Mama, I write this as they come for me

by joe mother

Their bloody teeth are gnawing at the door

Dear Mama,

The sky has turned red, and the clouds are becoming a sickly green and yellow. You might have noticed it, but I'd like to think the world is still untarnished for you. Lots of ponies have died from the plague, and maybe half of them are roaming the world near death, feeding on the living to spread the infection.

I saw some out in the field this morning, stumbling onto my property slower than a dead cow. There are herds of 'em, bleeding and moaning in this Celestia-awful way. I'm beginning to think the sound'll kill me before they do.

Mama, I don't like to think about death, but it seems now there is only that. I'm scared for myself, scared for my future. The air is damp and musty, all the wood–the house, the barn–creaks and moans. The red stains are everywhere, and the rot spreads into the world. It all leads to death. The death of the house and the barn, the death of the plagued, the death of life.

I've been wishing for a deeper insight into the world my whole life. You remember. I wanted to be a scientist when I grew up, but when you got ill I was held back so much that there was no way out. It's funny how my deeper insight of life came with death. Well, not really very funny. Not really.

Because life is just the road to death. Life is a journey to death, a winding road that may stop short on the way to your destination, or a raging river to take you away. Ponies like to say "The trip is about the journey, not the destination," but I think they need to learn.

The journey is meaningless.

Nothing we accomplish here carries over into death. When we die, we don't carry those school awards or hoofball trophies with us. They stay here to remind the other travelers of our earnings during their travels. It seems like a good name for the plague monsters. "Travelers."

We don't use the word to describe the living, so why not use it on the ones nearly dead?

I just heard one knock on the barn door. A wet thud, squishy with blood and flesh. The Travelers are coming to get me now. I don't know how long I can hold in here before they break in and finish the journey.

Do you remember the pony I killed? Do you know him? I stabbed him when he was in my house. He came in the middle of the night, seeking shelter from the Travelers, and I thought he was one. I got him right in the eyes. When I realized he wasn't one, I had to go. The blood draws them.

I felt a rush when I learned he was just a survivor. The idea of killing became invigorating. It's a shame that I didn't think of it before.

SPLATTER

and I brought a knife in case I decide that I need it. My mind might change, and I need to be ready for it.

I wonder if this is some form of cleansing. Maybe it's the wrath of some olden god before Celestia and Luna existed. I've heard of a book where the god kills if too many stray from his teachings. That may be what our world is experiencing.

A plank just broke off the door, and a few just started cracking on the wall. I can hear their cries, their agony. It hurts my head, and I keep looking at the knife wondering how long it'll take for them to break in. I think that even hell isn't as bad as this. Not nearly.

Onto my previous subject, I wonder if praying to the god will appease it. Do prayers really work?

I've been thinking about the usefulness of prayers. Lots of ponies pray to Celestia or Luna and still have many things go wrong, but the moment something good happens it's always more praise to them. I don't like it.

In fact, I don't like the Princesses one bit. What do they do besides raise the sun and moon? Anypony could do the ruling, being an alicorn doesn't give them some form of higher authority or magical benevolence that they supposedly possess. It's all some hierarchy, and the earth ponies are at the bottom. We get the hard jobs, working long hours and doing more. The unicorns hardly ever get any difficult jobs. Any job would be easy with magic. The pegasi only get the sky jobs, and they don't have to do much besides rearrange some clouds.

I'm sorry, Mama, I went off on a tangent for a moment. I hope you're okay with

SPLATTER

and the blood is running down the walls now. The sun is starting to set, and it's getting cold. I wish that they got cold and would stop in the night, but they'll keep at it until I'm dead with them. Their bloody teeth are gnawing at the door. It's a grating sound, and I've watched a few rip their teeth out from the effort and keep going.

It's scary. It's lonely and terrifying. I want to open the door for them so I don't have to wait, but yet I'm still hinged on the idea of possible help coming to save me. It's a ridiculous thought, but it could be true, even out here in the middle of nowhere. It's gotten really dark now, and I'm only guessing that my letters in this are spaced correctly or in proper lines. If I survive till morning I will see.

I feel silly knowing that I forgot a lantern. I'm always distracted in the moment. I was think about the paper and the ink and the quill that I didn't bring it with me. Remember the time when I forgot to bring Papa his pipe with the paper and he beat me? He was always so drunk.

I guess I deserved it, forgetting something he so clearly told me, or maybe I'm just going crazy. Wouldn't be surprising, considering. I

SPLATTER

the world

SPLATTER

The wind is howling, and it's slightly covering up the sound of their fetid bodies snapping at the barn. There's a glimmer of moonlight coming in from where the many holes have been made, and I can see the silhouettes of their broken bodies through the gaps. They scare me, but not as much as before. I've been able to cope with my impending death. I may even be relaxed enough to sleep.

SPLATTER

woke up to the sound of a large crash. The door is hanging on by the hinges, and large portions of wood are missing. The moans are bloodthirsty, and I can hear the wet gurgling as they scream. Dozens of teeth litter the dirt near the planks. I have my hoof on the knife.
I have decided.

SPLATTER

The blade is cold, comfortably cold. I run it across my fur as the door shudders. They're here. So close. I press it into my skin and draw blood. I'm going insane. I know it.

The door has fallen over. The Travelers shamble in, and I hold the knife to my throat. I am writing this with shaking hooves. I want to tell you I love you, Mama. That should be the last thing on this letter before I cut my throat. The breath of the Travelers is rancid, and it gets worse as they get closer.

I love you, Mama.

SPLATTER

Author's Note:

Something. I don't know. It was an idea I had. I hope you like it!

Comments

[Jman14102]

Fairly chilling. Do continue, please.

[Kovy]

Brittish I see?