Regret?
Finally they’re all asleep. I thought Sweetie would never stop toodling on that silly phone – well, she is at that age where her body suddenly wants to stay up later. She thinks she’s being discreet, but I can see that bluish glow under the door no matter how much she tries to hide it. Anyway, eventually that accursed light finally dims. About time.
First, I must give myself one final look-over in the mirror. My alabaster skin makes me stand out in the darkness, so I have done everything in my power to counteract that. Black sweatshirt with hoodie? Check. Black gloves? Check. Black sweatpants? Check. Black socks and shoes? Check. Black charcoal gunk to hide more of my face? Ugly, but check. Hair tied up for ease? Check. Good. Now I can leave.
One nice thing about carpeted floors, probably the only nice thing about them actually, is that they are much easier to sneak across. No one can hear me making my way down the hall. I feel like some sort of feral cat. Fitting, really.
In the foyer, or what counts for it in this simple house, I already oiled the door hinges to minimize creaking. The security system – Why do my parents even bother? This is a safe neighbourhood; far safer than where I’m headed – does not trigger if the door is opened from the inside. I do not know how it can tell, but it does. I step outside. No porch, just a couple of stairs. A few steps down the sidewalk and I’m out in the desolate street.
The night appears starless thanks to the lights from downtown, a few miles away. A warm south wind whispers through the trees, adding an otherworldly rustle to otherwise dead quiet surroundings. One would expect to hear insects and their incessant chatter, but perhaps the sterility of suburbia or the fact that it’s not quite that far into Summer keeps such noise to a minimum.
I begin to make my way toward the lights. I know where I am going. I know what I must do. I wish I had a scooter or something. Alas. I am forced to utilize the sidewalks for the start of my journey. Being dressed specifically not to be seen, stepping into the road would be utter stupidity even if there were any cars. Luckily for me, mine is not an area with night-workers. The streets are utterly barren, even of police – again, safe place. Lucky for me. I can hide myself behind bushes or trees if I ever happen to encounter headlights.
Canterville has a nice trail system – the Greenway – running through its nicer areas toward downtown to facilitate cycling. Eventually, I reach an entrance. This is a mixed blessing – on the one hand, it keeps me away from the main roads; on the other, it is well-lit, which the roads are not thanks to aged streetlights we are not willing to pay to replace. After weighing pros and cons, I enter the trail, walking at a brisk pace as it winds its way through subdivisions, along the edges of property lines and creeks.
Even around midnight, the warm wind feels refreshing on my face. I quicken my pace as much as I can. After all, I am in a hurry. I would be crazy not to be concerned about a random mugger stalking this territory. However, I know things he would not – fingernails hurt, I brought no valuables of any kind, and I have nothing to lose.
The air has a strange smell of sweetness. The honeysuckles are in bloom and growing along the trail like the weeds they are. Still, their white and yellow flowers punctuate the monotony of the backs of innumerable privacy fences. Soon, the mimosa trees will bloom their lovely red and pink buds. I try not to think about the future.
Are the trees trying to speak to me? Telling me to turn back? I’m sure Fluttershy, poor dear, would be able to translate for me. But I neither want nor need any sort of translation. I must keep going. My pace quickens to a near-jog before slowing again. I was never the fastest in P.E., in part because I hated the idea of getting dirt and grass stains on my gym clothes. Go ahead; laugh at me. The other children did. Fortunately, I still had friends despite my physical failures.
Somewhere very near to me, a dog barks. Some tiny terrier mix, I think. One may assume it would be my type of dog, but one would be wrong; I prefer cats. What inconsiderate person leaves a yappy thing like that outside all night where it can startle the pants out of stalkers?
Is that what I am now? Is that what I have been reduced to? Yes. And I don’t care. I know my mission. I must carry it out. I proceed down the trail, away from the canine’s din.
Eventually, the single family homes stop abruptly at a major thoroughfare: Thiessen Avenue, one of the city’s official boundaries between downtown and the various periphery neighbourhoods – score one for strict zoning. The trail itself continues for another block or so before petering out, losing itself amongst the myriad sidewalks – many poorly maintained – stretching in each direction.
