Cold

by McDronePone

Chapter 4: Foalish

Chapter 4: Foalish

The post office door opened with Frill Spike stepping in. The action was done with a tired effort, his movements motivated only by the fact that the new route was done with. Of course, he would have to get back to it one more time. He gave a sigh at the thought.

It was the first time he felt truly tired after work. Other times before, he only experienced a physical exhaustion. In fact, just like the bigotry he felt in the Noble district, he had expected that exhaustion to come with the job. Yet, the day’s events still managed to linger in his mind. He criticized himself for being so depressed by the situation.

Why was he so emotionally down? As far as he could tell, every changeling that came to Equestria had to face the same prejudices that he just faced. In fact, he had to deal with it himself when he first settled in Manehatten. Even then, he came to cope with it, and it even became a rare occurrence as time went on.

So why was he being so bleak about it?

Frill Spike thought about this as he made his way to the back room, a weary scowl keeping itself on his face. He placed the extra carrier bag on the rack below the Manehatten map. The two route lines, with his name posted to both, stared back at him. The one he took on top of his usual one stared back with more intensity than the other.

He glared back, giving it a determined nod.

“Frill Spike,” a familiar voice called out, startling the changeling.

He did not notice Parcel was in the room as well, working on something at the table. She just noticed him staring at the map.

“Everything all right,” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” he quickly responded. “Just reviewing the new route.”

Parcel gave a smile, though he could sense some concern coming from her. “So the new route wasn’t problem?”

Frill Spike gave himself only a small moment to think over that question. “No not really. The extra weight may be a little bearing, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’re positive about that?” The concern was still present, but it was also mixed with suspicion at the statement.

“Well, the rich part of the neighborhood wasn’t really happy to see a changeling flying around, but it didn’t slow me down.”

She took a moment to consider the accuracy of what he said. “So you’re absolutely certain you can handle this route.”

“Parcel, I can handle it just find,” Frill Spike returned, a little too quickly and defensively than he meant. “Besides,” he continued in an attempt lighten the mood. “I can’t complain over some good old fashioned, hard work.” The sentence was finished off with a smile and a hoof bump to his chest.

She gave a chuckle to the sudden show of bravado. “So, you’re completely cool with it then?”

“Is that a serious question, or are you just making a pun about cold outside,” he asked with a smirk.

All the sky blue earthpony could do was smile, a sense of relief coming from her at the same time. “Glad to hear it, ‘cause I need you on that route for little while longer.”

Frill Spike’s ears twitched in confusion at the statement. “What do you mean?”

“Remember the pony that called in sick? Turns out it’s something a little more prolonged than a cold, so he’s gonna be off for awhile.”

“Exactly how long?”

“He told me his doctor said it was going to be for at least another couple of weeks.”

There was a short pause in the conversation.

“That’s, uh, unfortunate,” Frill Spike commented, trying to hide his worry.

Parcel gave a nod. “So, you’re absolutely sure you can continue with this route for awhile?”

Frill Spike kept his determinism. “I’m sure.”

She gave a smile upon hearing the assurance in that statement. “I’ll hold you to it.”

“And I’ll be sure to not make the weight overbearing.”

Parcel could not help but give him a look of genuine confusion before giving a slight giggle. “What?”

“You know,” he began with a smile. “You’re holding me to it, so it’s like you’re holding me literally, and—ah, never mind.”

The mood had lightened, considerably.

“Well,” he continued. “I still got a few hours left in the day. Anything else need delivering?”

“Just one or two packages. Let me get them out for you.” She got up from the table to get the packages.

Once he had his new load and stepped outside, Frill Spike gave a large sigh. He was relieved that he managed to gain her trust in his abilities. If only he gave her the full truth instead of half of it. It was bad enough that he was practically lying to his boss, and friend for that matter, but he was also lying to himself.

His hoof gave a stomp on the side walk. This was completely foalish. He was getting gloomy over a couple of pretentious, insulting ponies thinking badly of him. This was not a popularity contest, he had a job to do. And he was doing a pathetic one at that. Letting some hurtful thoughts get to him was a completely moronic thing to do. How could he be so amateur? It was not as if he needed the approval of those nobles, he just needed to deliver their damn mail. They could go get themselves thrown in a dungeon and banished to the moon at the same time for all he cared. As long he could still get extra bits for just delivering their stupid mail, in their stupid decorative mail boxes, in their stupid neighborhood, that’s all he could care about, because at the end of the day, it was about him and nothing else.

