I'm Sorry.
Morning. I think. Or is it evening? I don’t know the day, nor do I particularly care. The sun tries its damnedest to worm its way through my window, but I put up blinds and heavy curtains to stop it a long time ago. My bedside lamp is more than sufficient. Natural light is not comforting to me; it’s oppressive. I guess that’s a little ironic considering my motif is a blazing sun. Soon enough the unwanted errant bits of light are gone. About damn time.
As I slowly force my mind into some basic level of coherence after yet another nightmare – this one involving a palace guard crashing my scooter into a red dumpster; I can still hear the metal crunching and glass shattering – I wonder if it would be preferable for my consciousness to remain addled. After all, even a horrible dream is better than bleak reality.
I haven’t spoken to anyone in weeks. Except to check my mailbox – only ever bills and junk of course, plus occasionally venture out into the cold unforgiving neighbourhood to buy food… okay, it’s just to the convenience store set up in the ground floor of my apartment building, but it still requires me stepping outside for thirty seconds – I haven’t left my room in weeks, either. Why should I?
A sharp pain stabs my lower back, soon followed by a twinge in my left leg. Briefly, I wonder if I might finally be developing some sort of affliction that will finally take me out. But I know better; it’s the natural side effect of spending over twenty hours a day in bed. My mattress now has a permanent sag as a result.
I loll my head to my right, away from the blank grey wall, to stare into the disaster area that is my bedroom. I haven’t cleaned in months. Clothes and junk mail lay strewn about the floor haphazardly. I try to keep paths clear, but the glossy paper gets stuck to my bare feet and tracked everywhere. “Why don’t you just throw it away?” one no doubt asks. Well, that requires doing something, and I just don’t have the drive.
I see my hair. While I like having it long, the fact that it’s naturally wavy and I rarely brush it means it’s a tangled, matted mess. Washing it helps only slightly. Brushing hurts. So I haven’t attempted it in days.
Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I took a bath or washed clothes. Maybe I should at least clean these pyjamas, as the sweat stains have become pretty obvious and… yep… I smell rank. But why bother? I’m not leaving, and no one is coming to see me, so there’s no one except me to care if I offend.
An ancient (by its standards) laptop computer sits on an overturned milk crate next to my bed. I bought it shortly after I arrived in this world, and it has served me well. However, it was one of the last of my personal items I named – Cream-Puff – not sure why it took so long. I briefly open it. The screen lights up to reveal a half-finished short story I intended to send into the Canterville Literary Quarterly. Freelance writing makes up the bulk of what I do to earn income, but I haven’t touched finger to keyboard since I hit that mental block. I try to read my story… ugh. I shut the computer without bothering to check any social media (too depressing anyway). Its light suddenly cuts out like a refrigerator’s.
Light and sound waves operate differently; the former cannot travel through an opaque surface, while the latter can if not sufficiently blocked. In other words, I may not know what time it is, but I can still hear a cat outside my window. I live five storeys up, so is the cat in a neighbour’s window? On the fire escape? Maybe on the roof? I’m not willing to go check. But its crying sounds so forlorn, like it’s the end of the world.
I understand all too well.
I’ve lost everything. Or did I, perhaps, not ever have anything to begin with? Was the last decade of my life merely an illusion created by my mind to keep me from understanding the bleak reality, knowing that once I saw the truth, I would snap?
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the others: those five girls who professed to call themselves my friends. I believed it too. But I quickly realized it wasn’t my place. I didn’t share all of their interests and it was getting too hard to fake it. Given my attitude towards them in the past, I feel so awkward around them now. I love seeing their smiles. They’re such wonderful people. I don’t deserve them.
So I’ve given up.
It’s easier this way. I came into this world alone, and I’ll leave it alone.
They’ve probably forgotten about me by now. Part of me hopes they have. Some tiny part of my brain screams in an infinitesimally small voice that I’m wrong, that I need to keep trying. What a fucking joke. It is quickly drowned out by the basso profundo wailing of my subconscious. Despair. Regret. Jealousy. Hate.
Slowly, I roll out of bed. Once I’m to my feet, I carefully navigate the path through the junk to the door. From there, I make my way to the kitchen. The rooms are dark, lit only by a night light plugged in near the sink, and the off-white carpet insulates me from the winter I assume is swirling around outside. It feels as if I’m in a dream, oddly less real than my nightmare. Or is this the nightmare?