Lacking a driver’s license myself, I have difficulty finding my bearings here even during the day. In vain, I try to find some familiar landmark in this moonless night, everything – including the sky – stained an orange hue by the dated streetlights. I refuse to stay lost. I refuse to lose sight of my mission. I refuse to obey the street signs – at this point is it past one in the morning; there are no cars, so who cares about jaywalking?
Wandering along the streets, ever closer to the heart of the city, eventually I see the familiar dome of my school. I run to it, paying no heed to the nonexistent traffic. I’m nearly out of breath as I reach the life-sized marble horse statue on the magic pedestal. Out of curiosity, I place my palm against the pedestal’s south face. I feel a warm ethereal sensation. The portal is still open. Well, not like that’s going to matter within an hour.
I know where I am now. I know where I need to go. I head west, back into the jumble of taller buildings. It is amazing how little time it takes to travel these few city blocks when one ignores the traffic signals. Eventually, I reach my destination: the squat, century-old five-storey brick building. All its ground floor businesses are closed for the night and any delivery trucks are hours away from arrival.
Question One: Do I simply enter the building through the front door, or do I sneak in through a side fire-escape door? I try the side door. Locked from the outside. Fair enough. Around to the front, then.
The main entrance to the four storeys worth of apartments above the ground floor is never locked. This building is not exactly in the most glamorous area, regardless of its proximity to my own workplace where I and my benefactor have tried to bring beauty back to this tired area. But, as with everything else, I must put it out of my mind as but a reminder of a time that will soon be but a memory.
The lobby is barren, as always. Grey walls, made ever more boring yet unsettling by the flickering compact fluorescent bulbs in the antique brass light fixture in the ceiling, their incessant hum reminiscent of some sort of locust miles away that never appears. Along the left wall are rows of tiny mailboxes, one for each apartment. Some have names; others might have at some point but have fallen off or faded. Along the right wall is a community bulletin board advertising events, medical trials over at Crystal Prep (the posh private academy on my side of town, far from my criminally underfunded government-run school), missing animals, solicitations for babysitters… things one expects to find on a bulletin board. I don’t know why I bothered to look. Maybe nostalgia? I don’t know.
At the far end of the squarish lobby sits the elevator. Will it actually be operational tonight? Does it matter? The one time I tried it, it was so loud I legitimately questioned its safety. As usual, I take the stairs. I know where I’m headed.
Do I take the steps one at a time? Or two? Or a combination? I’ve made this climb enough times that I cannot remember. Nor do I care. Within a couple minutes I reach the top floor, my destination. More orange lights, this time stuck into wall fixtures, ever-flickering.
What’s to the left of the stairwell? I never go left. Never needed to. Never will. I head right, slowly tiptoeing down the dim hallway, knowing the worn red carpet overlays hardwood floor that creaks at the slightest bit of weight, even from a slim girl like myself – yes I am; don’t look at me like that!
Always my destination: last door on the left. No accoutrements or decorations on the aged darkened wood – merely the apartment number and a peephole that, as I learned the hard way, does not work backwards. Question Two: Is the door actually locked this time? I try the knob out of curiosity, hoping I will not need to attempt to pick the lock again.
As luck would have it, it opens. My dear, you simply must remember to secure your door at night. Otherwise, crazed intruders dressed all in black might enter and do horrible things to you.
I remove my shoes. Tracking in any dirt would be quite the faux-pas. I do still have manners, after all.
While everything is utterly dark, I know the living area of the single-bedroom apartment is as it always is: a slight mess – a blanket strewn over the navy blue couch, some half-eaten bowl of food sitting on that tacky cable spool you call a table. The only light comes from the LED nightlight plugged into an outlet in that tiny kitchen. That is at least enough for me to find my way around.
As I make my way toward the cheap linoleum, I pass the closed door to your bedroom. I hear slow breathing – perhaps snoring? Oh, my fading light, even the sounds you don’t mean to make are adorable. I could have become used to it… or invested in earplugs. Either one would have sufficed.
For someone as untidy as you, you have a knack for keeping your kitchen impeccably organized. A place for everything and everything in its place, yes? That also includes utensils, in the drawer next to the sink. To its left is my destination: the knives.
Which one? Steak knife? No. A small serrated blade will not do – that may be your preferred method of hating yourself, but it is rather inelegant, I think. Carving knife? No. Still serrated, and I do not consider myself a sadist. While you must face what I have planned for you, you should not suffer any more than necessary. Paring knife? Useful, but… perhaps too small; not enough impact. Eight-inch standard kitchen knife? Yes, you will do nicely.
