Slow Fade

by Bluegrass Brooke

The Small Matter of Time

Had the night always lasted so long? As he lay there in the stillness, Rory could not help but wonder if Celestia had forgotten to raise the sun. Forgotten . . . Just like me. Every inch of his body screamed in agony, but it all paled in comparison to that radiating throughout his right leg. Three days. Had it really been three days?

Three days and neither Mother nor Father had attempted to treat his leg or chest. Father said the pain should serve as a punishment. Mother . . . Well, after that “medicine” made him worse, she had not spoken a word to him. In fact, he had not seen her since last night. Then she had only come to levitate a pitcher of water on his bedstand and slam the door behind her, not even pausing to spare a glance his way.

If she had, she might have noticed the extreme swelling in his leg and how inflamed the cuts had become. But no. Her business and her life was and always would be more important than his. Rory did not argue the point nor try to deny it. Simply to accept and move on. That was what he used to tell himself. Now . . . now he was not so sure.

What good came of acceptance or rejection? Whether he fought or submitted, there could be no relief. His actions always wrought pain, be it physical or mental. Lying there as he did now, Rory had never felt that truth so strongly. He could not win . . . he would not win. If he had been given a kind word or gentle touch perhaps he might fight through it. But he was tired. So tired.

Rory groaned, using all the strength he had left just to lift his head. By the dim light creeping in from behind the thick black curtains, he could make out another pool of bloody urine beneath him. He hated himself for it, but ever since Mother gave him the medicine, he could not stand or walk. All he could do was lie there as the pain seeped into his insides as well. Celestia, it burned.

He tried crying, screaming, pleading with them to help. But . . . even after he had shouted himself sick, they did not come. They left for work as usual, and for hours he wondered if someone or something would take him away. A part of him wished they would, if only to stop the pain.

Dead ponies didn’t feel pain. They didn’t get hungry or scared. They didn’t have to try and guess their parent’s every whim just to be allowed outside. They were happy. Rory wondered what that was like. To be well and truly happy. Grandmother had been that way, but she never visited after Father told her to stay away.

Father always got his way.

Rory closed his eyes, feeling each breath rattle his chest. And yet, despite the pain, they did not stop. It hurts, it hurts so bad. They don’t care, they never will. If I’m dead, it won’t hurt. Please . . . please . . . don’t leave me here.

---

Rory did not consider himself a proud stallion. What could he be proud of? His position? Certainly not. His family? Like hell. His intelligence? Well, he was clever certainly, but that stemmed largely from necessity and perseverance rather than natural ability. However, if he had to pick one natural gift he possessed, it would have to be his ability to tolerate pain.

Any ordinary stallion would have been begging to be taken to the hospital if they had been forced to walk to work on what amounted to two broken legs. Rory on the other hoof, bore it silently, allowing fear to crush the instinct. Fear of what had happened and what would happen if he failed to appear in the office. Failing to do so never crossed his mind. No, the real problem lay in logistics.

The past three days, Rory had left an hour and a half before normal. The same could not be said for his departing. Now, rather than his six hours of respite, he had five. Five hours of rest to try and heal a major fracture. Not enough time, surely. Not even enough to re-work his plans that had been shot to hell following Dufaux’s move. Though he longed to take some, morphine remained out of the question. He could not stay awake under its influence, let alone walk to work and attempt to function.

He took a long, slow breath as he entered Scribe Incorporated Headquarters. The secretary at the desk—one of Father’s pets—gave him his morning scowl and he returned it in kind. Whoever invented the fantasy that all mares were nurturing at heart obviously hadn’t met his mother and that viper.

“Mr. Scribe.”

What now? He turned his head to regard the unicorn, reading her icy eyes. Judging from her dissatisfied scowl, she had a bone to pick. “What do you want?”

“Your secretary, Miss Pie. She’s been stepping over my authority.”

Your authority? What authority? Yet another tirent reigning over her own pathetic empire. “Miss Pie is merely doing her job.” And with less piss and vinegar than you I might add . . .

She snarled, adjusting her wickedly professional bun. “She’s always switching schedules and that goes all the way down. You know she re-scheduled Mr. Titmus’s appointment location? I had fix his entire week’s schedule just to fit it in.”

Rory’s mind flashed back to his conversation with Pinkie the other day . . .