I step onto the linoleum of my tiny kitchen. Damn, that’s cold! Okay, this is almost certainly reality. I turn on the light above the stove – it’s a low wattage so it doesn’t hurt my eyes too badly. To my left is a pot filled with water in anticipation of boiling ramen noodles. Sorry, pot; I haven’t felt like eating for a while. Same to you, tea kettle; making tea is just too much effort right now. Besides, you remind me of Her. Off to my far right is the sink, piled high with dirty dishes. I haven’t washed those in at least a week. The stagnant water at the bottom smells odd. Usually, I wash a dish right before I use it, whereupon it’s dirty again. So what’s the point?
In between is the silverware drawer. I open it. Thirty-six stainless steel utensils. Including steak knives. I pick one up and study it, making note of its tiny serrated blade. This will do nicely.
As if in a trance, I make my way back to my room, shutting the door even though I’m alone. Force of habit. Someone might be watching me through an invisible camera.
The inside of the door has a tall mirror screwed onto it – it came with the apartment. The weak, jaundiced light from my lamp makes everything seem grimmer than it probably is. I see myself. I look even older than my age. As expected, my hair is a complete disaster; it looks like I was electrocuted (that might be an interesting way to go). My eyes are sunken, bloodshot, and rimmed with bags. My mouth has settled into a permanent frown. For once, I don’t bother talking to myself. I got sick of hearing me a few days after everyone else did.
Who are you? I silently ask my reflection. The fallen prodigal daughter. A complete failure in two worlds. A manipulator, a bully, a liar. Beneath contempt. Beneath forgiveness. I glare at myself, who glares back.
I turn away from the mirror. I don’t want her to see what I’m about to do.
I hold the steak knife in my right hand. Briefly I think about how hands were a nearly foreign concept to me, wondrous dexterous things I’ve learned to live with for about a decade. What good are they if the rest of the package is rotten? I press the knife against my left wrist, perpendicular to my ulna, and keep it there.
Worthless Sunset, useless Sunset, hopeless Sunset. I apply more pressure. My brain starts registering the sensation, at worst mildly uncomfortable. After a minute, I lift it away. No cuts, but a few tiny indentations. Sigh.
My mind is a whirl of thoughts, all memories and sensations melding and crashing together somewhere in the limbic system in a cacophony of emotion. It hurts. All I see is regret – at the ponies and people I hurt, at the sins I committed, at the oh-so-many missed opportunities. I can never change the past. I can never fix my mistakes. Forgiveness is an illusion, for the blot on one’s cosmic record is there forever.
I hate this. I hate everything. I hate my enemies. I hate my friends. I hate you. I hate myself. I hate that I hate. I want it to stop.
This is stupid. I’m acting like some over-emotional whiny teenager… rather, I’m losing myself in a role I’ve been faking for years. I should have grown out of this. I’m a loser, a taker, a parasite, a fucking snowflake. Pathetic. Awful. …Screw it.
I hold the knife against my wrist again, empty my mind, and slash in a rapid lateral motion across my skin.
What they don’t tell you about this method of self-harm is that you really don’t feel much of anything at the instant. A slight discomfort maybe. I stare at my handiwork. Not very deep, just a few tiny pockets of blood slowly seeping out; I must have hit a capillary. They’ll dry within half an hour or so.
I feel nothing, physically or emotionally, except for disgust, but I cannot be certain from whence it comes – am I disgusted because of the act itself or because it did not go far enough? Either way, it serves only to make me angrier. Visions of my friends and acquaintances going on with their happy joyous little lives dance through my mind. All that smiling and euphoria, it sickens me. I want them to feel despair. I hate myself for having such feelings about those who deserve only love.
I find another spot on my wrist, further in from the first, and slash again, this time harder, deeper. Okay, that time I felt something. The pain receptors in my brain light up; my subconscious begins screaming at me, “What the hell, girl? Why??” I ignore it as I observe my handiwork. More blood burbling up from the slashed capillaries, a brilliant red eventually dulling to brown. Still not enough to need to go to the hospital – lucky, as I cannot afford such a luxury – but this will definitely leave a scar, which I guess is what I wanted. Maybe? I don’t know. Why do I do this?
