Saturday practice, Sunday rest
Saturdays were always the same for Octavia. They never changed.
She sat on her couch, bow in hoof, mane unkempt, and cello against her knees. Practice notes filled the air and only stopped when the strings needed adjusting. The door was firmly locked and every window was shut so the cellist could concentrate exclusively on her playing. It was not uncommon for her to skip meals until the late, black hours of the night and then binge on whatever was left of the week’s provisions inside her bachelorette refrigerator before bed.
Playing at the concert was now the rule, even after the earth-shattering news of her former group’s betrayal. Nopony would convince her she couldn’t. She worked too hard on her song to let it drift from the charcoal smudged pages into the air of forgotten memory. Besides, who would show up to see a quartet of three ponies? There was no excuse in the world not to present her creation in front of an audience hungry for genius, thirsting for brilliance, and desperate for direction.
She would feed. She would quench. She would play. But now, she needed to practice.
Just as Octavia was about to hit the first note for the thousandth time that day, she heard a knock coming from the front door. That’s odd. I don’t remember inviting anypony to my apartment on a Saturday.
She opened the door. It was Susie Tuba.
“Susie? What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m sorry for interrupting you, Octavia,” she replied, looking rather ashamed. “I-I was just wondering if maybe we could talk for little bit. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”
“Um, sure. Come inside.”
Octavia led her nervous guest to the couch where she took her seat right next to the cello. She stared at it, mesmerized at the crafted beauty of wood and string. She wouldn’t take her eyes off of it, which Octavia found to be a tad disconcerting. In fact, this whole scene she found to be a bit odd. Even so, she never forgot her manners or common hospitality.
“Would you like something to drink, Susie?”
“Oh, no thank you, I’m fine. I just wanted to ask you, I mean, talk to you about s-something.”
Octavia nodded. She took her cello and placed it against the wall, noticing Susie following it with her eyes. She took a seat on the couch, awaiting Susie’s words with clasped hooves.
“Octavia, I just wanted to know if you would ever reconsider coming back to the Sunshi- I mean, the quartet again.”
“Susie…”
“I mean, I know you left us and everything, but if you ever decided you want to come back. You know we would accept you back with open hooves, right?”
Octavia rolled her eyes. “You’re not serious are you?”
Susie just sighed, defeated.
“Look Susie, if Frederic sent you here to try to convince me with your pleading eyes to rejoin the ‘Sunshine Quartet’, well, you can tell him that he failed miserably.”
The cellist got up from the couch and made her way to the door with intentions of escorting her guest out. How dare that bastard Frederic send poor Susie Tuba undercover to do his evil bidding? Her she was shaking like an autumn leaf, and he most likely sat somewhere with his hooves up to his eyes, grinning as his imagination carried out the discourse for him.
Octavia was just about to open the door to her apartment when she felt Susie’s hoof cover her own.
“No, please Octavia. I came on my own, not because of Frederic. And believe me when I tell you that I find him just as stupid as you do.”
Octavia turned. “Really,” she responded, shocked.
Susie took her hoof off the knob, cowering. “Well, yes. I mean, I don’t hate him, but I think he can be a jerk sometimes.”
“I do hate him,” Octavia replied. Looking back at Susie, the cellist’s expression softened. Susie was a very meek soul, akin to a doormat where everypony brushed their dirt and filth and left her to crust. Frederic was particularly the one who took advantage of her the most, evidenced by the self-righteous complaints of the sousaphone player’s performance he would carelessly toss in the air.
The horn is coming in too strong, it rattles my ear drums.
If I were a blind pony, I’d say we invited a wee little mouse to play Susie’s part.
I feel personally that the horn shouldn’t come in at this part, or in any part for that matter. It’s simply too peculiar a sound to accompany the strings and piano. Perhaps we should exclude it altogether.
Octavia felt a rush of relief relax her tense muscles after that comment.
