Tomorrow Never Comes

by Post Script

Inevitable as the Tides

Great. Pinkie’s gone, and now I have no more answers than before, though at least she didn’t give me the letter this time. That’s got to mean that things are getting back to normal, right? Or at least whatever passes for normal in Ponyville.

I try to stack the shelves, putting up a few jars of sweets, but it’s no good. My mind is elsewhere, and before I know it one of the jars falls to the ground, shattering. Worst still, it’s the strawberry laces. Why can’t it ever be the peppermint twists? I swear those things have been here for longer than time itself.

I take in a deep breath before using a brush and dustpan to scoop the broken glass and laces up and dump them into the trash. I can only dread to imagine Cold Shoulder’s reaction to knowing he can’t have his fix—he’ll be upset about this for minutes.

After the mess is dealt with I decide to head home early. I have a pounding headache, and I’m in no mood to deal with any more customers. I set the sign on the front door to ‘Closed’ and head outside, feeling the sun’s warmth on my skin at last.

It’s gonna sound really stupid, but a part of me likes living in this place. There’s more love than I can handle, for one – an hour in Sugarcube Corner is practically an all-you-can-eat-buffet – and people are more independent here than at the Hives. At least, Dad tells me that’s the case. We left very shortly after I was born, and I have no memory of the place.

When I finally reach home I head upstairs. Dad’s not here, but I expect that much. I head for my bedroom and search for the letter. With every passing minute, every place I search, I feel a bit more relief. It doesn’t exist – it was just a figment of my imagination.

Pinkie… well, Pinkie was probably just being Pinkie. Half the time I have no idea what she’s talking about, so it’s hardly a stretch for this to just be one of those moments, right?

Yeah. This is just like all those other times. I’ll just fall asleep, and tomorrow will be another day.

I try lying out on the bed and staring at the ceiling, but there’s a nagging feeling in the back of my head, a creeping doubt that crawls around my stomach like a spider. After all, if I’m not experiencing the same day over and over but think I am, that might mean I’ve gone crazy.

Do people that have gone nuts realize they’ve lost their minds? Or do they just assume they’re the ones that are sane, and that everyone else are the crazy ones? The question floats around my brain, refusing to leave. I know what I have to do.

I pull the directory book in the closet out and flip through for a therapist, in the hopes that Ponyville has one of those. I mean, even these happy little fuckers get depressed sometimes, right?

I don’t care about the stigma, either. I just want to stop feeling like this week is going to last forever, even if it means pouring my heart out to a stranger. After a few minutes I’m about to give up when I spy a small advert I had missed.

Mind Mender

Therapist

26 Coltstone Way

Oh thank god. Now maybe I can finally get over whatever weird, trippy little experience this has been.

I look at the clock on the wall and sigh –it’s only three, and I’m not going to go back to work, so I decide to head to this guy instead. Even if I have to book a time in advance, at least I’ll have someone to talk to. I place my piggybank on the table, and for a moment I hesitate. It’s one of the few pretty things I keep in my room, shaped like a pegasus dancing on a cloud. Up until now, it’s been the last memento of a time since before I decided life was dark and grim and pointless (something I’m not even sure of anymore).

I sigh, bite my lip and take a hammer to it, my savings spilled forth as the porcelain shards fall to the floor. I hope this wasn’t sacrificed in vain.

***

The therapist’s office is nothing like I expected it to be—it’s far emptier, for one… I guess I was wrong, most ponies don’t use this guy. A bored-looking receptionist files her hooves, apparently having not even noticed me walk in.

“Er, excuse me, but would it be possible to see Mind Mender? I can book an appointment if he’s too busy.”

“No, that’s fine,” she says, not even bothering to look up at me, “he’ll see you now.”

“I… wait, what? Shouldn’t I at least have to wait a few days?”

At last, she raises her eyes to meet mine, and I almost have to look away. She’s given me a look like I just woke her up from hibernation, the sort of contempt in her gaze that even I could only hope to muster. She turns to the door on her right and yells, “Mind Mender, you got a client!”

After a moment I hear a deep, intellectual voice from the room, the tone clinical and compassionless, and I almost jump. I was expecting his voice to be nasal and grimy, not commanding.

“Come in,” he says, and after a moment I cautiously enter his office.

The room is… well, it’s what I expected it to be. A number of shelves on the walls, full of books I probably couldn’t read if I wanted to, and a whole wall covered in certificates and newspaper clips. The only things of interest are the clocks.

This guy must have an obsession, because there are about twenty of the damn things from what I can count, maybe more. All ticking in perfect unison, so much so that the noise would be unbearable if it wasn’t so quiet.

And sitting at a desk is a tall stallion with broad shoulders and a heavy, muscular build. I’m not one to usually describe a pony like this, but he’s an impressive figure. He seems to be staring at a gold pocket watch, frowning. After a moment he looks up at me, flipping the pocketwatch shut and pointing towards a couch.