Frill Spike caught the worry of some strangers trotting by. He just realized that he was standing in the middle of the sidewalk with an angry glare. If his carapace would allow it, a visible blush of embarrassment would have been seen. Clearing his throat and making a quick apology in the general direction of worried onlookers, he quickly set his self aloft and got straight to work on delivering the packages.

He had to stop acting like this.

Frill Spike gave a tired sigh at the sight of the house with a simple chain link fence and plain grass lawn. The last package took him to an average neighborhood, one he had been to on a couple of occasions. There was nothing wrong with the community itself. It was only the unicorn that lived here—that he delivered packages to on many of those occasions—that bothered him.

At this point, it was another routine. First came trotting up the walkway to the house door, where he knocked on it. As expected, an aged voice came forth with a suspicious undertone.

“Are you alone?”

“If you mean I didn’t come here with anypony else, then yes, I’m alone,” Frill Spike responded automatically.

The next step of the cycle was the tumbling and turning of several mechanisms housed inside locks. After a brief pause in the noise, the door was slowly opened and hoof beckoned the changeling inside.

He would have asked why he could not just leave the package at the door, but the last time he did that, the unicorn would not bother coming to the door for weeks.

With a great unenthusiastic nature, Frill Spike trotted inside the house. There was a musty smell as always, but the house seemed to be free of any kind of dirt particles or dust. He could only guesses it came from the objects in the home.

The interior was neither a depressing sight, nor a bright one either. The plain brown color of one of the walls was visible only through the small spaces where the various newspapers, photos, and maps—all connected by a complicated system of strings—did not obscure it. Another wall had a column, labeled “Current events.” Below the title were several clippings from the day’s paper that, the changeling guessed, would possibly find a way onto the mess of strings on the previous wall. On the third wall was a hanging chalk board, filled with scribbles of possible theories and hypotheses. About the home, books and papers on various topics of history, research, and ominous fiction were piled atop each other in helter-skelter stacks. There was couch situated in front of a table that had paper littered with notes and circled words. Each word made reference to some kind of underlining meaning and questions to what it was. That was all this mess was about: Trying to look for something that was not there.

He turned to the grey unicorn that had a frazzled mane and tale, and a cutie mark that depicted the point of view of a pair of binoculars that observed a hulking, shadowy figure. The unicorn looked back at the changeling, a pair of thin reading glasses hanging from his neck. He carried an air of suspicion that was not new to Frill Spike.

The unicorn closed the door as he approached the changeling. “What is this about,” he asked directly.

Frill Spike rolled his eyes at the next step of this procedure. “I have a package that is meant to be delivered to you.” He then levitated said package in front of the unicorn and waited.

The unicorn in turn levitated his glasses to examine the square box. He made sure to note every detail, right down to the corners. “Did anypony else came in contact with this?”

Frill Spike held off on sighing. “I’m only aware that my boss had touched this box. I cannot say if anypony else did the same.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Crackpot, I’ve had long day,” Frill Spike suddenly snapped back. “Can you just take my word for it and take the box?”

It was then that he realized too late the error of his words as the unicorn, named Crackpot, immediately heightened his suspicion. “Why so defensive all of sudden?”

Frill Spike gave annoyed grunt. “I wasn’t getting ‘defensive.’ I was just saying that I really don’t feel like going through this today.”

With that, the unicorn took the package with his own field of magic. “Well, if that’s the case, we’ll just have to see if you really had a ‘long day.’” He trotted over to one side of the couch, setting the box on the opposite end. “Don’t move until I can assure that there is nothing wrong here.”

Knowing that trying to make an argument would only prolong the situation, Frill Spike rolled his eyes and sat down on his haunches. He watched as the unicorn positioned his self so that the arm of the chair was covering his face. Crackpot proceeded to take off the protective seal on the box, slowly, and opened it with a very cautious nature. He then slowly took out what the box held inside.

A globe was pulled out of the mess of foamed peanuts. The unicorn brought it ever so carefully to his face and inspected it with great detail. His hoof spun the sphere, his ever watchful eyes examining each hemisphere with an observational guise.

Frill Spike could barely keep himself awake through the process.

Crackpot finally placed the globe down. “Well,” he began. “I suppose there are no enchantments on this object that would allow some individual to spy on me. But, I’ll only come to that conclusion once I perform further inspections.”

Frill Spike would have laughed at that statement if he did not know he was being serious. “I’m glad you’re approaching it with caution,” he deadpanned. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to get going.”

He was about to open the door when Crackpot stopped him. “Wait a moment. There’s still the matter of your odd behavior.”

If there was not any kind of law against assault, Frill Spike would have happily bucked the unicorn right in the face. He gave out a sigh. “Like I said, Crackpot, it’s been a long day for me.”