Someone once said that the line between the deepest love and the deepest hate is thinner than the width of a hair. I absolutely believe that with every fibre of my being now.
Tool selected, I head to the bedroom. If the front door was unlocked, chances are high the bedroom door will be too. Will it creak when I open it? I bite my lower lip in terrified anticipation. Barely a noise. Lucky.
Even in near-pitch-black, I know it’s a mess. I suppose you’ll never pick up your clothes or junk mail, will you? It’s why you need me. Why I need you. We need each other. You just couldn’t realize it in time, my dearest.
On the other side of the dark room I see you. That gorgeous, perfect form, facing away from the door, curled up in the fetal position, gold and crimson streaked hair in braids to keep from becoming too unwieldy come the morning (heh, I taught you that), torso slowly rising and falling, a faint sound escaping from your mouth – clearly your nose is clogged. Silly girl, that’s what you get for being so cheap that you refuse to buy any sort of decongestant to counteract those constitutionals you take every evening without fail.
You’re probably the only person besides me who even uses that outdated word without irony. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.
I love you. I loved you. How do I feel now? Both. Neither. I opened my heart to you and you stomped all over it, then threw it into your garbage can to be sent down to an incinerator and burned into ash. You didn’t even care. You had no idea. I want to believe you; I want to blame you, but I shouldn’t. Yet it really is all your fault. Maybe it’s mine for naïveté? No. Teenage hormones, you mentioned once referring to something else. Perhaps it applies here too.
Everything about you is scum. And beautiful. It wasn’t that long ago that we were mortal enemies in my own mind. Now I cannot bear the thought of being without you. At least, not on anyone else’s terms. Every waking moment, every sleeping moment, my mind is filled with visions of you. Your strong yet sad aquamarine eyes, your sweet vulnerable smile liable to crack at the slightest touch, your arms which saw so much abuse at your own hands.
We cried together. We became closer than sisters. We came to know each other better than anyone else. You should have learned in all those months we spent together, had you not been so preoccupied with yourself – one does not deny a Lady.
Am I a Lady anymore? Was I ever? Does it even matter? I think not.
Once I have passed the point on no return, thrown myself into the moral abyss, one question crosses my mind: Who will take care of your pet cactus Albert? Or your guitar Mayfair? Or that ancient laptop Cream-Puff which is likely to explode if anyone other than you touches it? If I decide to abscond, I shall take care of your scooter, though I shall rename it “Violet”. Far better name, really. Yes. But no; one of our mutual friends will need to deal with all this. I most likely will not leave this apartment any more alive than you.
Your habit of naming personal possessions was always one of the cutest things about you. Tell me, my love, did you name this knife I hold?
You told me once that you were afraid at the sight of your own blood. Probably for the best you’re asleep then. Best for me that you’re such a hard sleeper. Otherwise you would have heard me come in here, watching over you for the last… how long has it been now? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Honestly, I would kill to spend an eternity basking in your radiance. Indeed, that is sort of why I came here tonight. Even asleep, you are my light.
I want to believe you would do the same thing, were you in my position. But you probably would not, for you are somewhat more mature than I. At least on paper.
Oh yes, I saw your true ID as well. I know exactly how old you really are. But I don’t care if having a relationship with me would be illegal. Forget the law! I wanted you. I still do. Come to think of it, when you bluffed your way into that piece of plastic, you stated your birthday was today, did you not? My memory may not exactly be photographic, but I have certainly tried to burn every single facet of you into my short- and long-term memory, increasingly to the exclusion of everything else.
I thought I would need two hands for this knife. No. My right hand will do just fine. I tighten my grip. Silently I tiptoe around the clutter until I’m standing right over you. So serene you are. My one, my only, my everything. You cared but you never saw. A thick genius. Knowing you was both the greatest pleasure and toughest part of my life, simultaneously.
I don’t see even the outlines of the room. I see only my memories of you. Is my brain, my superego, trying to stop me? Forget that. I am running on pure id now. If I told you that, dear, you would no doubt explain how those theories have been debunked or something – in fact you did say that when you were helping me study for finals, I think.
My right hand grips the knife ever harder as I lift it up in preparation to make my move.