‘Why do you have one appointment all the way at the east research facility?’
Because Mr. Titmus refused to get off his lazy ass and come to me.
‘Well, does he have a broken leg?’
No, but—
‘But what? You’re hurt and shouldn’t be walking at all. I’ll just re-schedule the meeting place.’
But what if he complains?
‘You’re the treasurer for all of Scribe Incorporated, aren’t you? He’s supposed to be coming to you to report, not the other way around. Having you walk out there is a waste of resources.’
Well, I can’t exactly fault that logic, now can I?

“Mr. Scribe? Are you even listening to me? That mare is a menace!”

‘Menace?’ Pinkie? Rory could not help but burst out laughing at the thought of his secretary being branded a menace. An irritation yes, but hardly a disruptive one. She worked hard and finished her tasks, even if she did so singing songs the whole damn time. His laugh echoed around the mostly-empty antechamber, causing its inhabitants to jump.

Lila actually cowered, as if he were about to bite her. Realizing what kind of impression he was causing, Rory stopped abruptly. What’s wrong with me? He glanced down at his hooves to hide the flush finding its way across his face. “Miss Pie is the last pony in Equestria to have malicious intentions, Miss Lila.”

Rory raised his broken leg up slightly. “She was just being considerate of my injury, that is all.” With that, he limped over to the elevator. Rory grimaced, trying to avoid the intent stares of the office workers. Laughing in the entryway to Scribe Incorporated over a comment about his secretary. Just how low had his dignity sunk?

---

Pinkie poked her head around the corner, eyeing Mr. Scribe as he worked. Per her insistence, he had allowed her to ‘apprehend’ one of the lounges from the hallway so that he would not have to put undue stress on his limbs. With all the meetings he had to attend, he really only stayed in the office about four hours a day. Still, she felt at least a little better knowing he could get some rest.

Her eyes turned to the basket beside her. Did she dare approach him? Well, she had come this far. Grabbing it in her mouth, she trotted inside. “Heya, Mr. Scribe!”

He looked up at her from behind his spectacles. “Miss Pie.” His eyes fell to the basket. “What? Going on a picnic now?”

“Sorta. I thought we’d have an indoor picnic. Seeing as how you need to eat and all.”

Mr. Scribe just stared at her, expression caught somewhere between amazement and irritation. “What part about me says I need to eat?”

Seriously? “Your pin bones are showing,” she deadpanned, pointing to them for emphasis. “Just so you know, that’s not normal.”

He glowered at her for a moment, then glanced at the basket. “Fine. I suppose I can humor your ‘picnic party’ this time.”

Yes! She had been trying to get Mr. Scribe to eat for days to little success. Pinkie imagined the pain made him nauseous. But, not eating would only make it worse. In no time at all, she had set up the picnic on the floor beside Mr. Scribe’s lounge-turned-desk.

Unwrapping a muffin, she placed it atop Mr. Scribe’s paperwork. His face contorted in a strained grimace, as if fighting between his desire to eat and his desire to maintain composure.

Just like before, huh? Pinkie unwrapped her own, taking a rather large bite from it. That did the ticket, just like last time.

He slowly began to eat, and for the first time, she noticed how wrong it looked. Rather than taking big bites and chewing steadily, he took small ones, chewing intermittently between grimaces. No pony should have difficulty chewing her muffins. As she watched him, it suddenly became clear that his abuse was not the only reason he hated eating.

“Uh, Mr. Scribe . . . Are your teeth okay?”

After swallowing, he looked back at her, lowering his ears almost submissively. “No . . . they’re . . .” He ran a hoof across his jaw, wincing. “Some of my molars are missing and the others are in pretty bad shape.”

“Oh . . . why are they—”

“Malnutrition. Or something along those lines,” he breathed. Then, shaking his head, he turned away. “It won’t matter for much longer anyway.”

For much longer? What, is he getting dentures or something?

After finishing the proffered muffin, Mr. Scribe turned his attention beyond her to the window. “You wish to know something, Miss Pie?” The soft, almost contemplative voice hardly sounded like her employer.

Nevertheless, Pinkie answered him in her usual, cheery tone. “What, Mr. Scribe?”

His eyes grew almost blank as he focused intently on the horizon. “They say time cures all wounds. Nonsense. The only force capable of curing every wound . . .” his voice softened to barely above a whisper, “every painful memory is death, Miss Pie.”

Death? Every inch of her body grew cold and numb. “What-what are you saying?”

Mr. Scribe looked her in the eyes with that same unfeeling stare. “I am tired, Miss Pie. I have faced more pain and evil in my twenty-four years than any stallion has the right to in a lifetime. I live not because I wish to, but because I must.”

