A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan fic
The Unforgiving Reality Ensued.
Terror . . .
Heart racing . . . it hurt . . .
I wailed incessantly . . .
Ran . . . Fell . . . Got up . . . Ran . . . Fell . . . Got up . . . Repeated . . . over . . . and over . . .
Tried to flee from myself.
I wailed . . . until I couldn't . . .
I ran . . . until I couldn't . . .
Twisting and kicking . . . desperately tried to tear my body asunder . . . Failed . . . Collapsed.
I couldn't escape . . .
I couldn't stop crying.
I tried to wake up . . . I wanted to wake up . . .
I just wanted to wake up . . . I tried so hard . . .
The pain I had brought on myself didn't end my nightmare . . . I didn't wake up . . .
The horrible fear tormented my heart.
The immeasurable emotional anguish wasn't ending my trauma.
Being a pony was supposed to be a fascinating experience . . . With no escape it was horrifying . . .
Every nerve told me I was a pony . . . I knew it . . . but I didn't want to know it!
Tried to stop knowing . . . Couldn't stop knowing . . . I was trapped . . .
Trapped . . . in a pony . . .
Alone . . . Helpless . . .
Had to fight it . . . Had to survive the deranging stress.
Not become a filly . . .
Scared . . .
Filly . . . Scared filly . . .
Ignore it . . . Ignore myself . . . Ignore . . . a filly . . . Ignore . . .
Ignore . . .
Ignored . . .
I didn't want to be scared . . . I didn't want this . . .
Every nerve told it over and over and over now.
Small form . . . The hooves . . . The moving ears . . . Hair everywhere . . . Pony . . .
Tearful . . . fearful breaths . . . through my larynx . . . Female's larynx . . . Filly . . .
Nothing I could do . . . Only try to ignore it . . . Ignore it . . .
Ignore being a filly . . . A crying filly . . .
So difficult . . . Impossible . . . Too many things had changed, couldn't ignore any of them . . .
Why . . . ?
Why had I become this?
A pony . . . Female . . . Why?
Why? Why, why, why, why, why?
I wanted to know why . . .
Body told me. A pony. All the time. Never stopped. Never! It didn't stop . . .
Why couldn't it stop? I had to ignore it. Not listen. Ignore! Ignore . . .
Was so difficult to ignore . . . I couldn't. Every nerve told me . . . pony.
Down there . . . its absence told me . . . Female . . .
I felt sick knowing that . . . Sad and sick . . .
I didn't want to be this!
I didn't . . .
I wanted everything to be restored!
I wanted peace to be restored . . .
I wanted to become numb . . .
Too cold . . .
Too upset . . .
No, I had to stop this. I had to collect myself! Be strong like a . . . Why had I said that to myself? Why? I wasn't . . . No, I didn't want to remember that! I had been stressed and still was. So wrong . . . Everything was so wrong . . .
I could find peace. Could manage not to be numb and upset. I had to focus, try to piece something together.
Where was I? I had no idea. Rain, darkness, and tears obscured my vision. The ground felt hard, uneven . . .
What had occurred? I had panicked, and after that, all had been an incomprehensible blur, but now . . . now . . . I . . .
Maybe I would be listened to . . . ? I was still sobbing . . . hearing a female in my throat twist every sound I made . . . I felt terribly discouraged from talking . . . but maybe . . . I wasn't alone? Maybe there was salvation for me?
“P-please . . . help me . . . I d-don't w-want this n-no m-more . . . I j-just want out . . . I just . . . P-p-please, I w-want to know . . . It's all I ask f-for . . . t-the only t-thing . . . I w-want to know . . . t-the only thing I wish . . . How . . . how t-to g-get out . . . p-please . . . h-help m-m-me . . . h-h-help . . . I-I'm b-begging, p-please . . . I-I d-don't want t-to be a f-f-filly . . . Help . . . me . . . t-turn me b-back into a guy . . . P-please . . . help . . .” The rest of my plea were whimpers . . . The same female that had spoken in my stead was now sobbing pitifully . . . I was sobbing pitifully . . .
I waited. Waited some more. Then even more. I waited so long that a form of sensibility reinstated itself. Maybe it was only a minute, but it might've as well been an hour. There came no help, no answer, and no comfort. I received nothing but cold misery in the form of the interminable downpour. I was utterly scared and alone. Desperately, I began to writhe in a final attempt to break out from my prison, grunting and squeaking tearfully all the while. It was all in vain. There was no escape. The utterly heartrending anguish consumed me again, and I resigned myself back to the role of a shriveling, miserably sobbing heap.