“Let’s sit back on the couch and talk some more, shall we?” Octavia offered.
It began to drizzle outside, but the mares sat comfortably on the couch, each holding a mug of hot tea. This was the first time Octavia had any guests over at her apartment, but she enjoyed it.
Perhaps this is more of what I need. Socializing. That’s what it’s called, no?
“I hope the tea is to your liking, Susie.”
“Oh, it’s delicious. Thanks.”
Susie put her drink down on the table and held her chest tightly, diverting her eyes away from her hostess. She took a deep sigh and looked up into the cellist’s eyes.
“Octavia, I know you want to have your own career and stuff. And that’s great, I’m very happy for you. You can make whatever decision you want. But, I think that if you leave, things just won’t be the same. In fact, they might get worse. I can’t stand to see you go like that. It hurt so much to just see you walk out the door like it was nothing. I felt like my heart broke or something. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay. You’re the reason I’ve improved so much.”
“I would hardly think I bear all the credit for you improvements, Susie,” said Octavia. “You’ve practiced about as hard as anyone else in the group, and betterment is the natural result.”
“No, you don’t understand, Octavia.”
Octavia didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why Susie attributed all her success as a competent sousaphone player in one pony. She didn’t understand why she appeared so needy of her being there at the practice sessions. She didn’t understand why Susie begged her so much.
“Please, enlighten me.”
Susie took a deep breath. “I love you, Octavia.”
“What?”
“I mean, I love what you do, Octavia. The way you play and the way you carry yourself with everypony. You’re so full of grace and beauty, I c-can’t stand it. I don’t know anypony quite like you. You’re so special, and I’m not.”
She couldn’t mean that. Could she? Does she really love me? This is all so bizarre.
“I’m so sorry. Everything came out so wrong. I’m sorry…”
“Susie…”
“You know what? I’m sorry I wasted your time. I am so mixed up right now and I think I should just go.”
Susie stood up to leave, but not before Octavia stood in her way.
“Susie, wait.”
Susie just stood there. Mouth closed, eyes open.
“Look, Susie, I don’t love you.”
Susie bowed her head. Mouth open, eyes closed.
“I mean. It’s not that I hate you or find you despising.”
“Then what?” Susie asked.
“I’m not in any position to be looking for that sort of relationship right now, and I don’t see myself having one anytime soon.”
“What makes you think I wanted one?” asked Susie, raising her voice a little.
“Susie…”
Susie turned her head away. The tension was too much.
“I’m sorry if I took your comments out of context. It was an honest mistake. But please understand that I am finding all of this a little confusing at the moment. My mind hasn’t processed everything yet.”
“Is that all you do, Octavia,” said Susie. “Process things with your mind?”
“What are you implying?”
“I mean, do you ever stop to feel for once? Do you listen to your gut feeling or follow your heart at all? Or are you like some kind of heartless robot who plays cello all day?”
“I’d like to think that I convey a lot of heart when I perform on my cello. So no, I do not think I should be likened to a heartless robot.”
Heartless robot? Hard working, yes, without a doubt. But heartless?
Susie didn’t respond.
“Susie, don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic about all this?”
Susie scoffed. “Dramatic? Since when does somepony sharing her true feelings mean dramatic?”
“Well, I mean…wait, you weren’t lying?”
“Now I’m a liar!”
“Didn’t you just say before that you didn’t mean it when you said you loved me? Now you’re going back on your word? I am so lost right now, it’s quite ridiculous!”
Susie pushed Octavia away and shot her a disgusted look. “What do you mean ridiculous? Are you saying I’m ridiculous? I was talking about me calling you a robot! But now I see that maybe you are one since you don’t even know how to carry a normal conversation.”
Susie brushed past Octavia and headed for the door, but not before Octavia slid her hoof over the knob.
“Wait.”
“Just let me go. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on here.”
“There’s nothing left to say,” Susie stated.
