How things used to be
It was always serene. That's the first thing I'd remember. An idyllic field of grass that seemed to stretch on forever. I'd be running around with my friends. Never stopping, not caring about where we went. I couldn't remember what they looked like, and I'd never get a clear look at any of them. We'd laugh. Chase each other. They'd call my name. I'd never hear it clearly, always muffled by something... the wind in my ears, the sound of my hooves against the ground. I'd never hear my name, but it was okay, because I wasn't alone.
Then I wake up. I wake up and realize that I was dreaming. I'm back in my cell. Lately, that's all I've been dreaming about. Dreaming of somewhere else, friends with faces I just couldn't remember. Sometimes I wonder if they're actually real or if it's just my mind's way of dealing with the isolation.
Yawning, I decide that now is as good a time to get up as any. I sit up, untangle my legs from the sheet and roll off the bed. My hooves hit the floor, and I do my morning stretches to loosen up. I always feel tight when I wake up. My bed is by no means small, but I never sleep soundly. I yawn again, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and look around. Four walls, a bed, bathroom facilities in the corner tucked away behind a divider, and a box of "objects" near the door. Same as always. The door is made of metal and has a porthole at chest height. There's a sliding flap on the other side that stays closed most of the time, but I can see through it.
Actually, I've been meaning to have a look through it the next time it opens. Maybe if I hunker down and look up I'll see the faces of the guards? I keep forgetting to do it when the time comes, so all I've seen is the floor and legs. Dark brown legs.
I trot into the bathroom to get into "day mode," finishing up by splashing some water on my face. Next, I grab the towel hanging next to the basin to dry my face. It's a fresh one, washed and delivered last night. I had forgotten! New towels always feel nice. They're not damp, and that's when they dry best. New towels are one of the few things I enjoy and look forward to. That and meals, of course. For some reason, I had been allowed a full-length mirror. It's taller than me, and mounted in a shiny aluminum frame. I have it propped against the wall opposite the bathroom, in the corner so I'm not looking at my reflection all the time. I do look at myself sometimes though. Today, I gaze at my reflection for what feels like the thousandth time. A mare looks back at me.
She's a dull grey all over. Grey coat, grey mane, grey tail. It's almost like I have no color. Like I'm lifeless and blank. I know that I'm a pony, and ponies are usually colorful. They have cutie marks too. I know about that stuff, even though I'd never seen it.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm insane. I have no memory of a past, a home, friends, a grassy field, any of that. I don't remember having a name, or a family. Have I forgotten it all somehow, or is it all fake? The only thing I know exists for sure are these four walls. There's stuff beyond the cell, maybe a town. I know because there are two guards, and they must have homes, right? They have to live somewhere. My food has to come from somewhere too. My best guess is that this is a prison, and I live in solitary. If I committed a crime in the past, I don't remember it now. Maybe I had my memory erased because I was dangerous? Beyond help? Maybe I knew something bad? Some attempt at rehabilitation? Can they do that to me? I've asked the guards questions before when they deliver meals or laundry, but they never answer me. They're nice though, not like I'd imagine prison guards to be.
So my morning starts. Or, at least it feels like morning. There's no way to tell. No windows, no measure of time, no schedule. I'm given food three times a day... or is it four times? Two times? How is a day measured? It's impossible to tell. I sleep when I'm tired, and eat when I'm hungry. It's entirely possible that I have two mornings per day. Suddenly, my stomach rumbles, pulling me from my thoughts. As if on cue, I hear the latch on the door open, and light spills in from the porthole.
"Meal time!" The guard announces. Not breakfast, meal time. Sometimes I think they do that on purpose.
A bowl of piping hot food floats into my cell, followed by a glass of juice. There's a straw in the glass; it's much easier than fiddling with the glass itself. The tray is next, and the guard is nice enough to put the bowl and glass on it for me. The last item is a napkin. That goes next to the plate. I walk over to the porthole.
"Thank you." My voice is a little croaky. I don't speak much.
"No problem, Two-four-nine. Enjoy."
Two-four-nine. That's what the guards call me. It's the closest thing I have to a name. I don't know what it means though. Am I the two hundred and forty-ninth convict? Maybe it's a catalog number?