Every audible sound coming from me consisted of pain, even as it inflicted more upon me. This wasn't what I sounded like! This wasn't what I looked like! I wasn't a pony, I wasn't female! . . . But every little spasm and sob reminded me of the precise and desponding facts of my transformed body. Wishing nothing more than total peace from myself, I gradually became silent and unmoving. Even my tongue was centered in my mouth, where it couldn't contact my teeth and divulge my lack of cuspids to me.
I concentrated on the pressure my clenched teeth were exerting on each other. For a moment, I found mild comfort in this since the shape of my mouth was surprisingly human-like. Alas, I quickly recalled that stallions had a long angular muzzle, whereas mares had a significantly smaller rounded snout, the inner shape of the mouth not far removed from a human's. My tongue acted independently and inquisitively for a second, sadly confirming the assumption I had made. It didn't make an iota of difference whether my quick analysis on pony mouths was wrong or not. The irony of discovering the human-like feature in the body of an Equestrian mare shattered my self-deception and fragile tranquility like they were hollow eggshells, and the resulting outflow of tears was veiled by the rain.
I was alone, lost, and beside myself with despair and horror. Grains and stones were digging into my hide, and the sky was pouring chilling water over me, but those hardly registered in me anymore. They were insignificant annoyances that hardly matched the cerebral torture my morphed body incurred.
I had no will to move. No will to do anything. No will whatsoever. Lying flat like a carcass, I stared fixedly at nothing, drawing somber breaths. Was this how I'd go out? As a female animal? Life cut short before I even got close to achieving my dreams and aspirations? No matter how horrible and untimely my death would be, I always imagined there would be remains to use as identification. A body to bury. A funeral to be held. Mourning relatives. Now, I was an alien being, and my DNA was probably out of this world. Literally. I was unidentifiable. I was effectively a missing person. Was I even a person? Alive or not, if I was seen by my parents, I'd be as unrecognizable to them as I was to myself.
I wished they were here with me, though. Helping me, comforting me, protecting me and loving . . . or maybe they wouldn't. Could I wish such horror on them and humiliation on me? Would they believe me? I, stuck as a petite pony, claiming to be their son? Would I believe it myself if I were in their place? Even if they were convinced, could they defend me from the world? How long would it take until they'd slip up, inadvertently but inevitably sealing my fate as some lab project? What if they could manage to successfully conceal me from the public eye? I'd probably be confined indoors for the rest of my life, my future all but ruined. Would I always be their son? Would they disown me if the secret of what I was proved too hard to maintain? What would I do? Live in the seclusion of a forest, reluctantly obeying my survival instincts and adapting to a new life? Life as an animal? Eating berries, leaves, and grass? Would I even survive the winter? Freezing and starving, I'd succumb to fatigue, weeping until my last breath.
Why did I even bother to run these scenarios in my mind?
I couldn't live as a pony regardless. Not as a filly. I had no future as one.
No. This would be my final day. That was all I needed to know.
Gradually, the rain took its toll on me, and complex thoughts became more and more difficult to abet. I considered it a fortune because it was easier for my devastated self to simply exist instead of being pensive.
The rain continued, and the darkness finally became total. Maybe took an hour. Did it matter? I did nothing and now I saw nothing. The surrounding void was no match to mine. For some unfathomable reason, my heart kept beating. Couldn't it just quit it?
Maybe a wild animal would come to slay me? I was defenseless, had no will to fight. Easy prey. Why wasn't an animal finding me? It would hurt a little, but then I'd be granted peace.
Why wasn't I succumbing to the cold? My unwanted body was still here. I could feel it shiver. I could feel the rain pelt it. Striking the two things on my head. I had no shelter to give them from the rain, and they twitched involuntarily under the harassment of the incessant droplets. It didn't hurt, but I wept again for a fierce want to forget my bodily horror. Why couldn't the cold show me mercy and grant me ultimate peace by making me numb?
Then, I saw a gleam. It vanished, then came back. The pattern continued. It was distant, but with each appearance it was nearing.
I recognized it. Two lights. Close to each other. Illuminating a path.
Shifted towards me. It was on a road.
I realized something. I was on a road, too.
The thing grew brighter. We were on the same road. I thanked the guiding force for this merciful meeting.