“Of course there is! There’s a lot left to say!”
“Well, I don’t feel like saying it okay? Just let me go.”
Susie tried to move Octavia’s hoof off of the door knob, but the grip was too strong for the feeble sousaphone player.
“Are you going to let me go or what?”
“Not until you explain to me what is really going on with you.”
“Dear Celestia, you’re starting to get really annoying!” Susie huffed. “Do you want me to scream for help or something?”
“To your heart’s desire, if you want. But I will not let you go until we get this matter settled,” Octavia replied, in a sort of schoolteacher manner.
“There is no matter to settle! You already said what you wanted to say, so now let me go home.”
“What did I say?”
“Stop it!”
Susie grabbed the knob with both hooves this time, successfully removing Octavia’s firm grip. As soon as she stepped out of the apartment, Octavia wrapped her hooves around Susie’s petite body.
“Susie please, you’ve got to understand!”
“Are you mad? Let me go!”
“Not until you tell me how you really feel!”
“I hate you!”
“That’s a lie! Now tell me the truth. The honest truth!”
“I want to go home!” Susie started to cry.
“Do you love me or not?”
“Leave me alone!”
“Tell me. Tell me right now, dammit! I want the truth, I need the truth! Do you love me, yes or no?”
“Yes!”
Octavia’s embrace began to loosen at the sound of that word. Susie managed to break free from her brief imprisonment, and then met her captor with a firm hoof to the face, the sound as rock meeting cold floor.
“I hope you rot in hell, Octavia! I never want to see you again.”
Susie turned and started down the flight of stairs. Octavia pursued the quartet member as a small colt chases a paper boat down a rushing rapid.
“Stop,” Susie screamed.
Octavia obeyed as she saw Susie’s hoof suspended in the pouring rain. “Susie…”
“Go back inside, Octavia,” she said without turning. “You might rust.”
Susie left, disappearing into the hazy rain. Octavia, with her mane matted and messy, tried to find words to repair what had been severed but she couldn’t. Her mind was failing her at a moment when she needed it most. She had nothing.
Octavia closed the door to her apartment behind her, resting her back on its cold face. She stood there for several minutes in complete silence. Hey eyes didn’t move. Her lips didn’t quiver. Her ears picked up no sound. She looked over at her cello, but any desire she had before was beaten out of her like sand out of a punching bag. She looked at the two mugs of hot tea that sat on the table. One was empty, the other barely touched.
“She did say she wasn’t thirsty,” Octavia said breaking the silence. She grabbed the two mugs and carried them over to the kitchen sink. She tried squeezing out a little soap onto her sponge from an empty bottle which proved to be useless. She threw the bottle across the kitchen into the living room, where it collided with her cello, creating a jumbled sound.
Her face crumpled into a scowl as she let out a scream.
It’s such a strange feeling when all your life you’ve always had something to do for every minute of it, only to find yourself with nothing important to focus on.
Sundays were always the same for Octavia. They never changed. Until today.
The restless cellist lied on her stomach, eyeing the digital alarm clock that sat on her dresser. Five thirty. The blue of the dawn seeped into the room and sprawled all over the floor, reflecting off of a mug lying on its side where Octavia’s hoof dangled from the bed, empty. She got up from the bed and walked into the restroom and stared into the mirror.
Suddenly, the phone rang. She peeked at the caller ID.
Restricted.
Octavia picked up the receiver and slowly held it up to her face.
“Hello?”
“Octavia. This is your mother. I need to talk to you about an important matter.”
“Um, okay. Isn’t this a little early though?”
“I am inviting you to have brunch with me at the house no later than eleven thirty. I have arranged for Bailey to pick you up promptly at eleven. Please be ready by then.”
“Mother…”
Octavia’s mother hung up the phone. The tired cellist put the phone back into the dock and let herself fall on the couch, running her hooves over her eyes, the memories of last night still fresh in her mind.
Eleven thirty.