“Sit, child. Tell me what ails you,” he says, his tone comforting yet without warmth.

“Before we start, this is all the money I have,” I tell him, putting roughly two hundred bits on the desk. He gives me a look like I’ve just tried paying him with birdseed.

“I care nothing for the money, my payment is in the recovery of my clients,” he remarks coldly, pushing most of the bits back towards me, “and I can tell you are quite desperate. Tell me what is on your mind.”

I lean back on the leather sofa and stare up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to find the words. I hope he doesn’t tell Dad about this…

“Well, I feel like I’ve been living today over and over again.”

“Oh? So you do not feel you are progressing as an individual? That is quite common for someone of your age.”

“No, I mean literally. I… the last couple days it’s felt as though it’s always been Tuesday. I wake up, my dad calls me downstairs and I go to work, but everything’s the same.

“I see… tell me child, what do you think it means?” he asks me.

I scrunch up my face at the question. What does it mean? How the fuck am I supposed to know that?

“I… I don’t know,” I manage at last, “but I’m scared it’ll happen again tonight.”

Mind Mender leans forward, tenting his hooves, “Child—excuse me, what is your name?”

“Ectha Sketch.”

“Miss Sketch, have you ever considered that you want to be stuck? That perhaps being trapped in this moment means never having to move forward, to grow up? You are a child teetering on the edge of adulthood, about to face the challenges, opportunities and burdens that will bring. Perhaps if you feel you will never age beyond this point, you have an excuse to stay a child...”

In an instant the dam bursts, and I stand up, all the fear and anger I’d been bottling up since this all started bursting forth.

“Excuse me? You think I want to be stuck like this? That I’m such a scared little kid that I’d sooner reject reality than try to keep going? Who the fuck are you to tell me that I wanted this? I’m scared, and alone, and… and…”

I bury my head in my hooves, weeping openly. I don’t even feel ashamed, I’m just so upset, the relief of being able to talk to someone about this almost palpable.

Mind Mender never takes his eyes off of me for an instant, listening intently as I speak. I have to admit, this guy’s a pro. I’m getting no more love from him than I do from Cold Shoulder, and that’s saying something.

“Miss Sketch, I apologize for upsetting you. However, you need to understand that forcing clients to confront reality is a large part of my occupation. It was never intended as a personal attack.”

I dry my eyes, my cheeks burning with embarrassment all of a sudden. Even if it’s his job, I just poured my heart out to a perfect stranger. I sit up after a few minutes and finally gain the courage to look him in the eye once more.

“I… alright, can you do me a favour, just for a moment? I’d like you consider that maybe I am caught in a time loop. If so, what should I do?”

Mind Mender takes off his spectacles, staring straight into my eyes, unsmiling.

“Time is a precious thing. Like water, it flows in every direction, an infinite sea of possibilities forever lost with each passing second as the timeline weaves itself, only for a fresh sea of potential to take it’s place. The ebbing and flowing of the tides,” he says with some fondness in his voice for once, “To be denied tomorrow would be a curse and a gift, for you alone would bear witness to a glimpse of eternity.”

“What if I don’t want eternity? What if I just want a normal life again?”

Mind Mender sighs, shaking his head, “I do not know. Perhaps in such a scenario there would be an answer, perhaps not. I only wish I could offer you more than that.”

“…Alright,” I shrug, defeated “but before I go, I’d like to know one last thing, if I may.”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe me?”

Mind Mender swivels in his chair, facing the window, the last few orange rays of the sunset streaming through the blinds. After a few minutes I realize he has nothing left to say to me, and I leave. I have no idea what I managed to accomplish today, but at least he gave me some food for thought.

***

When I get home I notice there’s no note on the fridge about the orange juice, which makes sense since I just chucked the carton away today rather than leaving it in the fridge. I head upstairs and fling my rucksack into the corner of the room, noting it making a heavy thud as it hits the wall.

After a minute, I walk over to it and look inside, noticing my journal’s in there. I forgot I like to keep it close by me at all times. I sigh and smile—this thing’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember, my most trusted confidant and oh my god that is so pathetic I could cry.

I decide to open her up and write down the event’s of the day, but as I do so something catches my eye—the date of yesterday’s piece.

Tuesday 7th April.

Dear Diary, today—

I feel a sliver of ice slip down my spine, and I begin to manically flip back through the previous pages, my heart pounding in my chest.

Tuesday 7th April.

Tuesday 7th April.

Tuesday 7th April…

It never ends, it never stops.

Oh.

Oh my God.

Comments

[I make you uncomfortable]

BAWH GOD KING!

Also this mistake caught my eye.

I put my hands in my hooves

[Post Script]

5196430 As far as screwups go, that one was pretty funny to me Thanks for the heads up.

[Perteks]

Dang first thing what I though was James Bond tomorrow never die xd