Finally, I'd get my peace. A little bump, and then the suffering would be over. The lights were the keys to my prison cell, keys to my eternal peace, the light at the end of my dark tunnel.
It would be over.
The pain. The sorrow. The fear. The joys. The hopes. My life. All over.
My aspiration since I was a kid. Gone, too.
It was directly ahead now. We would meet soon.
I wasn't scared anymore.
Just a few more meters, then afterlife. I wished a Cessna 172 waited for me there . . . Never got to pilot one. Didn't even get to flight school. Worked to gather the money. To one day be free from the bonds of earth itself. Me and the plane . . . together we'd be one. The perfect bliss, and now I'd never . . . My greatest dream. Forever unattainable. The greatest joy I had ever wanted to experience . . . I cried. . .
The lights were so bright now that I could barely look at them. I had to force my eyes open, but the whiteness was soon to overwhelm my efforts. Never had headlights been so bright. It was like staring at the sun, but I wanted keep my eyes open. Witness my final second.
‘Dad. Mom. I'm sorry . . . My friends. I'm so sorry . . . Jim. I'm so very sorry . . . that I'll be forever gone . . . Please, always remember me . . .’
No . . .
No, no, no!
No afterlife . . . No Cessna . . . No mercy.
Instead, a short symphony of displacing gravel . . .
It didn't come. It came so close, but it didn't come. It had been so close. My freedom from this torment, my final wish, and my only reason to feel joy. It had been coldly denied. Two rectangles in a sideways world . . . interlocked rings in between the beaming eyes of the impassive machine. I knew that emblem . . . It was supposed to be my passport to a better existence . . .
Through the rain and purring of an internal combustion engine, I heard a few steps. Whoever it was had. . . Wait . . . No, I couldn't be seen as this! I had to get up and flee, but . . . I couldn't. I was so utterly defeated, so scared of the bodily terror that had befallen upon me that I was paralyzed. Besides . . . this wasn't a situation that I could run from.
Whoever had found me crossed into the brightness and graced me with tangible warmth. The minor joy of receiving heat in the cold was immediately destroyed by the ever-present discomfort of my alien shape and the looming fear of it being dissected by morally depraved scientists.
“Thank God, you're breathing! I thought you were dead.” He was worried. Relieved. Why? Why couldn't I be dead? I couldn't be seen as this. “Are you okay? Can you move?” I wasn't okay. Spiritless to move. What was he scheming to do to me? “Just my damn luck! The one day I forget my cell phone at home, this happens!” He was lucky; I wasn't. Who would he call? Did it make any difference who he'd call? I was doomed regardless. If only I had met my end under the wheels of the car . . .
“Can you hear me?” I could hear him. Why was he lifting my head? “You don't look too good.” No, I didn't. I didn't look like myself. I didn't want to be seen as this. So little light, yet his unshaven face was shining with concern. Why?
“Don't you worry one bit, I won't leave you here.” Why couldn't you? Why did you pick me up? I should've tried to run, but I didn't want to. Not as this. I couldn't be seen as this. I didn't like being carried either. A fragment of pride protesting . . .
Dry, soft and warm—I had been placed on the rear seat of the car. My new environment was of little consolation. The car began to move.
“My home's not far away, so I'll take you there, and then I'll call for help. You'll be fine soon, I promise.” No, I wouldn't be fine. I couldn't be seen as this. Why call for help? What was he planning to do to me? Was he good-natured? Was he saving me? Was he lulling me into a false sense of safety? He talked to me, asked questions. He sounded worried and serious, but I was absolutely inattentive to what he said and made no reply. Music was playing softly. I listened to it fixedly. Recognized a song. Breaking The Chains by Dokken. The solo was good. It helped me a little. Very little.
I continued to listen to music, but grievous threads were spiraling around my heart and upset it every time I did something—anything—related to my irremovable form. My acceptance . . . No. The tolerance I had for this body had shattered, and I was so focused on keeping myself together that I was having a hard time thinking straight. If I lost myself again . . . I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't be seen doing that. I couldn't be seen as this . . .