“Good morning, Miss Octavia. It is a delight to see you again.”
Octavia smiled at the sound of the cheeriness of the chauffeur’s greeting. She sat in the seat of the luxurious limo and buckled her seat belt. With a smile and a wink, Bailey shut the door and scurried his way around the limo to the driver’s seat. As he started up the machine, Octavia rolled her window down and placed a leg out of it.
“Oh, I would suggest you keep the window shut, Miss Octavia. The forecast calls for another heavy downpour this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Bailey,” Octavia replied, rolling her window back up.
The seasoned driver pulled the limo out of the parking lot and into the cloudy streets of Canterlot, eyeing all the mirrors at timed intervals. Octavia never forgot how he ensured the little filly was buckled nice and tight after every practice. He had a gentle voice that rasped at the end of every sentence, and a wrinkly smile that never faded. But what pleased her most about her faithful driver was his right ear. It always bent down at the middle so that it resembled a withering plant. He would always remind his tiny observant passenger that it was so that he could listen to every word she had to share. And that was true. He was a fantastic listener.
“I take it that your mother has something important to tell you, Miss Octavia?”
Octavia jerked her head. “I’m sorry?”
“I said it seems that your mother has something important she wants to talk to you about, am I right?”
“I suppose. She called me very early this morning, seemingly out of the blue.”
“Well,” said Bailey in a loud whisper. “If you want to know the truth, your mother has been up all night. She hadn’t slept for a minute, I don’t think! I presume whatever it was that gave her the jumps last night might have something to do with you.”
“Perhaps,” Octavia replied. She looked at herself in the chauffeur’s rear view mirror. She looked so small.
“I would also imagine,” Bailey continued. “That she has something to share with you about your father.”
Octavia jerked once again. “My father? Has something happened to him? Please, Bailey. Do you know anything about him?”
“You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Octavia. But I was strictly informed upon possible termination that I not share any details with you before you spoke with your mother.”
Octavia took a deep breath, tapping her hoof on the part of the car where the window rolled in. She twitched at the thought about what the old driver had heard, or possibly seen, but then relaxed in the honesty of one of the few ponies she admired. How long had he been the family driver?
“I hope you understand, Miss Octavia,” Bailey said, looking at her through his rear view.
She nodded. She looked out the window and noticed that they had arrived. Octavia could feel her heart sink deep inside her chest as the golden gates opened wide for the limo to stroll through.
Bailey dutifully hopped out of the car and made his way to where Octavia sat. As he reached for the door handle to let his passenger out, the door opened on its own taking him slightly aback. As she stepped out and closed the door behind her, she was met with a raised brow and that signature smile.
“You’ve grown up quite a lot since I last saw you,” he said.
The old chauffeur got back into the limo and pulled out of the driveway, probably to run one of the many errands Octavia’s mother often sent him on. When she was sure he had disappeared for the day she turned around and faced her former home. The large statues of griffons that frightened the filly long ago looked as menacing as when they went as high as the heavens they descended from. Their weathered teeth and crackling skin sent chills down her spine. Walking past them felt like an inventory was being taken, far past due.
“Oh, Mademoiselle Octavia! It is such a joy to see you again,” cried the head chef, Crepes.
“Thank you. It is good to see you too,” she grinned.
“Why, I remember when you were just a petite girl. Oh, you were so cute! And very polite.”
Octavia blushed at the passionate chef’s compliments. What a reversal of roles!
“Well, let’s not keep your mother waiting, right? Please follow moi!”
Octavia followed the bouncing, bubbly chef closely down the long hall. As they got closer to the dining room, the cellist looked up at the walls of the elaborate mansion. Paintings of country sides, busy cityscapes, and autumn seasons still peered down at whoever walked down the halls. Paintings that decorated much of her childhood with pleasant memories of trips to the art museum with her father, and hanging them on the walls when a mutual favorite was discovered. Her favorite? A seagull soaring through a marine sunset, it’s body blackened by the sun.