I hold my arm in place for several minutes to give the blood time to dry and scab over. Then itch – yet another thing no one tells you about this sort of thing. That done, I flop back in my bed and try to drift off into a dreamless sleep, finally allowing the tears of self hatred to flow.
I’m sorry. You deserved better than me. Everyone did.
I’m sorry for taking up your time. I’m sorry for failing you.
I’m sorry for being born.
Maybe tomorrow will be brighter?
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Another great piece in this series. Honestly, I think it would be worthwhile to see if you can change around the series a bit to use original characters and get it published. This series has helped me personally and I think it could help a lot of other people.
7959884 - I'm honoured to know that this series has helped you. It's helped me too, in its own way.
As to your suggestion, the thought has crossed my mind, and I'm flattered you think "Recovery" could work outside of Pony and that I possess the talent to try going legit. I don't know. Confidence is not one of my strong suits, but thank you so much for your praise!
A good addition to your series. Certainly does help drive how deep Sunset was when Rarity shows up.
I'm not sure who could use a hug more, Sunnybuns or you.
I just wanna give you both a huge hug!!
It'll be okay Sunset. We've all been here. Its funny, thinking back, I used to write poetry when I was depressed. I know it sounds emo, but it helped me release a lot of stress, anger, sadness, etc. onto paper. This is a wonderful story. It has made me think about my life and how I've gone through the same thing. Thank you for writing this 
7960754 - You're very welcome.
Back in high school, I drew comics and/or played Quake while listening to Peanuts music. It's oddly comforting blowing demons into unrecognizable pulp with RPG's while listening to a cover of "Christmas Time Is Here".
…I am not the best-adjusted person.
7960613 - Yes.
Seriously though, I truly appreciate the sentiment.
But remember, this is an interquel to an earlier story. We know for a fact Sunny will get better. She'll be… well, not great, but she'll recover. Thus the arc's name: "Recovery".
I cried the whole time,I already been in Sunset’s place,I'm glad she just cutted herself, instead of trying suicide,specially with that thoughts she had.
Very sad and difficult to read. Kudos to you for using your writing to help you through your own challenges and I hope things continue to improve for you in your personal life.
Edit: To clarify, this is an excellent story and it made me reflect on my own past feelings since it captured the emotional state so accurately. Been there; not nearly as far as Sunset is here, but even a mild case of depression is life altering.
Makes me wanna cry.
But I think it does have its place within the series.
Speaking of which, it's getting to be enough stories that at some point a series guide thingy might be in order...
7964916
Done!
By the way, is it wrong that I'm sort of glad this story made people cry? I mean, the goal of any fiction is to get the reader to feel emotion, so I guess I succeeded.
7962063 - Thank you for the kind words and encouragement!
No SUNSET!!!!
That's it! I'm getting my ass over there.
(Gets on car and drives like a John Wick on speed.)
Ouch, close to home some days.
I love these kind of stories, always so full of raw emotion.
8521207 - If the writer is able to arouse some sort of emotional response in the reader, particularly if it was the one intended, then the writer has done his job.
I'm glad you enjoyed my story.
I tried my best to convey that feeling of rawness. And trust me when I say it's much closer to home than most realize -- I was not in a good state back in February.
PS - I like your avatar.
8521245
Definitely. Yeah, the winter months are always hardest.
Why thank you! I am pretty fond of it myself!
I don’t like the idea of making Sunset living a poor life so that we can pity her. That’s not Hasbro have planned, and in actual lives, people with mental illnesses are often being bullied but not bully other people.
when she cut herself my arm tensed, suffice to say, well written
That was very difficult to read, I spent the entire time wincing. But really good and horrifyingly accurate. Someone had better beat her door down soon.
Warning: If joking about suicide/self harm offends or triggers you, please ignore the rest of this comment. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.
Oh silly Sunset. If you want effective result you’re supposed to go up the highway, not across the street.
8597281
Unless they have a drive yo strive for. Sunset was not show as being exactly mentally sound, she literally had grandiose complex when a pony untill the end of the first movie.
Sometimes our ambitions are all we have and when we lose that drive we are left with a hollowness and we see that uncertain in Sunset on the second and signs of it on the third movie and only at the end, when she discovers a new drive is that she overcomes it.