He had said soon, and more songs played, but time was being tardy for me. Only by paying attention to the music did I know time was progressing at a seemingly normal rate. With my body temperature climbing back to nominal levels, my senses started to return to me, and I came to earnestly wish I was in a sensory deprivation tank. It didn't matter how I aligned my limbs; they told me exactly what they were. I missed my fingers. Their nonexistence wouldn't leave me alone. It was like pain, but not quite. A numb agony. I didn't even want to think about them. If only it were so easy . . . I had to pound my mind with thoughts to keep myself on the calmer side, but like a piston in an engine, my thoughts quickly rotated back to my horrible situation. Perhaps it was only right that they did.
I still wanted this to be a dream, because then this could end somehow. Painlessly. I just wanted to wake up, in my bed, with everything okay. I had read a fair share of fictional stories and seen movies where transformation occurred during sleep. Never did I imagine it'd happen to me. How could I have? Why would I ever prepare for the impossible? This was impossible. Something like this doesn't just happen. So . . . how could this be possible, then? What had made all this possible? I wanted to know.
Then . . . there was something persistent . . . An overwhelming, repeating feeling: I couldn't be seen as this. Why? What was so wrong about this? Why couldn't I be seen as this? Because it was dangerous to be a pony. Correction: used to be. Presently, the possibility of the unimaginable horror of becoming a lab animal had been reduced. At worst, it had only been postponed. Though trivial in comparison to the real hazard, this was utterly wrong . . . It was wrong for me to be of this configuration. I was tragically and unjustly encased in this unbreakable shell.
I couldn't be seen as it. As this. As a . . . a female.
A much more potent and emasculating word existed to describe this extremely distorted version of myself. Female was somewhat of a neutral word . . . or maybe not . . . It was nonetheless a degrading, undesirable, and unfair title which I had not requested and had no available means to remove . . . and the irremovability of my status threatened to force tears from my eyes. I didn't want to be a female pony! Yet, here I was, mysteriously transformed into one, without the faintest clue on how to turn back into whom I used to be, and I feared that I was now doomed to this miserable life.
How had this happened to me, and why? I just wanted to know the answers. Answers that a stream of tears couldn't hope to grant me. Pony or female? I didn't know which hurt me more. Frightened me more. Crying about it was so wrong, so unmanly . . . but it was the only comfort I had to offer myself. Not even shielding my eyes with my arms could accomplish that pertinent task, what with them . . . being covered in soft fur . . . possessing delicate skin . . .
Like that of a female . . .
They weren't my arms! I didn't want to be a filly! I'd never wish to be a female! Not even a pony. I didn't wish for anything . . . and I almost began to cry openly. My life was ruined. Of course, I would cry about that, but I still tried to save face. Only the recurring sniffles dared to reveal my grief.
Wishing to forget the reality of my insufferable condition, the music again became my sole focus. Rock songs, most of which I didn't recognize. Didn't make a difference, though. The music permitted me to be quite ignorant of my flesh and future; that was what made the difference between drowning in my own lachrymosity and holding my head barely above the surface.
Time passed. Was it minutes? Hours? Years? No, only five barely familiar songs had played to their conclusion when the car stopped and became quiet. The music, the engine, and even the driver were quiet. Without music to focus on, my attention shifted to the door handle instead. Not long after, the voice of a somewhat fraught male drifted into my ears . . .
“Alright, here's the plan: I'll take you into my home and call you a doc ASAP. I don't know if you're seriously injured or not, but I hope to God you aren't.”
. . . my strange, sensitive, disturbingly flexible ears. Why did they have to turn? I didn't want them to do that! I didn't want to know this body . . . Didn't want it . . . It wasn't even possible to mentally escape from my bodily horror, was it? A few feeble and futile attempts, sure, but I was too easily pulled back into the quagmire of misery. Wait, what? Call me a doctor? Now I was truly doomed. The doctor would probably knock this guy out cold or worse, then take me to wherever I'd then serve as a most extraordinary research subject.
The guy muttered something indiscernible under his breath, but I didn't open my mouth to ask what; I had nothing but sorrow queuing within my throat. A door opened nearby, then after it closed, I had a short moment in solitude. Not that it granted me anything remotely positive. When the door before me opened, I didn't look into his eyes. If he hadn't known I had shed tears with shameful abundance, he did now. Softly spoken but useless words of consolation slinked into my tormented mind, followed by two arms and hands swiftly but gingerly taking me from the warm and gray out to the cold and dark.
I was so light and small now that it was of no trouble for him to support me in his arms. Gazing at the ground beneath me, I struggled to evict the thoughts related to my form and future. Thoughts were controllable. Sadly, nerves were not, but at least I could try not to devote a thought to them. The meandering path of concrete tiles embedded in the lawn scrolled beneath me as I was transported to his abode. Concrete changed to a parquet floor, then finally to white ceramic tiles, whereupon I was laid down with care.