“So, where is Crumpet?” asked Octavia.
The cheery chef scratched his head. “Well, it appears he has been sent by the Madame to perform some duties. That is why I came to get you at the door and bring you to the table.”
“Oh, well, where was he sent?”
“I wish I knew, Mademoiselle Octavia, but you must forgive me,” he said, twirling his hooves in the air as if freshly pounded dough were being crafted into another masterpiece. “I have the canelé and the croissant cavorting in le cerveau. I do not know very much things.”
Octavia stifled a playful giggle. He hasn’t changed at all. Just like a lot of things around here.
When they reached the dining room, Crepes putted to one side of the long table to pull out a seat for Octavia. Much to his shock, she had already found a seat for herself, which was pulled out and rested, all on her own. As if splashed with a pot of boiling water, the chef shook his head and shuffled quickly to the side of his young guest.
“Mademoiselle Octavia, I think it would be best for you to sit over there,” he said, pointing across the table.
“Oh, don’t worry about being formal with me,” she replied. “I’m perfectly fine where I am.”
“No, you don’t understand, you need to sit on the other chair. The one I pulled out for moi petite belle.”
“You’re such a flatterer, Crepes!” Octavia stood to her hooves. “Well, if it makes you feel better, then I will change my seat and let you pull it out for me. Sound good?”
“I believe that is a wise choice,” said a deep voice from behind.
Both Octavia and Crepes turned.
“Mother!” Octavia gasped.
“Crepes, get our brunch immediately,” she said flatly.
“Oui, Madame,” he said, skittering away to the kitchen.
“Take your seat, Octavia. We have much to discuss.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied, setting her rump on the chair slowly.
The tall, dark mare took her seat and sat straight as a flag pole. Octavia sat slouching forward, hooves brought up to her face as if she were praying.
“Sit straight, Octavia. And put your hooves on your lap and off the table.”
Octavia obeyed, eyeing her mother with every movement.
“Now then, on to the topic at hoof. Your standing with the quartet.”
How does she know about that?
“You will honor your commitments and rejoin the Sunshine Quartet effective tomorrow.”
“But, I…”
Crepes waddled into the dining room and set a silver tray in the middle of the table.
“Here they are, Madame and Mademoiselle Octavia,” he said, lifting the cover off the tray and placing a plate of salad and a cup of iced tea for each mare. “Bon appetite.”
“You may retire now, Crepes. We do not require of your services at the moment.”
“Oui, Madame,” he replied, sputtering out of the dining room.
“Thank you, Crepes,” Octavia yelled before picking up her fork to pick at her salad.
“Now then,” said Octavia’s mother, ignoring her daughter’s grateful comment. “About you returning to the quartet. I will not have a quitter as a daughter. You know better than that and I expect you to treat your compatriots as professionals demanding respect from you.”
Octavia chewed slowly, methodically. Wish I could demand the same thing.
“You are a cellist after all, not some wayward disc jockey that changes music like they change mane styles.”
“You’ve never met Vinyl yet,” she mumbled again, stabbing the lettuce.
“I expect to hear back with a report of your attendance at the music studio, is that clear?”
Octavia slammed her fork on her plate, and for the first time, her mother displayed a face other than bothered disinterest, but to say she was shocked was too dramatic to describe it.
“What on earth was that, Octavia?” she asked softly.
Octavia continued to stare at her salad, her breathing rising and falling like a caged animal set to attack. The sight of the dark mare, eyes small and squinted, mane wrapped in a perfect bun, knees off the table, posture straight, dress pressed and clean, teeth whiter than snow, spectacles brassier than a trombone, it made her want to duck her head behind the table. The mare from across the table knew so little, and yet, she wielded an invisible power over Octavia that came from years of imposed wisdom.
“Forgive me, mother,” she whispered.
