Dear Princess Celestia,
It has been three months since the last letter. It has been eight months since Pear passed. My family is getting worse. Pear was the glue holding us together. The gaping wound left in her absence has not healed, in fact, I think it has started to fester. We are all being slowly torn apart; our family ties are stretching more and more taut. A large cleaver hangs overhead, waiting to chop down and cut the cords. I look up at the handle of the sharp utensil, and I see it is engraved with three small cacti, each with a burning flower. Dad has become totally absorbed in his work. He works the entire day without saying a word, chopping cactus like an automaton, just going through the motions. Even attempts to talk to him result in nothing more than a shrug or a single “eyup” or “nope.” I want my old Daddy back, the one who comforted me when I bumped into a cactus and held me when I was crying. But I don't do those things anymore. I have lost the ability to cry. Mom doesn't cry either. But she has been getting mean. She always had a fondness for tequila, but since Pear died, she has been drinking it every day. She usually grabs the bottle immediately after coming back from the fields and passes out several hours later, with the bottle still clutched between her hooves. Sometimes, she falls asleep on her back. I used to flip her on her side, but I don't really have the energy anymore. And when she wakes up, nopony wants to be around her. She starts screaming her head off and smacking anything that moves. She still manages to get up and go to work in the fields. But I think Jackfruit is doing the worst. He no longer shows interest in anything, even cooking. He only makes plain cactus soup for every single meal. On top of that, I think he might be hurting himself. I sometimes see him at breakfast with fresh-looking cuts on the inside of his forelegs. If he sees me even just glance at them, he stares daggers at me. The first time, I tried to ask him what happened, and he said nothing until after we were finished eating. Afterwards, I asked him if Mom did it, and he said “No, just drop it.” I continued to press him, and he finally said, “I haven't felt a thing since Prickly Pear died. I do this because feeling something, anything, even pain, is better than being numb.” I don't bother him about it anymore. I could have tried to convince him to stop, but I'm not the same mare I was eight months ago. I don't care anymore. My life consists of loading wheelbarrows and planting. We have to work on Sundays, too, because without Prickly Pear we have to work more to get enough food. The bandits rarely come to try to steal our cactus, and when they do, we just shoot them on sight. And the drought has stopped. It rained all of last week. It was like a rain of all the tears that were never shed for Pear. You might think that our lives have improved. But our depression overshadows our sudden luck. We are no longer a family, just coworkers. Coworkers who can't stand each other. Without my family, all I have left is the cactus fields. Congratulations, you spiky maned monster. You got me.
Sincerely,
Ragamuffin