“Okay, you rest easy here while I fetch my phone and return in a second,” the unknown male told me as I resumed my sprawled-out-like-a-starfish stance. “I really hope you aren't wounded or ill,” he reiterated before he sighed, then left in an apparent hurry. Really? Care for my health and then invite another human here? Maybe I still had a chance, though? As difficult it was to admit, my shape had adorable facial features. Perhaps I could use it to persuade the doctor to obey his professional confidentiality and extend my life . . . Life as a forever imprisoned female pony?
I sighed; I had only bad choices ahead of me.
I began to lethargically survey my location. The slightly rectangular white-tiled room was a bathroom with an inbuilt bathtub occupying a corner on the longer left-side wall. A small assortment of haircare bottles was perched on a glass shelf above the bathtub. To the left of the shelf and tub was a grooved door. Probably a sauna there. Opposite that door was another ajar door. The right wall was closest to me, a shower affixed to it ostensibly far above me. Resting my head back on the ceramic underlay, I continued to cling intently to the tiny tranquility I had discovered from inspecting the room.
Alas, I started to shiver. Not due to a cold. An extreme fear. Unprecedented form of claustrophobia, I hastily assessed. That tremendous fear demanded all of my mental strength to keep myself from falling prey to it. I knew it wouldn't help me at all if I did waver, but a significant part of me desired to scream in complete terror under the illogical belief that I could tear myself free from my transmogrified body by twisting and kicking forcibly enough.
Again . . .
The Caucasian male rushed back and crouched down. “Check for injuries? I'm not sure I know how to do that,” he said with doubt both in tone and expression, followed by barely discernible speech emitting from his cell phone. He nervously licked his lips, frowning as he regarded me, then closed his index finger and thumb across his mustache before setting his hand on his knee. “Okay, I'll try to do my best. Help is on the way, right? Good.” He sighed, seemingly having second thoughts about what he was about to do. Understanding what was about to come, I hoped he'd hesitate forever to inspect me and order the "help" to go away.
Alas, he then did exactly what I feared by placing a pair of fingers on my upper arm. Gingerly, he started to press my skin, moving methodically and slowly towards the end of my limb. Unwilling to look at my appendages, I fought behind tightly closed eyelids to preserve my brittle composure when my extremely distressed mind was directly informed of the encompassing layer of excess hair and the hide underneath. When he reached the border of the soft skin and hard keratin, the sensory feed became too cumbersome to bear, and I withdrew my limb. I winced lengthily, both at what had instigated me to move my limb and suppressing an excruciating discomfort when an instinct to fold five digits into my palm informed me there were only one and none.
“Does it hurt?” the man wondered with justifiable concern. My response was to swiftly resile the limb to its least troubling posture. Only now did I notice I was hyperventilating. Quickly, I embraced the disappearing traces of peace remaining in myself, and not a second too late. There were no broken bones in me, only the tormented shards of a broken spirit, though I would've gladly traded the latter for the former. Bones would heal over time, but mental trauma could be forever.
“I can't be sure, but it could be that . . . I see. How long? Okay . . . I'll stay on the line until he arrives,” he talked to his phone. Allegedly, some kind of medical aid was on the way. It wouldn't help me. It couldn't help me. What I needed was something much more urgent and integral: my original body. I wanted out from this highly undignified and frightening frame, but I didn't know how to leave. That was my agonizing wound, and no plaster, no suture, and no antibiotic would heal it. The pain was so grievous that I was constantly on the verge of tears. I was fearing for my life in more ways than one. I didn't want to die in a lab, but I didn't want to live in the secrecy of some guy's home, either.
“Hey? You feeling okay?” he asked. It was a calmer tone now, probably meant to relax me as much as it was to relax him. Such a noble but wasted effort in my case. “Lets try to chat about something," he suggested, sounding like he was trying to mask his unease with a dose of friendly unconcern. "I heard it helps relieve stress. I'm Marcus Lundvik. Strange surname, I know, but that's what I get when my mother married a Swede, and I'm not talking about the vegetable.” He chuckled at his own remark, but I was miserably immune to his mirth. “Anyway, I'm thirty-four, I've lived in this little town since the age of five, and I work in retail. Furniture, to be precise. I get a nice employee discount both there and in the cafeteria.” A silence followed, myself doing nothing more than stare at the far wall. “So . . . how about you?”