As I lower my head to look through the porthole, it slides shut. Great, nothing but brown legs again. I take a sip of the juice and look at my food. The juice is the apple and orange, I think, and the food needs to cool down. I decide to continue the Daring Do novel I've been reading while my food cools down, so I go pull it out of the box by the door. Flipping to the bookmarked page, I resume the story as I wait. My rumbling stomach protests loudly though, so I just dig in. It's pasta - big spiral shapes in basic tomato napoli sauce with vegetables. It's a good filling meal, and actually pretty tasty. I empty the bowl a few minutes later, and even lick it clean - there's nopony around to judge, so why not? I set the tray down by the door to be collected later, then resume Daring's adventure. A few minutes later and I'm engrossed.
Right in the middle of the best bit there's a bang on the door. The porthole opens, and something that's never happened before happens.
"Two-four-nine! You have a visitor!"
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Interesting...
Pretty good so far, can't wait to see what happens. No grammatical errors i could see. My thoughts so far about the so far are:
why does she not have a cutiemark?
why is she in Jail/asylum/mental hospital?
what does 249 mean?
where is her memory?
GAH! The suspense is killing me! Cmon!
Hmmm, amusing....
992201 that cliffhanger physically hurt you too?
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MOAR...if you dont mind....um...please?
Wow this is interesting! More please!
Hmm... pretty good so far. It seems to me that this story is very reminiscent of "White Box". The concept is practically the same even... Well, I'll have to wait and see if this story takes a different direction.
the description is pretty much white box in under 100 words...
This is good. You've earned 11 Octavias.
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you know this story is oddly similar to a story called White Box.
Seems pretty good. Looking forward to more.
Interesting so far.
Have you ever read the story white box? Cause it is a lot like this.
While this is very reminiscent of White Box, I think its different enough to still be its own story. Time will tell, I suppose, though I certainly intend to read it when the next bit comes out
I'm with the others here. Weather or not you intended it to be this reads a lot like the white box. You can't avoid being compared to it; but as long as you don't end up making this place a prison for Celestia's enemies who have crazy special powers you should be okay.
(PS: don't end the story on an implied existential crisis and suicide. It might make for a deep story but it still sucks!)
you, sir, have earned one mustache and a scootaloo
now GIVE ME MOAR STORY!
I like it so far, but its not gonna be a white box rip off is it?
Either way, good job. I look forward to seeing what happens.
oooooOOOOOooooo!!! Can't wait to read the rest!
While the spelling and grammar is certainly above-average in comparison to most, there is one major problem with this story so far. That being: I don't believe that the main character is in "total isolation". Why don't I believe this? Because she knows things. She knows a lot of things that should not and do not come naturally to a person (or in this case: a pony) who has been in isolation for, presumably, her entire life.
It starts almost immediately. The description (which I'll note does sound remarkably similar to the premise of White Box) states that the main character has no memories whatsoever of life outside of her cell. Just four walls. No windows. Nothing else. Yet the story begins with her dreaming about running around grassy fields with other (granted, faceless and nameless) ponies.
And boom. First question: how does she know what 'outside' is? Another: how does she know what 'grass' is? How does she understand the concept of 'friends'? The sound or feeling of 'wind' in her ears?
> "Sometimes I wonder if they're actually real or if it's just my mind's way of dealing with the isolation."
What is 'isolation', and how does one who is isolated understand that they are 'isolated' without a knowledge of others? The only thing outside of the cell she knows are "brown legs". As far as she's concerned, her cell is the world. Where would the thoughts of 'towns' and 'prison' and 'crimes' and 'days' come from? How does she know what a 'cutie mark' is, or that it signifies anything?
How does she know the "dark brown legs" are 'guards'? How would she know what a 'home' is and that those 'guards' must need to have them?
Sorry. I'm really rambling here... but do you get the point I'm trying to make? Total isolation is an incredibly difficult concept to capture, and I'm afraid that this needs some serious tightening up before it can really fall into it's own place as a story because you haven't really established your premise yet. And without a foundation, the rest of the story is sure to crumble along with it.
Oh, this is interesting, especially the fact that she cant remember anything of her personal life but knows about gender, colors, ponies and even has an own imagination how "Prison guards" should behave cause hers don´t act like she thought they would.
Now i wanna know how she´ll react to her first visitor since i dunno how long she´s in there.