“Very well,” she said, picking up a piece of lettuce and bringing it to her mouth like a ring bearer presents the prized jewelry to the delighted groom.
The two mares finished the rest of their meal in complete silence. Octavia’s mother rose to her hooves and turned to leave the dining room. “I expect to hear a report from you tomorrow after practice no later than my bed time. It has not changed you know.”
As she began to leave, Octavia scoot her chair back and stood. “Wait.”
Octavia’s mother froze.
“How did you know rehearsals were moved to a music studio?”
She didn’t move. “What?”
“You heard me. How did you know?”
Octavia’s mother turned, grinning. “Don’t you know, Octavia? Mothers know all things.”
“Who told you?” Octavia repeated, feeling a little strength coming on.
“Why, your little friend Frederic of course. I know how much you like him,” she replied, tauntingly.
“That disgusting rot pile? What makes you say that?”
“Oh I know all about your little encounter last night with your special visitor,” she said, walking closer to Octavia. “He told me all about it.”
“What in the world are you talking about, mother? That wasn’t Frederic. That was…”
Octavia held her breath. She couldn’t reveal who it was that showed up at her apartment last night. She wouldn’t dare test the waters of her mother’s reactions.
“Who, Octavia?” she asked, walking closer still to Octavia’s trembling frame. “Who paid you a delightful little visit to you apartment last night? A lover? A pleasure?”
She ducked her head and whispered in Octavia’s ear. “A mare?”
She knew.
Octavia’s mother pulled back and stared coldly at her daughter. “Don’t think for a second I don’t know what’s going on. If you think just because you are out of this house you can frolic with anypony that waltzes into your heart, think again. I will always have my eye on you.”
She couldn’t move. Fear and anger paralyzed her efforts as she couldn’t help but feel she were being treated like a disobedient filly that needed a scolding. She could feel every ounce of strength deplete from her body like mist on a hot day.
At that moment, Crumpet entered the kitchen. He was startled by Octavia’s presence and she by his. Octavia’s mother broke the silence, “What have you found out, Crumpet?”
“Oh,” he finally said. “Well, things aren’t looking very good for the Master. It seems that he may be on his last legs. Possibly his last week.”
Octavia gasped.
“Very well,” she replied, nonchalantly. “You may retire to your other duties.”
“If it pleases you ma’am I would like to speak with the lady for a…”
“I will not allow this insolence to reign over this house,” she said, raising her voice for the first time. Even the thunder that boomed outside paled with insignificance to her bellowing voice, throwing both the butler and the musician off guard. “Go and do as you are told!”
“Y-yes, ma’am. Excuse me.” Crumpet shot Octavia an apologetic frown and hurried down the hall.
Octavia’s mother turned to her daughter. “See what you have brought upon us?”
“What happened to Father?” Octavia asked, regaining strength.
“You are in no position to ask me in such a manner.”
“He is my Father, and I want to know what is wrong with him.”
“Your Father is fine, now go and ready yourself for tomorrow. I am weary and need my time alone.”
“Not until you tell me what’s happened to him,” Octavia replied, gritting her teeth.
“You heard the old bloke,” she replied. “He’s enduring his last moments. That is all you need to know.”
The grieved daughter remained still as her mother glided across the dining hall towards the door, flicking her hoof before landing it on the brass knob.
“Why do you hate him so much?” the mourning cellist screamed.
The tall, dark mare turned once more.
“Why do you hate me so much?” she asked, softer, shaking, tears.
A grin spread over the wrinkled face wider than any Octavia could remember. “We are all just products of our experiences. We cannot change who we are, only our decisions. Wouldn’t you agree, you heartless robot?”
And with that, the indifferent mare shut the door, leaving her daughter standing, hurting in the dining room.
Crying.
Alone.
Octavia allowed Bailey to open the limo door for her. The rain was more than willing to pummel her head with a most rude welcome, but it didn’t matter to her.
