself. My blood stains the floor. There are grains of sugar, floating in red. Happiness? What is that? Shut up. You don’t need this mask. Why can’t you handle the truth? Why should we tell them the truth? Leave me alone. I can’t do that. Leave. No, you leave. Let me take over. Let me win. No! Come on, we are alone. Alright.

It’s too much. I can’t smile here. The pain is too much... I can’t... I can’t keep going... My past is too much to handle. I slid my hoof over a bloody picture. My parents... Yes, my parents... They were the ones to do this... There were the ones to make us. I remember now! I remember when we met! 

It was that night; the skies were dark, and the moon hidden by clouds. Mommy and daddy were fighting. I didn’t understand; my party should’ve made them happy. Then, mommy stormed out the room, and grabbed me by my mane. She took me to the tube with the sour water. She tossed me down that tunnel, and grabbed buckets of sour water. The moment it entered in contact with my coat, the fur began itching. It hurt a lot. The pain was too much to handle. My eyes... They burn... 

After two or three buckets down the tube, I hear screaming. Mommy was crying. I had never heard her cry. Then, a paralyzing shriek echoed across the rock farm. I heard daddy say bad words. I guess they were mad about my party. Then, a rope hit me on the forehead. My sisters had thrown it down to me. They told me to grab on. And so, I did. After a while, I was out of the tube. The stone was so rough. It had scratched off some skin. They dragged me along, as we ran outside the rock farm’s perimeters. Once in the forest, I asked them what happened.

“Mommy loved the party,” said the eldest. “However, daddy wasn’t too fond of it. Mommy ranted on and on about how she thinks he’s unworthy. She slapped him in the face, and told him he didn’t love him anymore, that she never had. She grabbed you, and shouted something about making sure you would obey. We saw her toss you down the well, and grab the sour water.”

“Then,” continued my younger sister, “Daddy was angry. He grabbed the silver toys we aren’t allowed to touch, and came at her with it. Maybe he still loved her, because I saw him jump on mommy. She didn’t love him back, because all I heard was screaming. Then, it stopped. Maybe she changed her mind.”

“I urged her to go grab a rope and pull you out Pinkie. Listen, we have to run. We can’t stay here anymore.”

“Hey sis,” asked my younger sibling, “Why is mommy sleeping on the ground? What’s that red thing? Did daddy spill juice over her? Why won’t her wake her up? She has juice all over her!”

I didn’t know what to say. For my younger sister to have witnessed such a scene at this age must be a sign from fate. Maybe we are cursed with bad fate. Nobody is the family was happy. The party I threw was in vain. My father had just brutally murdered my mother, and he was coming for us next. He would never allow us to leave like this.