Wrong. It’s all wrong. “That’s—you shouldn’t say stuff like that! You’ll end up like Farthing.”

“Have you ever been in pain, Miss Pie?”

“Huh?” The sudden question made her start. “Yeah . . . I mean, everypony has at some point.”

He nodded slowly, lowering his head onto his paperwork. “Imagine the worst pain you’ve ever been in. Then imagine living your entire life like that. Every waking minute with no possibility of rest or relief.”

She tried to speak, but no words came.

Mr. Scribe looked close to tears now. “I cannot take it anymore, Pinkie. I cannot.” His voice rose in a gradual crescendo, “You want to know the real reason I wasn’t upset when I saw Farthing? Do you?”

“I, uh—”

“It’s because I’m jealous of him! He never has to hurt again. Nothing but blissful non-existence. And what do I get? To stay here working for the stallion who’s the very source of my suffering.” Mr. Scribe looked at his cutie mark. “I will use Father’s precious numbers to take him down. That’s my only purpose, Miss Pie. Once that’s done, I can set myself free from this living hell.”

For the first time in her memory, Pinkie did not want to think of a positive response. Though horrid, bitter words, they were true. And, though she loathed to admit it, Mr. Scribe had a valid point. What kind of life did he have living every minute in agony? Who was she to say he needed to ‘push through it’? She could not relate, could not hope to relate to him. So she said the only words she could think of, “A waste . . .”

“Come again?”

She grit her teeth. “Just . . . you could’ve been anything, really. Had a good, happy life. But . . . he ruined you . . . they ruined you.” Her voice echoed around the office, “And for what? To make themselves feel superior? For you to spend all of your life in pain—for you to want to kill yourself because of their selfish whims? It’s wrong! So damn wrong!”

Mr. Scribe grimaced, looking down at his hooves. “I know, Pinkie, I know . . .” he breathed.

Pinkie could not bear it any longer. Before Mr. Scribe could comment further, she galloped out of the room. She had to find something, anything to take her mind off of the hopeless situation. Never had she felt so small and helpless as she did at that moment.

Author's Note:

Well, I think I successfully darkened the mood a smidgen. More to come from a plot standpoint next chapter.

[Note: I kind of wrote this when I was half-awake. Apologies if there's more errors than usual.]

Comments

[TemplarBrony]

smidgen

A Smidgen? that was not just a smidgen, that was 'Pinkie's Lament' level of sad. I say again, poor Rory, he actually wants to die, I just wonder how long until things look up for him, and Pinkie, poor Pinkie, getting dosages of the truth, the world is not all parties and rainbooms. Sometimes, life sucks, and you have to deal with that fact. I have a feeling she's going to snap soon, whether that's gonna end up well for her or not, I don't know.

[Summer Dancer]

It's late, and this chapter made me feel so darn bad!! Props to you as usual!

[Pencil Melody]

Yes, this just took a turn to being even darker. Kudos. . .
~Melly~

[Goldfinch142]

That is what he used to tell himself.

That was

The same could not be said or his departing.

for his departing

Not enough time, surely.Not even enough to re-work his plans that had been shot to hell following Dufaux’s move.

Add a space between the sentences.

“I uh—”

Comma after 'I'

“Just . . . you could’ve been anything really.

Comma after 'anything'

Now that Dufaux has all the information he needs, it's time to wait for the other shoe to drop. Hopefully on Storm Scribe's stupid head.

Rory's grandmother is a lot nicer than her daughter. I can only imagine what she thought of Starlight after she turned bad. I wonder if she knew about or suspected the abuse. I wish Rory had spent more time with her than his parents.

Hmm. Suicide is a bad thing, yes, but Rory has a very good and valid reason for wanting to. Not sure what to root for here.

It seems that Pinkie really is learning that everything isn't black and white. She wasn't freaking out over Rory's suicide confession, anyway. If you don't count her fleeing the room.

This story reminds me of a film noir. The main character is in a crappy, morally gray, lose-lose situation from no fault of their own. There's even the dark tone that's classic to a film noir, both in story and in literal coloring, in regards to the cover art.

[Drifting Heart]

We all form a lynch mob for that sodding storm scribe whos with me? That guy is a pure psychopath and i feel no sympathy for him poor rory! I hope that statement rory said about being set free isnt him committing suicide i just hope he finds happiness with pinkie.