Is this love? Is this lust? Is this real life? Is this fantasy? Am I insane? Or am I the only sane one left? I can’t tell. I love you. I hate you. I love you. Why did you never see it?! I love you. I love you. I love you. I hate you. I love you. You are my everything. Am I your nothing?? Unacceptable. I love you. I love you. I love you.
Suddenly you shift in your bed, turning to face me. Your eyes are still closed in blissful ignorance. Your mouth is curled into a slight smile. Well, at least you’re having a happy dream for once in your life. Best you go with a smile, right? I think so. I think so. I repeat this phrase, perhaps mouthing it as my arm moves to strike. Even now, I tell myself I love you – forever – while knowing this is ultimately our farewell. Oh! One final thing…
Joyeux anniversaire, ma bien-aimée…
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i hate you for this
8522661
You're welcome!
8522567 - Yeah, that's how I feel about it too, but it had to be done. When an idea pops into your head fully-formed, as this did, you'd be crazy not to jot it down.
I know you just recently read Night Of Faded Sun, so you probably noticed the narrative parallels and references to that story. That was 100% intentional.
Oof, a chilling non-canon coda to Rarity Reveals.
You spoil us with two stories in as many days! And while this one would be a dreadful canon ending to the saga, it's a delightful Halloween-y what-if scenario.
But! There's a doozy of a typo in the first line: "Thought" instead of "Though." It caused me to require a few reads of the first paragraph to get the narrator and perspective straight. Smooth sailing from there, though.
8522810 - Double checking. First line? That's not a typo. It's a dropped-subject: implied "I" preceding "thought"; subject is made clear later in the paragraph. I could add an explicit "I" and delete a word somewhere else (because I am hellbent on keeping the word count exactly 3,000). Let me see what I can do...
(EDIT: Rewrote the first paragraph for clarity and not-suckitude; enjoy)
(EDIT 2: Changed some words here and there to improve flow; now it's a Soufriere fic)
Next time I get over to the library, I'll upload my three completed stories to the cloud -- I would have done it today but I didn't have the files on me -- and you'll get to see the first drafts of the real ending.
8522878
The first paragraph is fabulous now!
Oh, the rest of the saga?
My November is going to be pants for editing-time but I shall have to see if I can squeeze you in somewhere...
8522919 - Honestly, I'm in no real hurry, so don't feel like you need to pencil me in. You may have been spoiled by two stories from me in two days, but you know better than anyone that's way out of character for me. But hey, I promised as soon as I had time to get to a newer computer, things would happen. And I kept my promise.
I don't intend to post anything more aside from blogposts and perhaps a capital offense until I've completed the final chapter of my 20k+-word historical adventure story. Only after that will I even consider moving on the rest of the Recovery Arc. Doesn't matter if it's 99% ready to go. Since when do I ever do anything in order?
Fun Fact: I wrote this story in just two nights. Mostly the second.
Funner Fact: It's a test-run for a real story I hope to complete within two weeks. I wrote its treatment in early September but decided to Ponify it while on a walk last week.
8522954
Well, either way, feel free to hit me up when you get that far. The spirit is willing, even if the calendar is weak.
Creepy.
I like it.
8523220 - I liked writing it.
8523157 - Very well. I'll PM you Gdocs links once I transfer the stories there (since it requires spending a couple hours at the public library, it might be a few days depending on how my schedule ends up), and you can check them out at your leisure.
Soulfriere, what do you think of compressing Sunset's Recovery into one story? currently most of them are only a chapter anyways and it would make it easier to keep track of, please and thank you
8571192 - This is something I've thought about and other readers have suggested. It seems like it would be a good idea, compressing thirteen (eventually) short stories into one big story, but there are some logistical and literary issues that make doing that a problem.
Having said all that, I am open to possibly throwing everything together in a single massive chronological mishmash once every entry is published. There are still three stories to go, one of which isn't completed yet.
Was Rarity's love supposed to be Sunset here? The reason I bring it up is that, if it is, her being underage for hitting on Rarity would be distinctly odd as, if anything, Sunset's likely older than the human six by a number of years-she just de-aged on coming through the mirror. So, it being illegal for Sunset to come on to Rarity for being underaged is...odd. Plus, if they were friends, wouldn't Sunset know her situation?