“Yes, but what was ‘it?’”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what was this ‘it’ that caused the day to be long? Unless…” Crackpot brought a hoof to his chin and squint his eyes into an intent state of pondering. “No, no. The Celestia bringing eternal day theory already proved to be invalid.”

Frill Spike rolled his eyes. “Look, if you really need to know,” he began. “I took on some extra work on top of my usual one and it made me tired. Does that answer your question?”

Crackpot continued the pondering look. “Why does it tire you then?”

“That should be obvious,” Frill Spike shot back. He let out another sigh when he saw that his answer only served to raise the unicorn’s eyebrow. “Because, I have to carry more mail.” He gave Crackpot an annoyed glare. “Am I clear of any wild suspicion now?”

“Is that the truth?”

Frill Spike continued the glare, the pause serving to keep the unicorn’s brow raised. The staring match continued until the changeling gave his answer.

“Yeah.”

Another short silence.

“In that case, I’m done with my questions,” Crackpot said, signaling with his hoof that Frill Spike could leave.

The changeling followed the gesture and opened the door. After he left, and the door closed, Crackpot fiddled with the myriad of locks and tumblers on it before he had secured the door once again. He returned to the globe giving it another spin with his hoof.

“Very strange.”

Frill Spike had trotted to the end of the walkway leading to Crackpot’s house. His head hung low during the small journey before taking a look at the pole that held the unicorn’s mailbox. The simple object stood at the fence, absent of any excessive security measures. It was the one thing about Crackpot’s property that did not look protected. He looked at it, then back at the house, and then back at the box.

The pole received a feeble kick from his foreleg. That was the only ounce of revenge he could muster. He let out sigh as he began to fly. The only plan for him that day was to go back to the office, end the work day by clocking out, and then return home for some rest. Trying to forget about the day’s events would be the next step once he curled up into his sheets and slept.

Foalish.

Marsh Olive tapped a hoof against his bedroom window, looking out to the growing night outside. After the scroll was cashed in at the bank, it was a simple journey back home. Being outside for that moment was comforting, and his mood had brightened, taking in whatever rays of Celestia’s sun that managed to pierce the cloudy sky. Viewing that glowing orb while actually being under it was nothing compared to seeing it through a glass pane. Yet that mid-afternoon’s event still managed to linger in his mind.

A normal colt would write off any unexpected surprises like that, focusing their attention back to things that they enjoyed. In Marsh’s case, however, he had many opportunities to explore the concept of contemplation. Though he would not recognize himself doing so, he still meditated on past events. With the way he lived, he had certainly earned that right.

At the moment, he was thinking about changelings. It was a little strange of a subject for him to think on considering his past, but today warranted it. His first thoughts were of changelings that lived in Manehatten. Whenever he and his father went out of the apartment, they would see some going by. Some of them flew, others trotted, and a number worked. His father would always remind him to keep close to him and to make sure to avoid their gaze. But the curiousness of a colt cannot be diminished so easily and he would always sneak a quick glance at them. Each time he did so he would see them going on with their business, paying no mind to the foal. If anything, they were more concerned with their own problems than looking for prey to feed on.

He began to think of more instances where changelings did not act like the monsters his father had always told him of. There was a time when he saw one just leisurely sitting on a bench. Then he thought of another time when he had caught sight of one talking to a pony. With each dissection deeper into his memories, more of these contradictory instances were retrieved. Each mundane happening that he gave no second thought towards now began to stand out.

Once he saw one traveling with a group of ponies and Marsh could swear he saw all of them laughing with each other. One time he saw one giving a pony some directions. Another time, he saw one helping a pony move supplies into a house.

Then there was that changeling that made the strange apology that afternoon.

Marsh stepped away from the window and went over to his winter clothing sprawled on the floor. He put them on and trotted back to the window, undoing the clamps that held it shut and opened it. With the only means of locking the bedroom window being on the inside, Bull True did not think it necessary to put any additional security measures there. The cold was made colder by the absence of the sun, and the icy grasp surrounded the colt. He shuddered but shook it off. He was not planning on going outside just yet, but instead needed to look at the tree that was to the side.

The tree was just tall enough that one of its branches was able to reach the height of the third floor window. The distance between the branch and the tree was short, but it was possible to make a hop from the sill to the branch.

Of course, this would require some bravery. Many times, Marsh had thought making that jump to the branch, but each time he would try to position himself on the sill he would stop. His gaze would look down to the steep drop below and his breath would suddenly catch in his throat. Then he would climb back down and shut the window, trying to place the tree out of memory so would not think of the jump again.