Unthinking and unmoving, I gazed at the seams between the tiles in another desperate attempt to bathe myself in ignorance of the surreal reality I was in. Here, my life was all but a nightmare come true, and he gives a quick summary of his own life? This truly was a nightmare, then! He didn't even care that I was a pony! The crouching furniture salesman—who had tried to comfort me with his deceitful hospitality—shifted on his bent legs as he waited for . . . I didn't even care. Half of his attention was on me, the other half on the phone he held to his ear. Presumably. I didn't care to find out.
“You . . . don't want to talk?” His lax tone didn't adequately mask his underlying concern any longer. No, I didn't want to contribute to the chit-chat! I didn't want to hear the voice belonging to this body. I simply waited. For what, I truly didn't know. Maybe the doctor would just . . . I didn't even know. I didn't even want to think anymore! I just wanted to be utterly ignorant of everything!
“Hey, uh, you'll be fine, won't you?” the guy inquired, his concern back in gear. His hand found its way onto my back, displacing hair in his attempt to comfort me. I didn't want to know I had so much hair, and his gentle stroking of it was having the very opposite effect of his intentions. Underneath the hair and the skin resided a pair of lungs within a small ribcage, pumping fitfully small amounts of air. Between them was my anxious heart, frightened of the alien framework it was now sealed in and of surgical tools that would cut it open. Then, all the hairs on me began to bristle, and my jaw locked. The tremors of an anxiety attack were approaching . . .
The doorbell's abrupt chime penetrated the room and thankfully called off the hand from mollifying me into a new panic attack. Maybe it should've. I could've had a chance to escape. To survive in the woods . . . for a few months . . .
“Okay, I think he's here,” he said to the phone—or me—before he stood up. “I'll be back soon with good help in tow!” With my eyes still locked on the wall, glum silence was my reply, and I was left alone with myself again.
Nothing particular ventured into my mind. Hoping to retain my tattered sangfroid to the last second, I was fully fixated on analyzing the mortar between the wall tiles for crumbs of willpower to repel an overwhelming anxiety. Moments later, I heard talking coming from beyond the room, the volume increasing in sync with their approach to my location. My attention converged on their chat. A distinct fear began to form in me. Just a few seconds left, and then my fate would be defined for good.
“...to a hospital if I were you,” an unfamiliar male spoke in displeasure.
“Sorry. I was all shot with nerves and did what I thought was for the best,” the recently introduced man defended himself apologetically.
“Don't fret too much about it, sir,” came the reassuringly spoken reply. “Currently, I have a more important task at my hooves than concerning myself with a hopefully minor and forgivable misjudgement.”
Wait . . . what? Hooves? Scantly had I formed a guess in my head when the answer literally stepped into my view and— OHMYGOSH!
“Anyhow, time to do what I do best!”
Wha— whoa! Were my deceiving eyes me? I mean, eyes me deceiving? I mean- that-that- NO! WAY!! Oh, my, oh my, ohmy, ohmyohmyohmyOHMY! A pony! A real, sand-yellow-coated pegasus pony, with wings and feathers, a slicked-back tangerine-orange mane, golden-yellow eyes, a green medkit with flared wings, and a white cross as a cutie mark, and there was a streamlined medical kit strapped to his back with a harness and and and . . . and . . . and everything! Whaaaooow!
“Hold on a second, doc. Let me take that kit off for you.”
I . . . I . . . I still didn't believe what was before me! Was he real!? If he was, then I'd be ecstatic, if I wasn't already! Wow! No, that was too weak! Woooow! No! Superwoooow! That was better! I-I . . . This was incredible! A real pegasus!
“Thank you, sir.”
This was astounding! A breathing, living, talking, sapient pegasus! Just like in the cartoon, but more real and more awesome! Now he was looking at me and smiling so kindly, too! Was I grinning? Was this real? This better be real! I'll tell all about this on Equestria Dai—!
“May I say, dear miss, you sport quite the positive attitude in spite of the emergency I was informed of."
I . . . W-w-what? Dear miss? I wasn't— ! . . . Oh no . . . I had . . . I had almost forgotten . . . and it hurt so much more to be told than to know that I . . . that I looked . . . was trapped as . . . I didn't want to be seen as a female . . .
This was all too real . . .