“Please, take my umbrella. I wouldn’t want you to get home soaking wet.”
Bailey stuck out his umbrella to her, but she just remained still.
“Octavia, darling. I am so sorry about your father. Please accept my sincere sorrows.”
Bailey placed a hoof on Octavia, which brought her out of her funk and looking up into his old face. The raindrops that pattered all over her grew deathly cold, and she couldn’t help but shiver slightly. She nodded to Bailey then started the trip up the stairs to her apartment. As soon as she heard the limo pull out of the parking lot, she looked back. For the first time in her whole life, she saw her chauffeur frown.
Hers.
Octavia stared at her door from the inside of her apartment. She turned around and scanned every square inch. It brought her anger.
This whole apartment is hers.
She froze for a minute, replaying the events of the day in her mind. Suddenly, Octavia bucked a dent into her door.
“Hers!”
She marched into her kitchen like a wildfire and opened every one of her cabinets.
“These plates. Hers!”
Plates, glasses, mugs, and vases crashed into tiny crystalline pieces all over the kitchen floor.
She stepped into her wardrobe and pulled out all of her sweaters, suits, bow ties, and anything else she could find. She stepped into the kitchen, lit a match, and set the fireplace ablaze.
“Hers!”
She grabbed every article of clothing and threw them into the fire, one by one, watching as the flames devoured everything with delight.
She didn’t stop there.
Jewelry.
Picture frames.
Bed sheets.
Lamps.
Dolls.
Anything.
“Hers! Every damn thing is hers! I don’t want it! I don’t want it!”
In a matter of minutes, the once calm and organized single bedroom apartment became a war zone of broken pieces and lost memories. In the middle of the floor, Octavia sat over a pile of classical music CD’s, mint condition and signed by various musicians. She raised a hoof in the air, which happened to grip tightly onto a hammer, and she brought it down with fierce retaliation. Her wrath spread over to pieces deemed too big to survive on her emblazoned and fractured mind, and more casualties were added to the piles. A survey around the room revealed a complete victory of the emptiest kind, that which brought tears of sorrow as opposed to the kind that accompanied joy in winning, which was until she spotted the only object that sat untouched and unharmed, unproven and unchanged.
She crept closely to her instrument, careful not to slice her knees on the shards of glass. Sweat trickled down her face, stinging her eyes and wetting her lips, giving her the salty taste of her own unbridled rage. She brought the hammer over her head, aimed directly above the neck of her cello.
She hesitated.
She sobbed.
His.
She brought her hoof down slowly and the hammer slipped from her hooves. She let herself fall to the ground, her tears joining the fray. The fire finally rested after gorging on the spoils of her battle, the light of the flames danced in her eyes, burning her tears deep as a reminder of her foolish quest for vengeance.
The phone rang. She picked it up and brought it down to her face.
“Well, howdy Octavia! How’s my favorite patient doin’ tonight?”
She hung up. She continued to cry.
What am I going to do?
Where am I going to?
Why am I going?
Who am I?
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Powerful chapter. I just feel so badly for Octavia here.
Damn... When she lit that match, I was sort of hoping Octavia was goin to burn the building down.
Some ponies just want to watch the world burn.
No wonder Octy is so fucked up because there isn't a word strong enough to describe how much of a bitch her mother is.
I am now forever glad I checked this story out, its truly a fantastic piece.
If I am ever asked for a fantastic fic or great unkown one, I shall recommended this. You should submit this to EqD, Im sure it will have no trouble passing.
Truly fantastic update.
Such beauty, such grace in her old age (a total maniacal freak if you ask me), Ah Octavia, your mother we love (hate)
the most.
My goodness this is fantastic! Please keep writing it, it's wonderful!
549619
Hmm...maybe she caught sight of it on the prescription? Or just assumed it since she does have a Lyre as a cutie mark? Or maybe the author just made a boo boo
cello
Otherwise, looking forward to the next chapter.