Now, why do I bring Sunset up so much? You don't really point to it being Sunset, yet you have the Sunset Shimmer tag. I'm perfectly fine with this being someone else we haven't seen or you wanting to keep it a mystery, but as Sunset is not directly stated in this story yet her tag is there it's a bit confusing and misleading.
Anyway, interesting story, and I can almost see Rarity being this if you took her relative sensibility away and a fair bit of sanity.
8583661 - You're overthinking this. A lot. I also wonder if you read my earlier stories where a lot of the things you pointed out were already addressed.
As I said in my blogpost, I somehow managed to write a Sunset×Rarity fic without ever saying either one of their names. I'll cop to that mistake, but this story follows on the heels of one where Sunset unknowingly rejects Rarity's advances, so Sunset being the victim can be inferred and is implied. No, Sunny would not know Rarity's situation. Rarity says it herself: "So smart yet so dense."
My quibble is this:
You got it completely backwards, I think, or at least confused. I know I'm confused. Rarity is the underaged one in this situation. A key plot point in all of my Sunset stories is that Sunset did NOT de-age when going through the mirror, at least not by much, and I explicitly state in multiple SRA entries that she's been in EQG-world for ten years. In short, Sunny ain't a teenager; the others are. I plan to expand upon this further in a future SRA story, which I sent off to a friend for a look-over a couple weeks ago.
8587248
I haven't read many, if any, of your other stories. So that explains a good chunk of my misunderstandings.
On the underage thing, I must have misinterpreted how you wrote it. The way it's written, Sunset seemed to be the under aged one while Rarity was 18 or older. So, from this story alone, I don't think you clearly state which is which.
Hmm...I guess I misinterpreted this as well. I took this to mean Sunset was the under aged one. Oh well.
Huh. Screw my terrible eyesight, then. I did not even see this the first time I read through.
CAUGHT IN A LANDSLIDE, NO ESCAPE FROM REALITY!
OPEN YOUR EYES! LOOK UP TO THE SKIES AND SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE~
I'M JUST A POOR BOY, I NEED NO SYMPATHY
BECAUSE I'M EASY COME, EASY GO!
LITTLE HIGH~!LITTLE LOW~!
ANY WAY THE WIND BLOWS DOESN'T REALLY MATTER TO MEEEE~
TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE~
That fashionista sho done gone crazy,
8644093 -- Love will do that to a girl. Or a guy. Just don't look in my closet.
8644032 -- About time someone noticed that!
8587507 -- Hey. I know it's a month late, but I reread the story and took your advice. I decided to switch up some wording to make it clearer the "target" is Sunset. The changes are subtle but revealing. I think it's an improvement.
It's a good story but ya left us hanging did rarity kill sunset or not, i must know
It’s stories like this that make me glad I am too self centered to form an attachment of that magnitude to anyone, and I am abrasive enough that it is unlikely anyone will form similar to me. Certainly paints their relationship in a new and interesting light to imagine that she helped Sunset up due to this level of obsession.
So madness. Very drama. Such wow.
upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/58/Shiba_inu_taiki.jpg
Sooo, rather than confessing her feelings to Sunset directly, she'll break into her apt and commit murder/suicide?
I finally read this, since you mentioned Rarity having a nightmare about snapping and killing Sunset in her sleep. I assumed it had to be this.
Very creepy. My favorite part was Rarity wondering if Sunset had named the knife, and that Sunset was having a good dream. Probably about Rarity honestly.
That got a laugh out of me, I'll admit.
Somehow I've missed the tags... This is what I get for picking up stories in the middle of the night.
As I started to read, my first thoughts were: Rarity is nicely written. This should be fun.
And then she started to think about knives... Oh!
Anyway, great job! It was a pleasure to read (until the very end, but, well, that's on me).
P.S. This is why you lock your door.
RARITY KILLS SUNSET ON HER BIRTHDAY!!! AS A ACT OF LOVE!!!
You can has review!
Wow. That was... something, alright.
In all seriousness, though. What a hauntingly and creepily beautiful fic. I was on the edge of MY seat the entire time. Rarity is insane, yet sheʼs still Rarity at her core. Not an easy balance to achieve, yet you pulled it off perfectly.
Into Heartstrings this goes! Oh, and I discovered this story through PaulAsaranʼs review.