Yet there he was, looking at the same tree, with the same short distance to the branch, the same drop below. It would not have to be today, but maybe one day he could build up the courage to go through with it. And when he did…he did not know what he would do. But it would be a start.

One day.

For now, he shut the window closed, undressed, and crawled into his bed. Moments later, sleep began to take over and all conscious thought slipped from the grasp of his mind. One of those thoughts—that would certainly not come across his mind again―was the question of why it was that day’s meditation that made him think of the tree again.

The white ceiling looked the same as ever. The absence of color made it as mundane of a structure as ever. There would not be any real reason to look up at it.

But Bull always found himself looking at it. Whenever the day was done and there was nothing more to do but to crawl into an empty bed, he would stare at it. He would not know how long it would take before sleep graced him after staring up for so long. Even when sleep did come, his dreams would always wake him back up more than once before finally letting him have a dreamless sleep.

That was the best part about his sleep. When there was a window of complete blackness that he would not realize he was staring at before waking up the next day. That small chance of a clean escape from life.

Of course, he would still have to wait and stare up before he could have even an attempt at that kind of sleep.

Sometimes he wondered why he would worry about sleeping at all. If Marsh ever needed anything and Bull was asleep, he would only need to knock on the bathroom wall that ran opposite to his father’s bedroom and the stallion would rush to see what the problem was. Also, it was not as if the stallion was expected to be somewhere on time.

For one matter, he had no job to worry over. The anxiety from the Canterlot incident made it difficult to hold on to his job before, and each one he found after that suffered the same fate. Inevitably, the debilitations began to outweigh the performance. There were times when he could barely get a foot away from his door step and others when he fell far too deep into a depressive state to show up for work.

But out of all those debilitating influences, there were two that were the crux of his job troubles.

The first was the growing number of changelings in the work force. Whatever job it may be, Bull’s fear and underlying hate towards them was too much in order to work somewhere that employed. He did not even have to be working alongside the changeling employee. Just the thought of one being there was too bearing.

The other was looking after Marsh. The thought of being away for long hours on a continuous basis while the colt was alone and vulnerable to anything was something Bull could not handle.

In the end, the only remedy to these problems was registering for unemployment benefits. For him, this was the best solution. He retained his ability to watch after Marsh and provide the basic necessities for living. It was as good of a life he could make for his son.

Marsh Olive.

Though he would not show it, he worried about how the colt viewed the world around him. He made sure to teach him the right values and what to be careful of. Speaking of teaching, he was going to turn five sometime in the summer and that meant he would now be eligible to attend school. If anything, Bull wanted his son to go to school and have an education. At the same time, however, that meant having him be on his own for a good six hours of each day of school. The thought made him shudder. The supervision of a teacher alone could not keep the colt safe from the dangers of the world. But it was inevitable, and he had no idea what he would do when that day came.

Bull hated not knowing what to do. He always needed to have a set plan of action, and whenever he did not, he would just fall apart. He would have no idea how to advance or who to turn to.

Except, there was one pony he thought of that could help him at a time like that.

Clover Pride.

That was another point he thought about when it came to rest. What was the point of going to bed if no pony was there waiting for him? Why bother to sit and maybe talk or read together if she was not there? There was no mare for him to hold close on a depressing day, or snuggle with, or just kiss.

She was the one pony for him. No contender could match that magnificent mare with her soothing voice and her bright smile. A clone of her would not even suffice to replace the original. No pony—no creature—could ever match their selves to her level. The most beautiful of models could not even come close to being better than her. No personality could be similar enough for him. Celestia’s own image and kindness could scarcely hold a match her, even if that match was the sun itself. There could never be any mare he could love and be happy with but her and her alone.

And she was gone.

Bull turned his head over to the night stand. There sat a bottle of cider. Some nights, when he felt particular void of feeling, he would have a glass. Or two. Or three. But he knew he could not have too much, lest he would be two muddled to help Marsh if he needed anything. Besides, after the times he did let impulse take control and down glasses of the drink, he built tolerance for it. All it could do was slow down the stallion’s mind long enough for sleep take him in.

In any event, he made a grab for the bottle. The half-hearted attempt served to knock the bottle over and it landed on the carpet with a thud. Bull retracted his hoof and stared back at the ceiling. He was aware that he felt something warm run down his cheek but he paid no mind. He turned his head again to the side, letting his pillow act as an absorbent for the tears, and finally went to sleep.

He thought himself so pathetic.

Comments

[goddamnAnimal]

more people need to read this.