Holy Christ, dude...that's really the best I can offer to you right now. That, and a track.
I delve into Fimfiction hunting for pieces that make me feel. Truly, it is not the destination that matters as much as the journey, and this piece is touching on several levels. You've taken the one dimensional snobbery of Octavia and evolved her into not only someone we sympathise for, but can relate to. I was not expecting this from a story about Tavi on a bus, or I would not have started reading until it was complete. Now I have to fret about Twi, Applebloom and Tavi until your next update.
Thank you for the wonderful read.
Poor Frederic. I didn't used to hate his miserable guts.
Powerful is what I would desribe the emotions here. This whole story like a whirlpool dragging me in deeper and deeper. I salute your work and hope for more updates as soon as possible!
i feel so sorry for tavi, its so sad
As others have said before, this chapter was powerful.
You earn a moustache or two for it.
May the Grace of the Valar Protect You
Shire Folk
I felt a few times you could have elaborated the scene a bit more, but still, I found this the best chapter so far. I could really immerse myself into the story, from the awkward love revelation to the paralyzing meeting with her mother. I'm now wondering if Octavia can ever escape; her emotional and social life are so deeply messed up, and she has nopony to count on... Though probably the doctor will call her back later. She'll need that.
Can you have her flip out and hoof her mother in the face?
Or can I do it?
I really hate condescending rich whores like that. But the clever hide their plans, they play the meek and obedient offspring until the time is right, carefully aging their plans on a slow simmer for the revenge to attain flawless, untraceable perfection.
Oh they always think they're so in control... until they mysteriously develop atypical parkinsonism. You know, the kind which can be perfectly natural, or brought about by steady dosing of a tasteless chemical extracted from fruits of the Jackfruit family. Alas, no one can tell the difference, for the substance breaks down within days, and all traces are gone after a month. And they lie there, the uncontrollable tremors wracking their bodies, as you stare down on them with vindictive victory burning in your eyes. That's when the real fun begins.
(This is a PURELY fictional account, of course! I'd go with Salmonella poisoning, myself.)
Still, never... piss off... a biologist.
I finally caught up with this chapter, I really liked the interaction between Octavia and Vinyl about the nature of why one makes art. Looking forward to more
It is now 7:43 am, I am caught up and am still in shock over what I read. This story about Octavia and her struggles with her mother are very deep and powerful and...wait, this is about Octy taking a bus ride? You are an amazing writer, can't wait for the next chapter.
Why must you break my heart with this?
I thought that her mother insulting Octavia was a great dramatic touch. Having the exact same phrasing seemed a little strange considering that it was Frederic, and not Sousie on the phone. This was a great chapter. The narrative voice works well as a pause from Octavia's journals.
I'm going to whine again a little about it being Sousie Tuba, not Beauty Brass, but the name's starting to grow on me.
I wish you could do something so it makes more sense how Octavia knew Lyra's name, though. They're both from Canterlot if it helps.
Oh, Octavia.
I'm glad I checked this one out. Fantastic.
564462
Damn nature, you scary!
549119
I think it already was. Also lawl @ your avatar's suitability to this fic.
Speechless, once again. Speechless.
Her she
Please fix this
Shaken like an earthquake...
Man, her mother is a BEE-YETCH
This is the most powerful and hard hitting text I have ever read. Not just in the community.
I... I think I love you.
Octavia's doin' it Citizen Kane style!
damn... i cried reading this one...
Ohhhh her mother, those people, those people, they still exist and i don't want them dead.
All i want is that they experience the pain they caused.
Dead is a quick exit for them. I want them to suffer from their own sins.
scranton.mylittlefacewhen.com/media/f/img/mlfw4348-1334919299369.gif
Holly muffin.
Octavia mom is a soulless pony. I bet she never work a day in her life. I don't blame Octavia for going hating her.
Sheesh. Octavia's mom is a soulless bitch.