Sometimes all we have are our ambitions and when those are no more we try to hold on to something just to breakdown when what we believe should happen do not.
Yeah... That brought back memories... Ones I'm happy to say I've made peace with. I couldn't imagine at the time where I am now... Married almost a decade, and now with the most adorable two month old baby boy I could have ever been privileged to raise.
To anyone reading this that is considering self harm or suicide, I say this - do not enact a permanent 'solution' to a temporary problem. Even if things don't get better, you can get better... And your light can make the world a little bit brighter.
8597281
You know, I could have responded to you immediately instead of waiting months. But, rereading your post reminded me why you've managed to stick in my craw much more than anyone else who criticized me. I know that an author responding with anything but contrition to a negative comment is poor sportsmanship. Still, I'm tired of holding my tongue.
With respect, you don't get it. While I can sort of understand the barely coherent drivel you posted to L&H, let's pick apart your comment here, shall we?
In short, you have totally missed a primary conceit of my Sunset stories. I award you no points, and may the god of your choice have mercy on your soul.
8597281
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=9FLdA4Sn4J8
This sure does bring back memories of my past, it also brought back the feeling of being back in that state.
Very well written, you have done a good job with making this fanfic.
Holy....I have chills right now.
I mentioned in the previous story before this about my depression. This....this right here is how I felt when I crashed. I never went to the extreme that Sunset did here, but I came damn close to that edge.
I have to go take a moment to myself right now.
Just....Damn....
From where you started the story to where you finished seemed well done. However, because you started at rock bottom, it didn't do much for me. I think it would have been more effective if we saw the spiral down to this point. As it was, yes, it was depressing to see Sunset at such a low point. But because we didn't get to see that spiral down as she just stopped doing anything, it was hard to feel too empathetic while reading. The events sucked, and that evokes some amount of feeling, but without seeing the journey, that can only take you so far.
In other words, this was a reasonable snippet of Sunset's life, but for me, as a snippet, I don't think it had its intended effect.
Oh my gosh, this was so sad but so beautifully written! I really want to give Sunset a hug, and you for that matter. *hugs* I'm going to have to go read Highs and Lows now since that was the previous fic.
And I'm with what someone else said, you should change some of your writing to original characters and get your stuff published for real. You're a great writer!
Really sad and dark but intrigued nonetheless personally I feel there is a disconnection on the mental state of Sunset. In 0. Sasha and 1. Highs & Lows, she was sorry for what happened in EG and then happy go lucky in the next just to be depressing wreck here.
Or was Anon-A-Fix (which I haven't read) suppose to happen around here since its between EQ and RR. Also I notice that Anon-A-Fix and EQUESTRIA GIRLS: Sunset's Not-Saga are not in the timeline you stated despite being a sequel to Sasha.
https://www.fimfiction.net/blog/716533/the-guide
10084050
Anon-A-Fix is a totally different continuity because I wanted to write it but there was no way to fit it into this timeline. Too much would be going on at once so I said screw it and split the universe. I'm the creator. I can do that.
In H&L, Sunset is having a manic episode. She's on a psychological high that she knows isn't going to last. Here we see the crash.
Also keep in mind H&L was the very first story about Sunset I wrote that doesn't involve burritos, so I didn't quite have her character down yet.
10085816
So will there be an update to The Guide to show this new continuity timeline?
You can has review!
Her friends sure must be worried about her.
I feel bad for sunset 100%.
I still find it odd she names her personal belongings.
No one deserves to be alone.
I'm sure they haven't Sunset and are likely worried too.
And you deserve love as well sunset.
It hopefully will sunset, have faith.
I feel definitly like her.
This is so well written and captures the reality of mental illness. I fucking cried reading this. I've been in Sunset's position several times before, including now. Thank you for writing this
Question: Why do people do that?
I can understand having a low point in your life, but why?
It makes no sense? I don't get it.
11669330
People self-harm as a coping mechanism for stress and do it for a couple of reasons.
Physical pain can serve as a distraction from mental pain.
When physical pain subsides mental pain does as well, albeit temporarily.
Physical pain also releases endorphins which make you feel better.
Sunset seems to be doing it not as a coping mechanism, but more as a punishment because she hates herself because she's going through a major depressive episode which is a mental disorder that affects cognitive functioning, aka, she's not thinking straight.